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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[His heart swells a little when she shifts closer and leans up against him, overcome with a fond sort of feeling for this woman who holds herself so aloof from everyone — everyone but him, it seems. His hand skims over to stroke up and down her spine, his fingers trailing slowly over each and every vertebrae like he's counting them. He's not. He's just enjoying the feel of her skin beneath his hands.

He just smiles in response, tilting his head — his nose brushes against hers in a slow caress, and if Phil were anyone else, he'd chuckle at Eskimo kisses with the Black Widow — and pressing his lips to the corner of her mouth in a chaste peck of a kiss.]

We'll find a way to survive, I'm sure. [Late-night bodega runs never hurt anybody.]

[ The expanse of her back tells a better history than Natasha ever would. Broken glass, a notched scar at her shoulderblade, a thin line that trails down her side — her flesh heals faster, her lungs can work out splinters of bone but the scars are still there, fading quicker but still present.

Her smile grows a little into an exhale of laughter; maybe at the way she feels, like someone young, or the way Phil reacts, quiet and close. Maybe it's simpler than that — maybe it's just happiness after all. ]

It shouldn't be too hard. [ A hum, then her fingers are curling into the collar of his shirt once more. ] Kiss me again?

[Phil has more than his fair share of scars as well, each telling their own story. He can't throw any stones on the damage front, and he wouldn't even want to. They may mar her perfect skin, but Phil is glad for each and every one — they're testaments to her surviving, and for that he's grateful. She wouldn't be here with him if she didn't, and the thought of losing her, losing this is shockingly painful to him.]

We're highly-trained operatives. I think we can handle a milk run. [A literal milk run, not a figurative one. It's...a little odd not to be talking in metaphors right now.]

Gladly. [It's more of a sigh than a spoken word, but Phil's already pulling her in closer with the arm around her back, his other hand sliding beneath her cheek to cup her face as he slides his lips against hers, his eyes closing.]

[ 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.) ]

[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?

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.

[Phil's willing to give Natasha anything she wants, anything at all. When he commits, he commits fully, whether it be to his work or when he falls in love, and if that's what Natasha decides she wants, he'll hand over his heart without blinking an eye. For now, though, they're still working around each other, figuring out the best way to slot their lives together, and he's more than content to simply take it day by day. Especially when his days include Natasha perched in his lap, slowly divesting him of his clothes.

He hums in agreement, combing his fingers through her hair as she ducks her head, carefully separating a tangle that snags on his finger and arching a little into the touch of her lips.] I don't think we'll have any problems there.

[ For all that Natasha is, it's rarer that she surprises herself: rarer still that others do. The gentleness in Phil's hands, the way his touch grips and skims is in stark counterpoint to the things she's seen him do; the brisk efficiency and economy of movement replaced with something slower, more bated. (Phil Coulson is a romantic; Natasha isn't sure why she's so surprised.)

Her fingers work the final button free and her arms shift to slide around his neck, like she's not in any real hurry just yet, the robe hanging half-off her elbows. It's nice to be able to drag out something as simple as an easy flirtation. ]

Anything else I should know about this tradition? You'll have to remind me. I'm new to America.

[He is very much a romantic, though his instincts tend to lie dormant most of the time, and she tends to bring it out in him without any effort on her part. He's not sure if he should be grateful to her or not. No, that's a lie. He is grateful. He's grateful for all kinds of things, grateful they're still alive, grateful for whatever impulse it was that pushed her to take him home that night two months ago, grateful that she was willing to try again. Phil misses the simple companionship that they rarely get in their line of work, and she's giving it to him, despite the fact that he knows it doesn't come easy to her. So yeah, he's grateful.

His hand splays at the base of her spine, the tip of his pinky finger slipping beneath the elastic of her panties as his other hand skims down her neck to stroke across her collarbones.]

Well, [he starts, a smile twinkling in his eye,] It tends to start with removing this. [And his fingers trail down her sternum to hook the front of her bra, tugging just a little.]

[ There's an easy huff of laughter as she presses a kiss to his temple, only to pull away again. The silk robe falls easily down her arms and pools in the dip of the mattress made by their bodies, slipping down her back and the line of his arm. The clasp of her bra undone, she removes it by letting the shoulder straps fall first, then the rest is dropped over the edge of the bed; Natasha smiles, her hands settling at his waist now, the length of his tie hanging unevenly over the rise of her breasts. ]

This does feel familiar. [ Her thumbs hook into his beltloops. ] Next?

Next... [Next has to wait for a minute, because Phil is currently occupied with stroking his hands up her sides so he can cup her breasts in his palms, his thumbs brushing over rosy nipples. So sue him, she's got fabulous breasts and he's only human. Of course he'd want to take advantage of the moment and appreciate them.

He does rally eventually, though, looking up into her face with a little laugh around the edges of his smile, and rolls his shoulders.] Next I think we need to get rid of my shirt. [That involves cufflinks, though, and letting go of her, something Phil is rather reluctant to do at the moment.]

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A Picture is Worth... Meme.

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