A/N: Okay, so I know reading this chapter, your train of thought will be, "wait what?" when it comes to Katniss's behavior, but I promise you by the end it makes sense. Seriously. I am going to leave the prompt at the endnote as to not give it away. This is heavily inspired by the song "Whipped Cream" by Ludo and their video, which has them putting whipped cream on stupid things like grilled cheese sandwiches and ukuleles.

I want it with whipped cream on it, baby gimme gimme gimme you love...

-Ludo; Whipped Cream

When I get home from school, I expect to see my mother behind the counter at the bakery, ready to grill me about my day at school. Or my father in the back kitchen, baking and humming to himself as always.

What I do not expect is for the shop to be empty. Silent.

I drop my schoolbag on the floor. "Hello?" I call, and get no response.

I raise my voice a little more. "Mother? Father?"


"Too good to be true," I mutter, and I head into the kitchen. Unusual that not even my brothers are home; normally their antics could be heard a mile away.

"Basil? Rye?"

"They're not here."


I turn around, only to find that I am not alone after all. I stagger backward a few steps, reaching out for something to steady myself with. But there is nothing, and I run the risk of falling flat on my back.

Definitely too good to be true.

Katniss Everdeen sits on the wooden kitchen counter in the center of the room in her school uniform, her stockings loose and bunching at her calves.

"Kat-Katniss?" I stammer, and this time I trip over my own feet. It's the first words I have spoken to her in all my fifteen years, and, of course, I can't even say her name without stuttering.

Smooth, Mellark. Real smooth. That's sure to win her over.

She laughs and hops down from the counter, holding out her hand to me. I pause for a moment, and she looks as though she is about to withdraw, so I quickly place my fingers around hers. Her hand is warm but callused, the surface covered in scars. I vaguely wonder where they all came from, and if she would tell me if I asked.

However, it doesn't seem like I will be talking any time soon because as soon as I am on my feet she kisses me. I have never been kissed before so I have nothing to compare it to, but even if I did I know this would be infinitely better. Because it's Katniss, and kissing her is everything I've ever imagined and then some.

When she pulls away my head is spinning, and I try to catch my breath. I don't bother speaking; anything would end up coming out as unintelligible babble. The hair on my arms stands on end and the back of my scalp tingles. I force myself to take a deep breath, and without thinking I reach up and press one finger to my lips, which feel as though they are burning.

I don't know what possesses me to do it.

One minute I am standing there in a complete daze, and the next I am scooping her into my arms and placing her back on the kitchen island. I am kissing her again—one taste isn't enough, it could never be enough—and her hands are running down my shirt, unbuttoning it. My hands wander to the collar of her blouse, and just as I am about to touch the top button she shakes her head, grabs my hands and in one quick move flips me over so that she is straddling me. Our hips are lined up and when she presses against me I let out a small moan, slapping my hand over my mouth to muffle the sound.

I hadn't known it was possible for something to feel so good. Good being a relative word. I am not quite sure there is a single adjective for what I'm feeling, which is the desire to rip off all of her clothes and do things that…well, I'm not even sure exactly what I am supposed to do, but my body aches for it.

I have no idea how Katniss has such a delicate sense of balance for she pulls herself off me, stands fully upright, and jumps from the center island to one of the counters that line the walls.

"Katniss, what are you—"

"Stay," she orders, and I do.

I watch her as she opens one cabinet and then another. Frowning, she hops to the next counter, repeating the process. This time she finds what she is looking for, and makes her way back to me. A can of whipped cream is her hands, and my mind is such a mess of feelings that I can't put together the pieces of the puzzle.

"Katniss, what do you need whipped cream for?" I ask stupidly, my tongue feeling heavy in my mouth.

"What, do you think I'm going to decorate a cake or something?"

I laugh weakly. "You'd need frosting for that." I sit up, my palms on the smooth wood of the island. She is still standing, but she places the can next to my left hand, and straddles me again.

"I don't want frosting," she says, and quiets any further comment from me with a kiss. "Shirt off, and lie down."

I obey without hesitation, and she leaves a little trail of kisses down my neck, collarbone, chest, to the waistband of my pants. Just as she is about to go further she pulls away, and removes the cap from the whipped cream. She straightens up a little and aiming the can at my chest, begins to cover me in the stuff.

For most, I suppose this would be a little weird, and I raise an eyebrow. But really, who am I to protest? She wants me, she really wants me, and if she wants it with whipped cream on it, then she'll get it with whipped cream on it. Simple as that.

It is a slightly cold on my skin, though, and will probably leave a sticky trail so I would have to shower—

Oh dear God.

She has stopped kissing me now, and moves her mouth southward again. But she doesn't leave kisses on my chest like before—no, she begins to lick off the whipped cream, and my hands begin to shake in the effort of trying to hold myself back. Because that sensation is so intense, unexpected, and so damn good that I am left with nothing but raw desire.

I want her—no, that's not it. I need her. I need her right now, and I won't settle for anything less. I know I'm being way too bold as my hands follow the curve of her waist and slip under her blouse. She doesn't pull away or tell me to stop so I move further upward until I can feel the edge of her bra. I pause, and she lifts her head. The whipped cream is almost gone, and there is fire in her eyes.

"Don't stop, Peeta," she says, and so I don't.

I don't when my fingers dip beneath her bra, or when I manage (after a bit of fumbling) to unhook it. Nor when I take off her shirt altogether. Now it is my turn to kiss her all over, and she sighs, murmuring my name. I place my hand at the waistband of her skirt, fiddling a little with it. She nods in assent, so I find the buttons on the side and undo them. The navy blue fabric pools at her knees, and she wiggles out of it, kicking off her shoes.

Only left in her underwear and stockings, I can't help but stare at her. I'm sure I probably look like an idiot but I just don't care—she's so beautiful, how could I not? She swiftly unbuttons my pants, pulling them down to my knees, not even bothering to take them off all the way. She reaches for the waistband of her underwear and some other Peeta, some Peeta who seems to have it all together and knows what he is doing, puts his hands on top of hers and takes them off for her. In less than ten seconds my shorts are gone, and she rubs up against me.

I kiss her hard; she has whipped cream on the corners of her mouth and the sweetness melts in mine. I turn her over so that her back is resting on the counter and I am on top. She wraps her legs around my hips and we move together. I can see her coming undone, giving in to the feeling, and she buries her head in my neck.

"Peeta," she murmurs, and gets louder. "Peeta…Peeta…Peeta…"


The scene before me begins to fade, disappearing into a blur of shapes and colors. I am shaking—no, I am being shaken, and the voice calling me now sounds nothing like Katniss's.

"Peeta, get up, you useless boy! You're going to be late for school!" I open my eyes fully, and my mother is scowling at me. She stomps out of the room, and I sit up.

Just a dream, nothing but a dream…

I sigh, and begin to get dressed.

Nothing but a dream, and one that will never come true.

End note: So, obviously, the prompt here was dream. And if you're like, "WTF are you thinking Tucker, Peeta would never dream about Katniss that way" I just want to say that when I write him, the one thing I keep in mind is that underneath all of his sweetness and charisma and artistry, he is still a sixteen year old boy. And sixteen year old boys think about sex. A lot. Trust me, I have a lot of guy friends, and they aren't afraid to be completely crude around me, so I've gotten how their mind works by now.