thingsthatshine | Open Post

[You know I welcome ALL the things so have some pretty pictures for possible inspiration.]

Peeta is fairly certain that Rose likes the kitchen best because it's where the food lives. However, is also fairly certain that her second favorite reason for liking the kitchen so much is because he is so often found there. She's in her accustomed spot, sitting on the counter next to the over (he's always afraid she's going to burn herself on it) legs swinging a little (because she knows that he's afraid she's going to burn herself), devilish smile (it's the only one she has, he thinks in the moment) on her face.

Meanwhile, he's at the island making french toast for breakfast; they're both picking a plate of bacon he fried earlier to eat while he bakes (shhh he's totally going to crumble the pieces that he'd hidden away over the top of their plates). He is trying to pay attention (really) to the recipe and the food in front of him. He's trying and failing, and she knows it.

"You're very distracting," he tells her, eyes sliding up the long length of legs displayed so fetchingly in front of him.

x
x
x

Edited (html fail) 2015-09-29 03:49 (UTC)

After Gwen had died, he'd taken a year off from...well...everything. He'd mourned, grieved and eventually figured out how to live with what had happened ~~what he'd done~~. NYU had been happy to have him. They'd even given him a full ride. he lived in the dorms and went home on weekends to check up on Aunt May. He'd acquired a motorcycle that made getting around campus and around the city a little more...normal.

He'd met Allison in one of his English classes. They'd had a project together; it had been one of those group projects in which one or two people do all of the work, Allison and Peter had been those two people. He hadn't minded though. In fact, he'd started to look forward to project meetings and rather than question it (rather than let fear make him flee) he'd simply accepted it.

They're wrapping up their last meeting for the project and Peter is screwing up all his courage. "There's this coffee shop a little ways from here--would you--I mean--I thought maybe we could g-go for coffee. If you wanted. I've got my bike parked outside."

Good idea, Peter: caffeinating yourself when you can barely talk for nerves. She's the first girl he's asked out since Gwen and he's gotten rusty, as if he was ever very smooth.

The small study room in the library that they often used had become just as friendly and inviting to Allison as her own dorm room. Mostly that was because of Peter, and as she was gathering her books and laptop, Allison realized she was somewhat disappointed that the project was over.

She was going to miss Peter.

Though, if she wanted, Allison could change that. The end of a group project didn't mean that their acquaintanceship had to end. College was about meeting people and making friends, after all, and New York would be nothing like Beacon Hills. No weird things, nothing she needed to be wary of beyond the mundane muggings and possibly walking back to her dorm at night, alone.

She had just drawn in a breath to ask Peter if he wanted to grab dinner some time when he beat her to the question. It startled a laugh from her and she looked up at him, grinning.

"I was just going to ask you that. I'd love to get coffee." She paused. "A bike?"

She'd never seen him leave campus, so she wasn't familiar with his bike. The word made her think of Scott's bike, though it had been purchased after their tumultuous relationship ended. She hoped his wasn't exactly like that, because Scott's had been more a dirt bike than motorcycle, though it was for mostly selfish reasons - she'd always wanted to ride one.

College was about that; it was also about making a new start. New York had it's weird things, but Spider-man tried to keep them under control. The campus was pretty safe anyway, due in part to the whole Spider-man thing, but also because people had gotten smarter, more defensive as had security.

The laugh was good, as was the grin. Her answer was even better.

He nodded. "Yeah. It's an easy way to get around. Especially if there's traffic. It's just an old clunker I pieced together." It wasn't a dirt bike; it was a motorcycle, but nothing shiny. Peter was good with mechanical things and he'd built it from pieces he'd found at the junkyard, mostly with Aunt May asking him why he thought so many motor bikes were in pieces at the junkyard. "We can walk if you don't like motorcycles. Go somewhere closer."

Really, he'd be very accommodating because he wanted her to go to coffee with him. He didn't want this friendship or whatever else it might be to end here.

It’s entirely possible that in the beginning? Food had in fact played a very large part in this being her favorite room of the house, but it was in fact, the combination of food and Peeta that could see her live in it. Especially when he’d set about making some new concoction that could make the dead rise just by smelling it. Personally, she felt he was to blame for the difficulties he always found himself having in the kitchen when she was around. If he weren’t so good at it, she might welcome the warmth of her bed more than his cooking and company.

