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

eames ( inception )

[phony]

[topology]

[phony]

[ The apartment is blotted of ambient light, its shutters drawn, the TV's blind eye staring forward. His laptop's sickly blue glow casts Eames's face in strange demonic shadow — but his attention is turned away, caught on the scuff of sound beyond his door that the criminal life has taught him had taught him to never dismiss as happenstance.

His fingertip drags along the laptop's touchpad, opening the video feeding in from the cameras hidden outside.

Ah, thinks Eames, and his fingers rat-tat over the keys for a long staccato moment. The mind of a forgery artist involves an imagination beyond that of the common man: so Eames looks upon the monochrome spire of Arthur's spare form against the white-washed brick, and he almost believes that his next breath is thick with the scent of blood. ]

Might've knocked, you know. [ he says, when finally a flick of a latch has the door parting between them. His eyebrow is cocked, his expression quizzical — but the mockery is only just a part to play, as he'd been given the choice not open the door at all. ]

[topology]

[ There's red on his knuckles. A hand tucked into the pocket of his slacks (two fingers curled around a square of loaded plastic), the other of Arthur's hands sports a cigarette. He exhales a thin stream of smoke and it rises in the air, coats the wall with a temporary haze of grey, warping the lines of brick and mortar.

(There's red on Arthur's knuckles. Who can tell if it's glass or snow that catches in the light; if it's wine or blood that paints the turn of his cuff, hidden by the cut of his sleeve.) ]

Fuck off, [ he says in greeting, but it's without heat, just a certain kind of flatness that Arthur always seems to carry with him. The butt of his cigarette gets thrown onto the ground, stomped out with the flat of his boot — he doesn't seem to be bothered that this is, in a way, sullying Eames' proverbial front door.

Arthur tips his chin. ] You gonna let me in?

[resurrection]

[needsmoartrain]