A Picture is Worth... Meme.

[yohko]

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.
<a href="http://IMAGEURL" _fcksavedurl="http://IMAGEURL">TRIGGER WARNING GOES HERE</a>
Feel free to use this template to stick your image in there.
<img src="IMAGE URL" _fcksavedurl="IMAGE URL"width="400"><br />

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

Original Meme here.

Comments

[inyourdreams]

She gave him a small smile.

"I thought you'd be happier."

[gcpd]

He huffed out a laugh. "Trust me, I am."

[inyourdreams]

"Okay," she said. "Me too."

[fe_male]

Oh yeah? What'd you think? I'm right, right? Boring as hell. So, I don't do those anymore, I get to be Iron Man without any more F16 fatalities. Square deal all around. So, there you go.

[gcpd]

He kissed her lips. "Would...want some place bigger? My lease isn't up until ten months from now."

[inyourdreams]

"i don't mind staying there for now," she said. The idea of them sharing a small space in a big city felt kind of romantic. Like a couple newlyweds off on their own for the first time. Maybe she'd just watched too many old movies.

"We can find a bigger place when your lease is up."

[gcpd]

"Okay," he said.

[inyourdreams]

She grinned.

"We're crazy, you know that," she said.

[gcpd]

"Why?" He asked.

[inyourdreams]

"I don't know. Because you're the Batman and I'm a criminal and neither of us should be dating anyone, never mind each other and I don't really care because I'm ridiculously in love with you," she said. "But we're still crazy."

[gcpd]

He chuckled. "Yeah, we're crazy."

[inyourdreams]

She pressed her lips to his.

[gcpd]

He kissed her back.

[fe_male]

[ kind. and he does sort of feel like that's the thing that's happening here, but honestly even with the erotic aspect of her movements he just feels like he's thawing out and getting warmer and coming back to himself and he isn't about to object based on something that honestly, he doesn't really have that much of a problem with. Nudity? Please. Granted, at the moment really his objection is to her, and his inability to account for her motives, and the fact that he knows how goddamn dangerous she is at any single given moment in time. And he's so vulnerable at the moment. So very. ]

Ah. Cool. Good, I mean. Good.

[ He looks back over at her, mostly. Considering. ]

Better's good. It seems the option most worth choosing, at any rate. I think the leg was warmer.

[inyourdreams]

She wrapped herself around him as much as she could as she kissed him.

[gcpd]

He wrapped his arms around her waist and lifted her up.

[shaves]

I'll bring you back a souvenir.

[ Always super helpful like that. Also knowing not to push Bruce on this. ]

[cyberterrorism]

[ he watches.

(at first.)

he sends in women, and then men. he watches them fuck bond, watches them get fucked, watches as the plunger goes down in the needle, as it pricks into bond’s skin. the column of his neck, flushed, his chest heaving, dripping sweat down his arms and into his restraints, seeping into chafed skin and raw wounds. his breathing, so erratic, stuttered with fluid. long, rasping sounds. the noises he makes when he comes, when he’s forced into another cunt, another arse. and yet still up for it, every time.

perhaps not willingly. the body does like to betray the mind. (that's why they’re separate.)

sex, silva knows, is important. sex is currency. sex sells, and sex kills. the promise of pleasure, or the threat of pain—so much can be done with sex. so much. too much.

sex hadn’t been part of it, all those years ago. apparently the chinese don’t go in for that kind of thing, not with their war prisoners; they liked the ropes, the drowning, damp rags soaked with water and sputtering, gasping mouths. air, they liked air. the concept of what it takes to keep a man alive, and how easily that life can be taken from him. he’d been tied to a similar chair, gagged with a similar gag, stabbed with a similar needle, hazy from the exact same drug, but none of them had thought to use sex as an advantage. a pitiful oversight, in silva’s opinion. he might have found a bit of solace in sex, a ledge to cling to, a focus, even if it would have been unbearable. he might have lasted a little bit longer before destroying his molar and surrendering himself to death—like it matters now. he might have been angry enough to keep going.

maybe. maybe. but this isn’t about his past. it’s about bond’s future.

silva directs. he tells them how he wants it to go where bond can’t hear, and then he watches them enter the room and begin conditioning him. he can see why bond likes it so much. he can see how it can become addicting. it’s in the way that bond’s lips open, the way the breath rushes out of him, and how his hips still lift to meet the promise of hot, wet warmth. he takes it. every beautiful, anonymous person swallowing him up, down, whole. he takes it, gives as good as he gets. resists, even. but never enough to stop moaning when his cock sinks into someone else’s body, never enough to break. sometimes it’s rough. sometimes it’s even gentle, when bond’s too out of it to know left from right, up from own. sometimes silva lets him rest, watching the rivulets of fresh blood trail down his temples like sweat. he watches his hired men and women exit the room with blank faces and red hands and bruises like beautiful blooming flowers.

he watches.