Well. She'd think about it anyway.

“Am I?” She’s a little too fond of this game for her own good. Or rather, Peeta’s own good. The one where she pretends that butter wouldn’t melt in her mouth and she acts like she has no idea what on earth he could be talking about. “And here I thought I was just keeping you company.” That smile, yes, that devilish smile, pulling wider as she snakes another piece of bacon from the plate.

“Don’t you like my company?” Speaking around a mouthful. Of course.

Oh, he knows that. It's alright; the kitchen is one of his favorite places as well. As far as his concoctions, he spends a lot of time coming up with recipes to impress Rose, to make her smile. Maybe, her in the kitchen is another reason he spends so much time coming up with new recipes just for her. He likes her in his kitchen.

He'll make sure she never does.

He chuckles, ducking his head a little at her words. "Just keeping me company," he looks at her, eyebrow quirked up. "I don't think you've ever just anything in your entire life, Rose."

When she asks if he likes her company, he laughs again and this time, he leaves the french toast for a moment to press a kiss against her collarbone. "I adore your company," he says as he returns to his cooking.

Edited 2016-07-13 00:21 (UTC)

Tim had first met Prim while he was deeply hungover. He'd stumbled into her apothecary shop thinking it was a fancy name for a drugstore. He'd been after aspirin. Instead, Prim had taken care of him and his hangover. She was gorgeous, there was no doubt about that, but she was definitely not Tim's usual type. She was far too sweet, too kind, too genuine. She was also, it must be mentioned, not nearly slutty enough. Because of this, Tim hadn't bothered to ask her age. He'd thought she'd be a friend, like Becky had been back home. He needed friends; he always had.

With that in mind, Tim had started showing up at the apothecary on a regular basis. Sometimes he'd bring beer and drink it. Sometimes he'd show up already drunk. Occasionally he'd even be sober. From time to time, those trips would turn into coffee dates (because Tim refused to drag Prim into the whole bar thing) or something similar.

Today it's gorgeous outside and Tim has decided he's going to teach Prim how to play golf and possibly tag football. She'd suggested making it a picnic and he'd agreed. He'd bring the beer. She could bring the food. He picks her up at her house in the 1986 Chevy pick up that had appeared in front of the apartment building one morning. He's gone over it a dozen times. There's no doubt that it's his truck, and he's grateful to have something from home here. He's got blankets in the back along with the football and golf clubs. There's beer in an actual cooler along with some sodas and bottles of water. He'll get out of the truck and wait beside it for her.

Prim might not approve of Tim getting drunk all the time, mostly because she worries about him when he stumbles back in either drunk or hungover, but that never stops her from trying to help him anyway. It's a good thing she's had experience helping drunk people in Panem. Mostly Haymitch. Poor Haymitch. He'd almost drunk himself to death. Literally. Between Prim's coma and Katniss' death, he'd barely had anything to live for. When she woke up, Prim immediately started caring for him and she kept that up as a way to keep her sister's memory alive. Sometimes caring for others was all that kept her going.

That definitely carried over to Itinere and Tim became one of the people Prim cared most for. She did what she could for him and slowly started to think of him as a friend. Katniss hated him, she was sure, but if the topic ever came up, Prim would vouch for him. She liked him, he treated her well, and that was what mattered.

She was glad when he agreed to her idea of a picnic. While he might be bringing the drinks, she's got a basket of berries she picked from her own vines, various melons that are also hers, and goat cheese she made from her new goats' milk. She's also made small sandwiches and little things they can eat with their hands.

As she spots him while making her way down the walkway, a shy smile crosses her face. "Hi," she says, just as shyly, glancing him over to see how he's doing today. "I've never really done this with anyone but my family--" Peeta and Haymitch were definitely family by the time she came back. "--so thanks for agreeing."

She's excited and nervous and it probably shows.

