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

Eve Moneypenny ▸ Skyfall ▸ OTA

[deskjob]

i don't even know what i'm doing here

[interiordesign]

giving in to my enabling skills like you should obviously

[deskjob]

( he'd unbuttoned her dress while she'd been on her knees before him, a knife sharp enough to slit his throat scraping over the skin of his cheeks, his jaw.

eve had stopped him then and not looked back. she doesn't know the whole story; she imagines few people at mi6 do with the possible exception of the former m. still, that james bond, double-oh seven had resigned over a woman was common knowledge, and there'd been plenty rumours what had happened to make him return to duty.

there's also the question of his reputation. eve has no problem with one night stands and she can't deny that she is attracted to bond, but that doesn't mean she wants to be a rebound, a stepping stone or a way to chase the shadows away for one night only. not when she's going to work with him after, not when she wants his respect.

so she'd stopped him and she hasn't regretted it since. it doesn't mean she hasn't sometimes wondered. she doesn't think it's going to come up again. )

Agent 007. ( inclining her head in greeting when he walks into the room, summoned by m. ) You're late.

like i normally do, i think you mean

[interiordesign]

[ And if her having such close control over the situation at that moment in time, in the middle of a mission, redefining the meaning of a 'close shave', old-fashioned ideas and everything still plainly recalled to mind, it doesn't really seem as though there could really be any situation where he couldn't make it be a topic that resurges. There are almost any number of adjectives and epithets that can be attributed to the all-but-nameless man at this point, and 'cautious' has never been one of them. Neither 'prudent', nor 'puritanical'. In fact, basically the precise opposites. ]

Forgot to reset my watch.

[ It's an apology said with as little apologetic tone as one can reasonably muster for such a mundane sentence, because he is fully aware he's late, and for M, he doesn't much care. The man may have earned a modicum of respect for not proving to be a complete figurehead, but there's a long road between earning the respect and trust he held for the former bearer of the title and someone who could arguably just be said to have been acting in a crisis.

She, on the other hand. It's almost remarkable how small the feelings for someone who shot him off a moving train on a four hundred foot bridge happen to be. ]

Should I report to the headmaster instead?

i have no idea what you're talking about. none.

[deskjob]

( No, if his reputation and the adjectives attributed to him contain even some truth — and a reputation is often based at least originally in the truth, if not specifically constructed — then he would likely not hesitate to revisit the topic, should he be so inclined. Even isn't sure how she would react, then, but one thing she has learned as a field agent is that plans are well and good, but thinking on your feet? That is what saves you in the end. Plans fall apart. )

That's quite tragic. M had to leave for another appointment, but I'm sure I could find someone willing to play the headmaster for you. ( Dry, and more than a little teasing.

She shot him, and some nights she still finds the image of his body falling superimposed over everything else; she was following orders and she is not going to reveal any lingering regret or weakness on the matter. It is what it is. )

UH HUH I BELIEVE THAT

[interiordesign]

[ He'd be pleased to know that she follows his reputation and adjectives so closely. Potentially even flattered, because when I said it was amazing how small the feelings for someone who had shot you happen to be, I meant it was remarkable, the size of the negative ones. Whatever field respect and faith he had in her before, as fellow field agents depending on each other for their lives, that's still there. Hasn't transferred away at all when she transferred out of that arena and into an altogether different one. ]

I'm sure there are several; some of them might even make me enjoy it.

[ Straight, but with a crinkle around his eye and a curl at his lip, basically an out and out smile as far as Bond and his face are concerned. ]

i am so glad your words are entirely void of sarcasm.

[deskjob]

( Any 00 agent is quite a big deal, though Eve would not mention it to any of them, bloody big egos. She makes it her business to know about them, even more so these days than when she'd still been a field agent.

And then there's the small matter of having shot and shaven this particular 00 agent. )

Perhaps you'd like to go talk to either of them, then?

( Her own expression hardly changes, an eyebrow raised quite succinctly, except — except she is laughing internally. Sparring with Bond like this is always a pleasure. )

so void. void-born. made of the void.

[interiordesign]

[ The size of the ego is there to make up for the smallness in number. If he's seventh, can you even imagine having to handle the second or third on a day-to-day basis? Don't even bother considering the first, it's just too painful to think about.

It's okay, you don't have to be obvious, he can still tell. ]

And I was so certain I'd find one of them here.

uh huh

[deskjob]

( truly a terrifying thought. those files, too, pass her desk. )

I don't know whether you'd enjoy it or not, Mr Bond, but what makes you think I'd play the headmaster? ( a twitch to the corner of her mouth, unconcealed. )

Roleplay already?

[cyberterrorism]

[deskjob]

( MI6 agents do not have the highest life expectancy. It's worse, of course, for the 00 agents, but recent events have really hit home how close any of them are to death at a given time.

Recent events, like shooting 007 and MI6 being blown up quite spectacularly. Some of them cling to the illusion that they're untouchable, some of them try to deal with the knowledge of their own mortality in various ways.

