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.

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She applied some as well before putting it away.

Their guide came back and helped them all start their vehicles before he led them across the dirt to the trail they'd be taking. She went ahead of John, glancing back at him every now and then.

John was pretty focused on not crashing into her in front of him, so every time she'd look back, he had a look of concentration on his face.

She smiled and focused on her own driving while trying to take in the scenery. It was amazing up there.

John looked around too and stopped when they came to their destination.

Over the ridge in front of them she could see the smoke rising from the active volcano. There were places were lava was bubbling up along the mountain in the distance.

"Wow," was all she said. In the background was the teal blue ocean

[ His strength and the storms drive winter back to the brink of its own realm, and there Thor catches Loki with one hand around his throat and the other swinging Mjolnir, shattering another gleaming blade of ice that would shatter his ribs apart and pierce heart and lungs in a gushing of dark blood. Then he pulls Loki near with that savage grasp and kisses him, claiming for himself again the cold lips that once parted in sweet yielding for him, that shared laughter and song and passion between their mouths. How diminutive Loki has become, lean and furious as a starving wolf, and Thor drops his weapon and wraps him into his arms, pulling him up against all his own great and brutally hewn frame: a body whose devastating strength has only ever been used in the realization of joy and love.

Then he lets go and thrusts Loki back, standing with one foot in summer and one in winter, torn between them as he has ever been, and Thor stands proud and unafraid and opens wide his arms, lifting his chin to bare his throat. Like the king stag, the great beast who comes every year on the eve of the shortest night: the sacrifice who offers himself. ]

Come then, Loki, my love; take my life if you will have it, then take this war of yours and bear it home to your own realm.

[ His voice is gentled now, the storm wrought of fury and grief gone from it, as the storm wrought above is now receding; the clouds thin and the twilit sky shows through, dusky and warm with the first brave gleaming of stars.

Thor does not fear death anymore. He has lived long, and known the hollow ache of a heart torn asunder, and would count it no great tragedy if his blood were spilled today, now that a son or a daughter might take up his crown. ]

Else put down your arms and come with me: there are things I would show you, and matters upon which we must speak.

[ the rear window shatters. silva ducks his head, allowing the car to swerve, the sound of honking horns and screeching tires surrounding him as he tries to navigate his way through the busy lanes without slowing down. a jolt somewhere in the rear axle tells him that a bullet's punctured another tire, and he hisses out a breath, eyes flicking from the rearview mirror to the road. he can see the silhouette of the agent: gun drawn, slim figure, probably female—(and that narrows it down considerably, doesn't it)—but he doesn't stop to try and identify her further. can't afford wasted time, can't afford to be caught again without a failsafe in place. they might not know all his tricks, but q's a quick study, and silva knows boy wonder won't be letting his guard down like that again.

when he'd led bond on that merry chase, it had been on purpose; he'd rigged the london underground knowing bond's expertise would allow him to keep up, to be at the right place at the right time. he'd left the door open. an invitation. stayed until the lights went up—come hither. then he'd thrown a train at him. now, with a failed mission and scorched dignity under his belt, silva has to think on his feet, get back to his roots. he might be one step ahead, but it's anyone's game. (and isn't that thrilling, just a little? enough to take the sting off, anyway. enough to keep him occupied in the interim, between escape and find m.)

silva can still move with a punctured tire, but he won't get far with it, not on these streets and with an agent on his tail. his eyes search the surrounding buildings as he scrapes by a cab, shearing paint from the metal. the vehicle is handling well under the circumstances. silva can tell the man who owns it doesn't care for the brakes as well as he should, but that's a non-issue when he's only got a few more metres to drive before it ceases to matter.

with an anticlimactic bump, silva runs the car onto the kerb. pedestrians who had been looking on with interest scatter as the hunk of metal careens toward them, shrieking to a halt in front of another gate, leading down a narrow alley between two buildings, near an intersection. his hand finds the glock, and, weapon outstretched, he slides out of the car. throws another glance behind him, ducks down, shoots the lock off of the gate, and runs through. ]

[ he half expected bond to ignore the message. do not engage, et cetera ad infinitum, blah blah rules blah. but then again, bond isn't so fond of rules, is he? from what silva had read in his file, at any rate. loose cannon. rejection of authority. what a story. so when the response comes, silva's mouth curls into a dangerously amused smile, eyes crinkling with cool delight. maybe it's curiosity, then. paranoia? always the feeling of being watched. silva does enough watching for half the world over, but this is different. ]

NOT THAT KIND OF TIRED. YOU MUST BE EXHAUSTED. HOW WAS DEATH?