Most people don't approve of Tim getting drunk all the time. The problem is that Tim doesn't know who he is if he isn't drunk half the time. He's certainly not 'Tim Riggins Number 33' anymore and hasn't been since he graduated high school. He won't ever regret going to jail for Billy because Billy has a family, a baby he needed to be there for, but he is pissed that Billy didn't make more of his life, the life that TIm gave him by going to prison in his place. Tim drinks because it's the only way of coping that he's ever really known, because he learned that from his father, because....nothing matters when he's drunk. He's certainly a big enough mess that Prim will always have something to do in regards to him.

It doesn't matter to Tim that Katniss hates him, not because he doesn't want Prim's sister to like him, but because Tim is used to being the guy that no one wants their little girl to go out with. Even in Dillion, where he is universally adored, he's that guy. Men want to have a beer with him and talk football, not send him on a date with their daughters. Tim is actually very honorable in his own way. He won't hurt Prim, not on purpose; he won't mistreat her.

He's got no intention of getting drunk today. He just needs to drink enough to feel like himself. AA would have a field day with him. He knows this. Honestly, half the time the reason he eats is because Prim feeds him.

He grins at her shyness, at her confession. "No problem. I'm looking forward to it." And it's obvious that's honest. He has been looking forward to it. He moves to the passenger side of the truck and opens the door for her. He'll shut it once she's inside then walk around the front of the truck to the driver's side.

Prim is used to feeding people. It's better if they can at least tolerate goat cheese. That's always been a staple. If Katniss can find berries, it's always better, but Prim has taken to trying to grow other things. She isn't as good at taking care of plants, bushes, or trees as she is at taking care of people, but she's not that bad, either. At least she can coax them to give up good things that they can preserve. Food stores are so important.

How to tell when someone from Panem likes you: they share food with you. Prim has been doing that for a while now.

She glances down shyly, still smiling as she slides into the seat of the truck. "So am I," she admits, curling up inside so that he can shut the door. Her gaze follows him as he walks around to the other side and she waits for him to get in. Resting the basket in her lap, she curls her fingers around the handle, holding on like that will help her anxiety.

"I brought a whole lot of things for us to eat," she continues, trying not to talk too much or let an uncomfortable silence fall. "I hope you like it all."

Tim hadn't ever had goat cheese until Prim came along. It isn't something that people in small town Texas eat. In fact, it's entirely possible that before Prim, Tim hadn't ever had any cheese that didn't come wrapped in cellophane. He's never tried to grow anything either. Honestly, Prim has opened him up to a whole new world of things, good things and there aren't many people in his life that have done that.

Unfortunately, Tim doesn't know that code.

He glances up once to catch her gaze through the front windshield of the truck and it makes him grin. That's a smile that's still on his face when he opens the driver's door and gets inside.

It takes a couple of tries for the truck to start up, but it does. He pulls away from the curb and looks over to Prim. "I'm not picky when it comes to food. I'm sure I'll like everything just fine," he tells her. "You can put the basket on the floorboard if you want. I won't drive too reckless and tip it over."

He'll probably learn the code eventually. Prim hasn't exactly been dishonest about Panem and the Games, but she hasn't had much reason to talk about them. She has flashbacks on occasion, though not nearly as bad as when she first got back to Itinere. The most she usually says is that she's remembering the Rebellion and the war. There are some things she just doesn't like to talk about with other people.

Her coma and her sister's death are two of those things. The Games have also become part of those things. And mockingjays.

For now, though, she just glances at him as he pulls the truck out and starts them on their way. "I know. I trust that you wouldn't. I just..." She purses her lips and looks down at the basket. This is all tied into those things she doesn't talk about, but she's starting to like Tim and maybe even trust him a little bit. "It's easier if I have something in my hands. I guess it keeps me grounded. It... reminds me that this is real; it's not just a dream."

He might have noticed that this is a thing with her. Usually, it's nothing really noticeable, like herbs or containers from her shop, small string, things she uses every day. But she keeps her hands busy, if not simply resting on something or gripping her pants or the hem of her shirt or something like that. She isn't like Finnick was, though; she doesn't tie and retie a thick piece of rope. She just... keeps her hands on or around something firm.