Eve works. She loves her job, always has, despite its shortcomings and the troubles it brings. Work means she's present when Silva rudely interrupts the hearing, and work means that she follows him when he leaves, gun drawn and leaving M in Tanner's capable hands. )

[cyberterrorism]

[ anger is fresh and cutting, and silva's skin is crawling with it, the frustration of a plan gone awry because of (admittedly unsurprising) interference—and his own hesitation, the split-second of i have her, i have her, i—

he could have shot her in the head, bang, a neat little hole right between her eyes. he could have ended it. but he didn't, not fast enough, and the thought gets stuck in his throat as he leaves the carnage immediately, drops the magazine on the cold hard whitehall steps, inserts another into the glock from an inside pocket of the police uniform. silva's had plenty of time to practice crystallising his temper, cooling it down until it's ice-sharp, but this disappointment is still hot. he doesn't check corners, only moves with determination toward the exit point: get out, don't make a sound, retreat to safety before the next move.

so it's only when he reaches the vehicle that he catches movement at the corner of his eye. a split-second later, he flings open the car door, crouches behind it, before taking aim and firing a warning shot at the flash of motion following him. ]

[deskjob]

( that he could have shot m and didn't is something that they both know, something that eve is not going to count in his favour because he may not have gone through with it, there may not be a bullet between m's eyes right now, but that does not mean that he hasn't done considerable harm.

she's just a little too slow to catch him unawares, but it's more than she might have had, a better chance than anything so far, since he's escaped and before that, really, given that his capture had been carefully orchestrated by none other than silva himself.

eve takes cover behind one of the columns — marble, she thinks, inconsequentially. breathe, aim, fire — eve takes out one of the tires because containment is the first step. don't let him escape again. )

[cyberterrorism]

[ silva is no longer the double-oh he used to be, older, warped, content now to slip smoothly through life wearing flamboyant suits and a dangerous air of unpredictability, his fingers laid gently across the keys of a computer. but he hasn't lost the drive, the ruthless efficiency which mi6's training had drawn out of him. here, the trappings fall away. here, his persona is of a killer, not a businessman—and all his clever associates know that silva has never stopped being a killer, even with the loyalty burned out of him. he doesn't have the time or inclination to send a smile, a slash of white teeth, a wayward touch. and it's because he isn't in control. hasn't regained it. not here, and not yet.

the tire shot has his men spilling out of the getaway car, three of them, all armed. one sets up behind the driver's side door, the others crouch behind the far side, guns drawn, bullets spattering the side of the building. silva darts a glance at the lackey closest, then at his immediate surroundings. check for entry points, for exits, formulate a strategy. he knows the drill, knows what the agent is doing (because of course it's an agent, he can't tell which yet, hadn't bothered to look at anyone other than m and bond and that dull bureaucrat mallory), because he's done it many times himself. make escape impossible, then engage the target head-on. either subdue or terminate.

he fires again, takes a chip out of the marble column, then moves quickly behind the bulk of the car. his men will make for roadblocks if nothing else, little blips on the map. inconsequentially useful. whitehall is expansive, and he knows reports of his getup have been circulating ever since bond had spotted him on the tube; he can't escape on foot without getting gunned down. another car it is. stolen, this time, the old-fashioned way.

silva breaks for it while the others shoot, past the fence and through the gate, into oncoming traffic. a car screeches to a halt just next to him, and he points the gun amiably through the window with one hand, using the other to beckon quickly. the startled man opens the window briefly—officer?—and silva uses the opening to reach in, unlock the door, and wrench the driver out. he slides in, checks the mirror. drops the gun in the passenger seat and screeches off into traffic, hands curled tight against the leather of the steering wheel. ]

[deskjob]

( there's a curse on the tip of eve's tongue, but it doesn't get a chance to pass her lips because her focus is on silva, on the gunfight, on his men; there's no time to swear, no matter how appropriate it may be. there's a certain beauty that eve can appreciate in that kind of focus, and there's ruthless intelligence in silva that she can admire without endorsing it.

perhaps it's too much of a risk, but eve has always excelled at thinking on her feet, at trusting her instincts — rather than let herself be drawn into a lengthy firefight with his men, she makes a break for it — shooting one in the process and it's luck more than anything else that the bullet fired by another doesn't connect to her shoulder. she can hear it whistle past her, too close for comfort. she isn't about to let herself dwell on that, either. the life expectancy of agents is short. she's made her peace with that, or thinks that she has. as much as anyone can.

the tactic says to formulate a strategy, but silva is still one step ahead, continually moving and it makes it hard to do anything but follow after him, to keep at his heels and hope that at one point, there will be mistakes, that at one point, he will stand still long enough for them not only to catch up but to actively formulate a strategy. she hates that he's still ahead of them, that one man can seemingly outrun and outthink this entire agency that she has put so much of her faith and sweat and effort into.

running into traffic isn't a smart choice, either, but eve makes it regardless, firing at the rear window, at the tires of the car he'd just stolen. )

[cyberterrorism]

[ 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. ]

[deskjob]