[ Bond doesn't mind rules, but he certainly won't let them get in the way when he's got a better idea. Besides, this sort of stranger danger is almost harmless. After he texts back, though, he's going to pull apart the phone just to be sure there's nothing nasty like a little explosive or tracker attached to the battery. He's right by the pool at the moment - a little boom should be survivable.... ]

overrated. don't think i'll be going back there again for a while.

[ Peaceful and liberating, but that's nothing a stranger ought to know. And it's nothing he needs to think about. He's here now. He had his chance to stay off the grid and he chose to come back; there's no room for remorse. ]

planning a vacation?

Don't whine when I neglect to go easy on you.

[ He could say a lot of things about Nick Fury, or he could find some dip for the chips. The latter is way more important right now, leaving Bruce to his trolling. ]

"Wow," John said. They were told they could get off here and take pictures so that's what he did.

[ a pause, and then: ]

NOT FOR MYSELF.

[ he's not trying to be subtle, but there's no nametag attached to him yet—only actions, consequences. blowing up mi6, terrorizing m. if bond stays in shanghai, or manages to kill patrice and travels to macau (as silva suspects he will), he'll find out a name. but silva's used to anonymity. it can get to be dull, when it's not useful, but still. it's not like connections can't be made.

bond is a certain caliber of man, after all. not just brawn. not remotely. ]

A SHAME ABOUT YOUR SHOULDER. I IMAGINE IT'S BEEN GIVING YOU SOME TROUBLE.

[ And Loki wavers between the extremes of the decision posed to him, and for once he cannot hide the battle within him from rising to mar his white face.

Because his body still trembles in the aftermath of Thor's embrace, even a scant moment of that coveted warmth a reminder of how poorly his memories have reconstructed what he has missed for an eternity. The guttural rhythm of his death-song dies in the graveyard of his fading hatred, and Loki shifts his weight from foot to foot and back again, his arms wrapped about himself. The blades do not reform again, even though ice creeps past his fingertips to circle his wrists, and even though his scant raiment is stiff with the frost.

The snow and the sleet does not quiet; Loki's hair is whipped up in the torrent, flicking shadows across his face.

Here is victory, waiting for him to reach out and take hold of it. All the lands will thus be enveloped by the ice, and all will know Loki and Loki alone as a king and a god. They will fear him, and they will turn their faces from him, but he will grow fat and content upon the feast of power that he will spread upon his tables. Never again will he know the agony of separation, for summer will become a relic of the past.

(Oh, the winter-king is a liar still.)

When the ice-blade finally renews itself, Loki's teeth have sunk into his own lip, and blood wells and well until it streaks his chin with crimson. In a blur of movement he forces its point to the apple of Thor's throat, where it hovers, where it shakes and trembles and does not press strongly enough to draw the blood of the summer-king. ]

I will come. [ he says, and his voice is nearly lost in the rage of his storm. And then he's shifting away, the blade melting to icy water, the skies above slowly quieting their thunder. ] As a fool and a traitor to my own self, I will come — but do not think that I have forgotten my warmongering.

[ The blade pricks, it burns with cold, but it does not pierce, though Thor waits with patient, liquid eyes and his body opened for the thrust of death. It does not come; it withdraws instead, and Loki stands stark with rage and perhaps longing, too, so that the king of summer aches for him and wishes for their youth, for the days when he could have drawn Loki down into his arms, laid him between sweet-smelling sheets and furs and comforted him with his warmth, with the press of their naked skin. Instead he reaches and takes Loki's hand, drawing him back into the realm of summer.

Once he had thought they could both belong here, that they could both live forever. ]

This way. There is something you have not seen before.

[ It is as it was when they were young, Thor leading Loki by the hand, but this time the lord of winter trembles not in wonder but in fury, and Thor treads gentle but heavy-hearted upon the earth. He does not take him across the long stretch of green and gold field, but leads into the dark forest, by a winding path shrinking narrower and narrower between the broad old trunks of kingly trees, their crowns of thick leaves thrust proudly into the sky. The king of summer has walked this path many times before, and the life which springs beneath his feet is all of twisted vine and dark weed, grasping wild growth.