He knows a little about her life and knows that it wasn't great. He doesn't push or prod her to tell him more unless she seems open to talking about it. He certainly doesn't want to push her into talking about anything that'll upset her. Tim (like many men) has no idea what to do with a crying woman, at least nothing that he feels is helpful.

He knows she has a sister, of course, and he knows that Prim doesn't want to leave Itinere because of her sister. He can assume enough to realize that her sister is probably dead back home. He's not the brightest bulb in the batch, but he's not dumb either.

His brow furrows and he glances over at Prim as she talks. In response, he puts an open hand on the seat between them, fingers spread out. It's an invitation to hold onto his hand if she wants. He's never really been an anchor for anyone, but he thinks he can manage giving Prim something to hold onto if that's what she needs.

He's noticed that she generally liked to keep her hands busy, but he hadn't realized now until she'd explained it. He'll take notice more often and, likely, offer his hand to hold onto if she likes, if she doesn't turn down his offer now.

The hand reaching out towards her is unexpected, and for a few seconds she just holds the basket tighter. She's never had an anchor that wasn't her sister, never felt comfortable enough asking for one or being one for anyone else. But Tim is different. So she takes a deep breath, setting the basket on the floor between her feet and sliding her hand into his.

It's different, holding someone else's hand. She can't say she doesn't like it, but it's definitely different. His hand is larger by far than Katniss' and warmer somehow. Her fingers wrap around his hand and she holds on, her grip not exactly tight, but definitely not loose, either. If he's going to keep at least one hand occupied, he'll have to deal with her grip.

She ducks her head nervously, but the smile that crosses her face should say enough that she's happy and grateful to have him there for her. The soft, "Thank you," she offers alongside it echoes that.

When she slides her hand into his, he curls his fingers around her tiny hand and squeezes it. His hands are a little callused and scarred from working on cars, but also from fighting. He doesn't make a big deal of her holding his hand, simply drives.

He doesn't mind her grip at all. In fact, he likes that she's holding on tightly to him. "Alright, scoot on closer over here. Put one leg on either side of the stick shift," he instructs.

Yes, he's going to have her shift gears for him. Honestly, there's nothing that she can really do to hurt this truck that he hasn't already done.

Prim is used to people who have calluses on their hands and feet. She probably would have developed some sooner or later if she hadn't been so interested in being a doctor. She's always needed to keep her hands smooth so she can grip her equipment and help keep people calm. Here this is less of a concern, but she still has never been much of a worker in that sense.

"What?" she gasps, half a laugh of incredulity and half actual worry. "Is there room on your side?"

There's no point in asking if it's safe. It probably isn't, but she knows Tim wouldn't ask her to do anything outright dangerous. He's not like that. He wouldn't risk hurting her.

He likes her hands the way that they are. They're a sharp contrast to his and he likes that a lot.

He smirks. "Plenty of room, Darlin'," he tells her, tugging on her hand to pull her closer.

It's not legal and if he has a wreck, it wouldn't be safe, but he's never had a wreck. That's saying something, isn't it?

Prim looks dubious, but she finally scoots over. Draping one leg over the middle, she tries hard not to take up too much space while making sure the basket won’t turn over on the floor. “This is weird,” she says nervously with a soft giggle. “What do I do now?”

She quit slaying. She'd warned Giles that she would and it's not simply spite that drove her to make good on her word. Some spark flickered out when Dawn died and she's pretty sure she wouldn't have lasted a week slaying anyway. She has no idea how they've handled things without a slayer because Buffy left Sunnydale and never, ever looked back.

She's still not slaying and she's not sure how she ended up in Bon Temps, Louisiana. She spends a lot of time drifting from town to town, or she did for a while. She's better now, a little more stable. She's been in Bon temps for a few months now and she doesn't have plans of moving on. She refuses to think about much of that has to do with Alcide. She'd met him one night at a bar. It had started out a one night stand because when Buffy started being careful with her heart, she stopped being careful with her body.

It hasn't remained that and Buffy doesn't want to examine too carefully what it has become. She spooks too easy, guards her heart too carefully and for the first time since Dawn died, she feels like she might be breathing again. She unlocks the door to the little cottage near the woods and steps inside, slipping her feet out of her heels at the door. She knows Alcide is there, and she doesn't mind at all. He's got a key for a reason. She doesn't say anything though, aware that he knows she's there as well. He's tingle-tangle, pinpricks up her spine, all heat and safe. She doesn't know what she feels like to him; she's far too afraid to ask.