it’s only a few days until bond says his name out loud. and that’s all silva wanted, really. the beginning. a start. (among other things.)

then, he doesn't just watch any more. he— ]

▒ ▒ ▒ ▒ ▒

[ the next one is longer, more personal. he—holds back. the only part he has in it is the orchestration; that’s what he’s good at, that’s what he excels in. planning and execution. it’s harder to keep his hands to himself, but this is a lesson for bond and bond alone; he’ll come to understand what it means later, when he feels the loss of adrenaline, the nagging feeling in the back of his head: a name, a face, a touch, a need.

that’s what this is for, after all. manipulation. attraction. not just sexual, but primal.

still, he monitors bond’s progress. each day a different reaction, each day, 24 hours’ worth of footage. evidence of a mind silva likes too much, captured in fuzzy detail and personal reports. silva’s not aiming for psychoanalysis; he doesn’t do that, he doesn’t like that. he doesn’t care about what makes bond tick—only that he does tick. it’s too strict a word to attribute to a trained killer, but he looks for the cracks, the striations in bond’s psyche, where it hurts most and what he doesn’t care about, and, above all, how he responds to stimuli. how he responds to a dearth of what he had before. how he responds to a lack of focus. an equal. silva.

this is just theatre work. this part is like watching a rat run around a maze, getting smarter and smarter until it learns what it needs to do in order to break out. it’s a stage. a stage with different games, smaller games, all coalescing to form something hard, made of compressed carbon and anger. bond is doing beautifully. (for a given definition, of course.)

this time, it's harder to let him go. ]

▒ ▒ ▒ ▒ ▒

[ — find me
            find me

find me.

that's easy.

silva plucks the message out of the cloud with fast, precise fingers. takes it apart. traces it. watches for him. (never stopped.) he knows where bond's going, and it's so easy, so easy to take him up on it. he smiles like a knife, laughs up to god, then down to hell. he smiles and it feels like a promise.

he comes alone. after all this, and it's just the two of them now. this club is a good choice, one silva can appreciate, one that suits both their tastes, to an extent. he drifts inside like a ghost, dressed dark, dressed to blend, slithers among the patrons like a snake in the grass and orders a drink for his travels. bond is not particularly difficult to find, but silva hangs back to look at him over the rim of his glass—the way the fabric pulls at the insides of his thighs, his fingers curled around the stem of a martini glass, no bruises visible (but the memories of leaving them still fresh). it's only after he's drunk his faux-voyeuristic fill that he approaches, all fluid motion and precise movement and teeth.

he stops in front of bond, a shadow with its eyes crinkled. ]

What a spot! [ it's rich, his tone, amused and fond, almost. ] You chose well, James. Do you mind if I join you?

[ it's clear, even before he slides next to bond, just a hint too close, that the question is rhetorical. ]

[dudebrodinson]

You would truly decline? [ He sounds hurt, Bruce, genuinely hurt. The Aesir wouldn't mind you punching Thor while Hulked out because author would just attempt to wrestle you. In the not gay way. ]

[cyberterrorism]

[ ah, yes. patrice's calling card. any mercenary stupid enough to use such distinctive shells deserves to be killed: avoid trademarks, avoid detection. the assassination of the art dealer is of little consequence, just something to do—in part to lure bond to him, yes, but there are easier ways. patrice was dead the minute he delivered the nato agents to silva and got away unscathed. ]

HOW CAN I HELP MYSELF? YOU'RE CAPTIVATING, JAMES. I CAN SEE WHY SHE'S SO LENIENT.

I WOULD TAKE IT AS A COMPLIMENT.

[ and it is, in a way, but not in a very safe one. ]

Heh, autocorrect

[hulkbusted]

[Oh don't do that, you big Norse golden retriever.] If I went, it would just be me, not the Other Guy. I'm not very impressive on my own.

[And you'd better bring him some dip, Tony.]

ugh it is seriously my favorite cross-canon cr THIS IS WHAT DREAMS ARE MADE OF

[debts]

[ Something shutters very clearly in her expression as soon as her door closes and the car pulls away from the curb. Not apology, not fear — closer to amusement, maybe, though it's hard to tell. It's been years. No doubt James Bond has gotten better since then, though no less brash. In that vein, so has she.

Natasha glances at him briefly. It's the faintest, pale mark across the ridge of his cheekbone, but she remembers that one — the edge of her nail, the red of his skin. The memory makes her smile, if maybe for different reasons than one would first guess, and she crosses her legs at the knee. Her hands are busy with a phone (pretense or reality, who can tell, the way her gaze seems to hone in to focus on her screen but what's the phrase, there's sentiment attached to the one that got away) and she doesn't glance at him when she speaks. ]

Liar. [ It's said idly, without any real heat as her fingers tap away at the keys. ] You'd enjoy it.

steve rogers | AVENGERS

[redwhiteandconfused]

lisbeth salander | the girl with the dragon tattoo

[selfconfidence]

dana scully | the x-files

[rationale]