At last a glen in the wood, and a small hut with thatched roof, wildflowers at the door. Smoke curls gray from the peak of the roof; within, the floor is packed earth strewn with herbs, and more hang in drying bunches from the eaves, and a pot over the brazier fills the space with an earthy scent and the smell of rabbit roasted and stewed. There is a garden to one side of the hut, small and laboriously toiled. The bed in the corner is nearly too small for his frame. ]

My home. [ says Thor, when he has brought Loki within. ] When I am not needed at the palace. It is too sweet there: the dryads sing for me, but I ache for want of your voice. They put feasts before me, but it sits overrich upon my tongue, and there is no one with which to share it. The children did not live long with me; they hungered for the world beyond summer, and I had not the heart to forbid them to fly where their wings would take them. And so this has become my refuge. I have found peace here, but no joy, since our parting.

[ No bombs on the battery, it seems. That doesn't mean he's safe, but he's not going to take apart the phone - he'll just drop it in a bin when he's done and it's time to kill Patrice.

But he's starting to get who this might be. ]

it was until i dug the uranium fragments out with a knife. much better now.

[ That'll mean something to someone in the know. It's a bit of a taunt, too, a subtle call to what he's planning to do. Definitely worth some wrist-slapping. ]

sounds like you've been having a lot of imaginations about me. should i be concerned or flattered?

[ She presses into the kiss. It's the kind of thing that could build, she knows, slotted into the rare parts of their lives that could be named regular; maybe it is already. The rhythm of her life has depended on S.H.I.E.L.D and Clint and Phil for a steady number of years — maybe not as anchors but as roadmarks. Maybe it's so easy because it's only building on what's there.

Natasha's tongue glides sweetly against his, and without breaking the kiss she slowly rolls them over until her hands are braced on either side of him. The robe stays half-on, a drape of silk across the dip of her back, baring the curve of her shoulders (no scars, no sunburn, no freckles), just that smooth expanse of skin.

(She thinks that it would be easy to love him. It's a truth that makes her cautious.) ]

[A shame the impression is so easily dispelled. Loki could bring it back so very easily if she wanted to. There are so many options:

Me? I come from storybooks.

I'm from nowhere nearly so close.

Asgardian.

Jǫtunn.

Nowhere.

Everywhere.

The stars.

Happenstance.

Don't you remember me?

Oh, the last, the last. Why else would he have stopped so abruptly? Loki knows. It's really quite obvious. She wonders how it happened, exactly, what trick of the light made her just that much more recognizable. How she might replicate it.

She wonders with an even more burning curiosity about what might happen if she did. Flirtation with that danger would certainly liven up her day.]

Nothing in particular. I've been lots of places.

[She tilts her head to one side, a delicate frown on her lips.]

You are familiar to me.

[Not entirely unlikely. After the fiasco in New York, all involved parties got at least a bit of screentime.]

Perhaps that's why you stopped as well. Am I wrong?

[He lets her push him onto his back without fussing, his hand sliding down to rest at her hip again, the impulse to help steady her hard to resist. His thumb strokes slowly against the swell of her cheek as they kiss, her still-damp hair coiled around his wrist like it wants him to stay close too. Well, he's not going to argue.

Normally Phil doesn't like being on his back — it's inherently vulnerable, as positions go, makes him feel helpless — but it's barely a thought with Natasha, perhaps because even his unconscious mind knows that he can trust her to look after him. She's patched him up in the field before, he's relied on her to cover his exit, they've kept watch over each other during long, cold nights... Phil mostly trusts those he works with out of necessity, but he trusts Natasha out of choice.

The silk of her robe is at once cool to the touched and warmed from her body, and he likes the contrast of it as it pools over his hand, getting tangled around them both, keeping them close.]

[ (And that's the point, isn't it? The choice to trust, the choice to give and take — the choice to love, by however much you're able.)

Her weight shifting back to her knees, the dip in the bed makes her hips slot neatly against his. Natasha bites one last kiss before her attention shifts down, a hand looped around the fabric of his tie and she lightly tugs at it, encouraging him to sit up with her. ]

I think, [ she says, her hands carefully undoing the neat windsor knot of his tie. For all that it's easy between them, there's a playfulness in her eyes. ] People traditionally have homecoming sex. I could be wrong.

