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.

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

[ he's always been of the opinion that anyone who says that fighting is like dancing has never been in a fight. a proper fight. one where the matter of winner or loser is more than a matter of pride and dignity and everything about survival and want and need, when it stops being what should be effective and becomes what works.

(whether that's biting a vampire or something else entirely is hardly important.)

but it doesn't stop him from admiring her as she practises — she's not a shadowhunter, no, and she lacks the inherent, automatic grace and balance that comes with being as such, but that almost makes it better. more entrancing and fascinating to watch. quidditch, that was what she'd called it, wasn't it? the game with the brooms and the balls (sticks and balls and hoops and there was an innuendo if he'd ever heard one—) had helped cultivate a sense of awareness of self that he didn't quite see when he watches anyone else.

(that he might not really watch anyone else is beside the point.)

fluid, he supposes, is the word more than graceful. it's still a little too dirty, too rough, too — everything to really be full of grace or technically perfect, but it would be (is) effective, and that's really all that matters, he imagines. for her, at least. (or for anyone of them when it comes down to it.)

but in spite of her faults and her missteps and her occasional lack of form, will thinks he can almost understand why some people might say it's almost like a dance.

almost.

not that he tells her any of this, of course. after a while of deliberately scrutinising her movements (or more accurately: after alternately appearing to scrutinise her movements and nap), he leans back against the wall, carefully crossing his legs and exhaling audibly and obnoxiously and— ]

You remind me of something. [ uttered — deliberately — in the tone of someone who can't think what, exactly, but is very, totally, exceptionally sure that it isn't flattering.

and is determined to remember what. ]

[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.]

[ he doesn't answer her for a moment, attention sliding away from her and back up at the sky for several moments. whenever he'd found his focus straying from the practice, he'd tried to make shapes out of the clouds, remaining a mixture of pleased and impressed that it was yet to rain again. in between making shapes — the grander, more complex, more extravagant, the better — he'd attempted to make nonsensical stories linking them all. it hadn't gone quite as well as he'd hoped, but— ]

A spider, perhaps. I'm not entirely sure. [ the remark is uttered somewhat blandly and distractedly, his features momentarily marred by a contemplative frown. ] There was a cloud — long gone and misshapen now — that resembled [ the 'vaguely' is left unsaid. ] a drainpipe. [ a pause; no. a correction: ] It resembled a house, and along the side there was an edge that resembled a drainpipe, and with the way you were darting about—. [ another pause and a shrug, although he looks back to her, slowly and deliberately, the corners of his lips spreading into a slow smile. ] Would you mind if I called you Incy-Wincy? At least until it— [ a loose gesture with his fingers, reminiscent of the actions a child would use when reciting the rhyme. ] —and you resemble a drowned rat.

[ he's well aware it's hardly an insult, and he hadn't intended it to be as such. he might not play himself, he might not understand any of it in terms of rules, but he understands — in a sense — how important it is to her, how it has a way of washing away everything else and leaving a remarkable feeling of contention. it's not something he's overly familiar with himself — that's one of the reasons he reads so much, loses himself in stories and heroes and villains and everyone that isn't him, but he can understand.

(he thinks.)

or at the very least, he finds himself thinking (not for the first time) that the giddiness — there's not really another word for it — suits her. ]

Edited 2012-11-24 22:07 (UTC)

[Well, perhaps it isn't an insult; in a way, spider is almost a compliment. Quick, stealthy, calculated—it's all a Quidditch player ought to be. But the drowned rat bit could be offensive if she didn't know how she looked at this very moment or how she will look when the clouds open up and shower them with more rain. She's filthy, very well could have crawled about in the dungeons, and her hair's a mess. But it's all in good fun so she shrugs, laughs, lets her broom drift down until she can dismount—less of a stepping off, more of a leap down to the ground for that last taste of flying.]

You can call me whatever you like just short of something rude. And I'd let you know if it was. [Ginny swings her broom over her shoulder and inclines her head to a bit of pavement so she doesn't have to do her cool down stretches in the mud, too, and has him follow her.] But Incy-Wincy could suit me fine. It's no secret that I'm small.

[She laughs again, leaning her broom against the fence and dropping down onto the ground so she can stretch out her calves, breath starting to settle again.]

Have fun?

[ he laughs a little at her first comment; it's not something she needs to point out, after all. anything rude he says is often deliberate and calculated, or it's a force of habit. he can't (won't, doesn't) acknowledge the fact that having people that will respond to it in kind and essentially shrug it off makes it easier even whilst ensuring he can still labour under the hope and thought that any purely accidental fondness they might harbour for him is — something. a lie, built on a lie, not true.

he follows her all the same, critically eyeing the ground for several moments before flopping (as much as one can flop onto pavement) down next to her. he doesn't bother replying to her verbally for a little while, instead stretching his legs out in front of him and extending his arms out behind him and lazing. it's true only in as much as being lazy with a book is wholly satisfying, but he'd be perfectly happy to claim and even happier to imply that doing nothing and making oneself comfortable is far more appealing than cooling down, sweaty and muddy. ]

—Mm. [ a slow, thoughtful hum punctuated by an equally slow albeit somewhat sly smile. ] It still lacks the appeal of rugby, you know.

Only because you haven't tried it.

[Her tone is all too knowing, maybe a little too superior, but this is Quidditch and it's her pride and joy and she can be as biased as she wants for it. Ginny's been flying since she was six years old, she takes to it like breathing—some days it's the only thing that keeps her sane. So, no, Will: nothing is better than Quidditch. There's an elegance to it that she thinks rugby lacks, but she understands the tactics of both sports are of equal value, that there's always a skill required for anything athletic.

Ginny stretches an arm over her head, reaches for her toes, breathes deeply into her ribs, eyes slipping closed.]

It's everything rugby is but with flying. I don't see how there's any competition.

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

A Picture is Worth... Meme.

idk where i was going with this

beautiful places obv

WORDS, GDIT

ILU

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