( this time, eve does curse under her breath. at least he's out of the car, giving her a better chance to pursue him, a better chance to keep up. she's already running, shouting to pedestrians to get out of the way — the gun helps in making that point for her. the car blocks the access to the gate that silva's escaped through somewhat, and she ends up sliding over the hood of it. there's little time for caution now, no time to take cover and peer out from behind it to check that the path is clear, that he is not waiting for her behind the next corner, gun drawn.

he wants m. eve doesn't think that he'd hesitate even just a second in killing her if it meant getting to m. for now, though, he is on the run and she isn't going to let him get away if she can help it at all. she knows these streets. he probably does, too, but he hasn't been in london in a while, if her intel's accurate. does he know about the construction sites, the quirks of an ever-changing city that aren't big enough blips on the radar to be announced on the internet?

maybe it boils down to luck.

she's breathing hard already, but over the rush of blood, she's hyperfocused — adrenaline and training combining to let her run just a little faster than she might usually, to be quicker on her feet. she's not q to have the entire road map of london laid out before her, but she can think ahead, calculate where he might run, what lies ahead regardless, at least to some extent. )

[unstirred]

[deskjob]

( everyone working at mi6 knows the importance of coffee; the importance and the perils of it because you need steady hands to hold a gun and somewhat steady ones to type as quickly as possible, yet caffeine's practically a requirement, given the hours that they work, an the times.

eve is no stranger to coffee, though she considers it a somewhat acquired taste — she used to hate it, as a child, scrunch up her nose when her mother made a pot because she'd disliked the smell even then. these days, she drinks it regularly and doesn't mind either the smell or the taste of it, out of necessity.

so most days start with coffee, and coffee is a constant throughout. most days do not end like this: a bottle of wine open beside her and london stretching out below while eve sits on the roof top and remembers that sometimes, she deserves to take a minute or to just to breathe. in this case, m himself had given her the bottle and sent her away.

instead of going home, she'd found a glass and a blanket and taken her well-deserved break up on the roof that she'd found bond on, once. )

[unstirred]

[ He's a field agent, but that doesn't mean 007 is always out in the field. Actually, the reality of his job means that he spends more time in the office than not, expertly dodging his paperwork while he waits for the next mission. Even though Mallory supposedly intents to keep making use of him, it's been weeks since he's been out fighting the good fight for Queen and country. It may be starting to get to him.

Bond keeps elastic office hours until six, and skulks around the canteen for most of them, entertaining the agents that approach him (truthfully, he's not much of one for company, but he's happy to use an excuse to avoid filing reports) and going through pots of coffee. He adores coffee, abhors tea.

He also has a habit of smoking from time to time (becoming more like a chimney as the time without missions roll into months), which is why he found access to the roof and why he's up there now. ]

I see you've discovered the true use of the roof.

[ He speaks from leaning against the wall where the access door is. It hadn't opened and shut, so where the hell did he come from? He's been up here, truth be told, hiding away, although he'd never admit as much. Bond's had enough of people today and, were she anyone else, he might not have said anything at all. ]

I wasn't really expecting to share.

[ He flicks ash into the wind with a twitch of a gloved finger. The corner of his lip twitches in the dying light of the sun. ]

[deskjob]

( Eve doesn't mind the interruption, raising her glass in a silent salute for a moment, one corner of her mouth quirking up into a smile. She doesn't mind sharing -- though she'd expected a quiet evening, a moment to breathe and to let go. Chatting with Bond doesn't necessarily negate that, because she's found that their banter (most of the times easy, flirtatious without being serious) keeps her mind off things.

Between that and the wine, she should forget about the stress and the long hours and the fact that M of all people figured she needed a break because she's been working too much. )

Are you complaining, Mr Bond?

[unstirred]

[ There's a slight nod to the salute. Cheers, dear. He's sure you've been working ten times as hard as he has today. ]

Mmm...

[ A musing note behind another draw off the cigarette, a bright cherry gloe among his dark cost and the dying light. ]

Your cooperation stung bad enough. I'd rather hate to see you offended.

[deskjob]

( She most likely has been, and if not for M sending her away, she'd still be at it. She loves what she does, and there is a never-ending supply of it. )

Then you had better take care that you don't offend me. ( Said with a slow smile, though it's hidden as she lifts her glass for another sip. )

[unstirred]

[ Well, he can certainly understand that. He loves his job, too, even if he did go through a phase of wanting nothing to do with it. It's a shame no one can find him any work yet. ]

I'd never dream of it, Miss Moneypenny.

[ A slow exhale of smoke. ]

But sometimes men, especially me, lack the grace of expressing themselves quite so eloquently with words. Perhaps that's why we crave the company of a good woman.

Sometimes I think I'd try stealing you away for myself, Moneypenny, if I didn't think another man needed you so desperately.

Did M give you that wine?

[deskjob]

[ She can understand the wanting nothing to do with it as well; though she's never gone through such a face herself - at least not as of yet - she knows the demands the work of a field agent makes, and that of a double-oh is even more intricate and demanding. Still, she can't help but be pleased that he's back, both for MI6 and because she finds that she enjoys his presence. ]

Smart man.

[ And his words definitely earn him a smile, even as she takes another sip and raises an eyebrow at him. ] Is that so, Mr Bond? And what makes you think that I would let you?

He did.