[He groans a little when she sits back against his hips; he's not hard, they've only been trading lazy kisses, but his body remembers very well what happened last time she did that, and he is eager for a redux. The way she tugs on his tie makes him think he's going to get it, and if they were anyone else, he'd laughingly suggest using it in some kind of vanilla bondage. But they've both had more than their share of being tied down against their will, and he's not sure he'd be able to step away from the sense memory of losing control like that enough to enjoy it.

So instead he sits up and slides his hands down her back, curling them over the swell of her ass and squeezing gently as he gives her a ghost of a wink. She wants playful? He'll give her playful.]

I do believe it's considered customary, yes. Do you think we should attempt this hallmark of normalcy?

[Tim wouldn't hold it against the agent if he ever admitted it aloud. It took a special type of person to understand why Gotham natives didn't just move away.

In any case, it was odd for members of the government to show up unexpected in the city, at least someone on the level that Coulson is. When that happens, one of the freaks usually disappears for a while, only to reappear later as part of a government Suicide Squad.

The intel gathered on Coulson suggested he wasn't just some middle management hack in SHIELD, and his own personnel file was surprisingly well-classified. Usually the Big Guy handled dealing with the spooks at this level, but he was out of town for the week, leaving everyone else to pick up the slack.

Which led to his entry into the building. Security cameras were being looped, and electronic security had been disabled courtesy of Oracle when he arrived. For all intents and purposes, they're well and truly alone.]

When your type comes to town, it's rarely a good thing.

[ A hundred times does Loki's mind stray from the path at hand, thinking of the edge of his blade, and a hundred times again he slakes his desire for vengeance with a sweeter boon — the weight of Thor's hand in his own, and the warmth of the sun upon skin pulled taut over ragged bone. In his own land, the ice would have reached to meet him, crowning him with shards that glittered like diamond and glass; here, even the vines growing gnarled and wild draw away from his frost-lined footsteps.

It had not been so, when he had first ventured here. The sun and the sky and the fields of gold had welcomed him as joyfully as their king.

Loki draws closer, stepping only in the great shadow fallen behind Thor, hiding his face in shame. Winter had once known a brightness equal to its cruelty; it had once known color and light as compelling as that of the summerlands. No longer is that true.

And his shame only heightens when Thor leads him into the secret glen hidden beyond the tangle of the woods. There is no magic that crowns the trees with gold, no ancient will that beautifies the thatched roof and the hanging herbs, and yet in the midst of this simplicity Loki finds his breath catching in his throat. He stills in the doorway, the earth warm under his bare feet, and he pulls his hand away when the attempt is made to draw him within. ]

You should not have brought me here. [ says Loki. The rage was a shackle, moments ago, and now the cold iron bite of it has been replaced by heavier resignation. His hands are curled over the shaft of wood rising to form the doorway, and his fingertips idly stroking the smooth grain, again, again, feverishly.

(If only—)

Already the wildflowers at his feet begin to blacken. ]

You have seen what I have become. You saw it, when you left my lands heavy with the life we wrought. You ache for a creature lost.

Well, [ she says with a tip of her shoulder, pulling the tie out from his collar and slinging it loosely around her own neck (some things should stay crease free, after all). Natasha's expression changes into one of almost coquettish consideration, her hands drifting down to pop open the first button of his shirt. ]

That depends. [ She tips her chin, her smile ruining the ruse. ] Do you think we're ready for it?

[He's seen her pull this kind of act many times before, and each time he scoffed a little internally at the idiot schmuck who fell for fluttered lashes and husky whispers, but now... Well, he may be reading into things, hoping to find details that may or may not be there, but it feels more— real. Like it doesn't quite come naturally, but she's trying.

And that's all he really wants from her.] I think... [He pauses, a grin curling his own lips in response to her smile; his hands squeeze her ass again.] Let's go for it.

[ He never asks and neither does Natasha, but she knows; can guess, sometimes. These things aren't easy, a neat balance of work versus will and she knows that however far she's willing to push, Phil will follow. An extension of their partnership from one to the other and it's that ingrained ease that makes her laugh quietly, half-squirming in his lap. (There's a part of her that's determined to overcome this, this barrier of something. Natasha has never dealt well with her own frustrations.) ]

Breakfast was a success, [ she agrees, popping open another button. She dips her head to mouth at that spot of open chest, smiling into his skin. ] We should aim two for two.

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Page 26 of 53

A Picture is Worth... Meme.

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