Once the heels are off, she pads barefoot into her bedroom to change into sweatpants and a tank top. Alcide, where ever he is, will find her when he's ready.

For months it's been peaceful. Alcide hasn't necessarily known what to do with peaceful. So maybe the dark storm inside Buffy is a part of what attracts him to her. She's beautiful. Any drama she has, so far, has nothing to do with fairies or werewolves or vampires. He knows that she lost her sister. Alcide knows loss too. Maybe that's another thing that bonds them. He knows that she doesn't quite smell human. Alcide is always drawn to the not quite human. And on top of all this, he actually likes her. He wants to help her, heal her, be a strong shoulder she can lean on. That's all he's ever wanted to be to someone, really.

The deeper he gets into this with Buffy, the more he knows he likes her, loves her, never wants to be one of those people she keeps at arms length for her own safety. Getting a key to her place was a big deal. He guards it well as if it were her heart.

Today he'd been confronted with his past, some wolves from his old pack tried to kill him just as they said they would if he was ever in their way again. He didn't want to get so deeply embroiled in that stuff again, in vampire and werewolf shit. He's much better on his own, under the radar. Alcide fought. He heals quickly, but not quickly enough for there not to be a few bruises. He's used Buffy's shower and is out back working on some loose slats in the railing on her neck. Work like this always calms him. This is something he can fix. This is something he can control. He's been fixing up little things around her house for awhile now.

Alcide smells her when she gets home. He continues to work for a bit until he's drunk all the beer he has outside. He's going in for another one and to see her, of course, when he enters the house again. In the bedroom, she's just changed into fresh clothes when he walks in in just a pair of jeans. "Hey." He circles an arm around her waist and leans in to press a kiss to her brow. "How was work?"

Buffy is as uncertain what to do with peace as Alcide is, but she's needed this peace. She's needed the stability and safety that she feels around Alcide. She knows he's a wolf. They've talked a little about that, but he doesn't know she's a slayer. There's been no reason to talk about that, in her opinion, because she's not slaying anymore and she doesn't have any intention of ever doing that again. She'd defend herself or Alcide if necessary, but there's a big difference between active slaying and defense. He has helped her, immensely, but she's not sure losing Dawn, losing a part of herself, is something she can ever heal from. She may simply have to learn to live with being broken. Alcide has become someone she can lean on though, and she appreciates that more than she can say. She also appreciates the way that he doesn't push her to talk about Dawn or that she's not entirely human.

She'd tried to keep Alcide at a distance, but he'd worked his way closer with patience, charm and sweetness. She'd needed that sweetness so very much. Eventually, she'd let him in and while there are still days that she fears he'll hurt her, most of the time things are so comfortable and so good between them. It scares her, but she's glad that she'd taken a chance on Alcide and he with her.

She likes when she comes home to Alcide working on something on the house. It feels safe, domestic and it also hurts with an ache so sharp it takes her breath away. She needs a few minutes to process it because this is what Dawn should have had. This was Dawn's place in the world, never Buffy's. She tries to comfort herself with the thought that if Dawn can't have it, she would want Buffy to have it. Some days that helps more than others. Today is one of those days when she needs his arms around her.

When Alcide wraps his arms around her, she leans back against him, eyes closing for the moment. "Okay. Busy, but I didn't mind." She never minds busy. It keeps her occupied so that she doesn't think too much about anything at all. His warmth makes her shiver against him and curl up a little more against his bare skin. Sometimes, on days like this, Buffy wants to crawl inside that warmth and safety to stay. "I probably smell like fried food. Sorry." It's one of the downfalls of waitressing.

Open Post

Surprise Me ♥

Let's start here

throw anyone at me!

Going AU b/c her canon

au sounds great

no subject

/chinhands

no subject

you know what this is for XD anyone or multiples?

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

Whoever you wanna play with him

THIS this is who

Yay! o/

Re: Yay! o/