Warm, white light filters through the bakery window and falls gently upon Peeta's hair, illuminating it, as if it were molten gold. I watch the sinewy network of muscles ripple beneath his skin as he works, his strong fingers kneading dough. Rolling, pressing, applying pressure in strategic and varied increments – to watch Peeta handle bread is an art form.

The muscles in my belly pull tightly, and I am struck by that familiar feeling: hunger. I am hungry for Peeta's sweet, seedy loaf.

Predatorily I advance, my braid falling gently down my back as I saunter over to where he works. He does not look up; his brow is creased in concentration, blue eyes firmly fixed upon the task at hand. I begin to drape myself across the floury bench, catching the softness of the substance between my fingers, trailing it up and down my arms; the smell is intoxicating, and so uniquely Peeta. I long to be in his floury, floury arms, drenched in the stuff as he kneads me as delicately as he kneads his bread.

"Peeta," I croon.

His eyes shoot up to meet mine, and in them I see a lifetime of turmoil and despair. The agony he underwent for me in the Capitol, the confusion the not knowing whether those around him were real or not real; I curse Snow for making Peeta fifty shades of fucked up, for nearly taking him from me.

But my eyes soften when they meet his, and all ill is washed away. Not even the Capitol could dissipate this love; for Peeta is my fifty shades of fucked up. He is my baker, and I am his bread. I want him to mix into me his sweet self-raising flour.

A carnal hunger in his gaze confirms the longing between us; at once he discards his dough and sweeps me up into his arms, and lays me in the bed of flour that litters the counter. His face hovering over mine as his hand was apt to do over my shoulder, he smiles warmly, glancing a thumb across my cheek. "Stop biting your lip," Peeta implores. The mere sound of his voice intensifies my hunger pangs. "You know what it does to me."

I hadn't even realized I had been biting my lip. My mouth parts in a silent gasp, however, when those strong and dusty hands meet with my flesh. I am ready and willing to beg him for my release, for I just want to go home and eat dinner – but Peeta is an artist. And all great works of art take time, so he says.

But I don't have time.

In a bold and sudden move that surprises even myself, I rise from the counter and throw myself upon him, tackling him to the ground. Peeta's eyes are wide with alarm, but still watery and thoughtful; I merely smile at him as my hand wander down his sides to his pants, and I am hasty in relieving him of them.

Peeta's body is a hazardous minefield of no-go zones; I can see sometimes, how he gasps and cringes whenever I touch him, as if he truly believes me to be a Mutt. I am respectful of this distance and of the effort it takes him not to snap and tear my head off, but I long to run my fingers through the soft down of his chest. Now is not the time, however, to linger on his intensive map of pain. Slowly I glide down, down, down the length of his body. I see in his eyes the curiosity, but laced with knowing anticipation. Just that look, as it is eclipsed with want for me – need for me – is enough to make my inner goddess sing. She's rooting for me, chanting and imbuing me with the strength I need to travel just that little further... to Peeta's stump.

Above me, I see Peeta's eyes widen in surprise as my tongue engirths the width of his stump. I manage to pry his prosthetic away from him, discarding it as I broaden my scope with which to work. The skin is soft and smooth, as if a leg had never been there; it fills me with burning rage for the Capitol, a potent fuel for my already healthy blaze.

"Oh, Katniss," he groans, his hands finding their way into my hair. He winds my braid around and around his fist, his grip tightening exponentially as my tongue and my lips work in time with his stumpy leg. The sweet sound of his voice spurs me further and I am consumed by desire, eager to please him. A symphony of moans leave his lips like liquid love, igniting my senses and hastening the movements of my mouth all culminating in that gut feeling that reaches right into my belly and sends my inner goddess wild –

My stomach growls loudly for Peeta, not lost among his many moans and admissions of affection. His hand on my hair slackens for just a moment, before tightening once more; he yanks my head up to meet his and I see a clarity in his eyes that only emerges in moments like these. "Have you eaten today, Katniss?" he whispers sensually.

Truthfully, I have eaten today; I shot three squirrels and a groosling, and help myself to some of my kills as soon as I got home. In addition I had a few cheesebuns, some goat's cheese and a tin of lamb stew with dried plums, but that was hours ago, and I am starving once more. I nod my head modestly, but my stomach betrays me by growling again.

Peeta laughs, low and sweet and sensuous, before reaching up behind the counter shelves, and taking a few small bread rolls in hand. Gently he releases me onto his chest as he pulls apart the bread; at once my senses are assaulted with the aroma of the bread, mingled with Peeta's own scent: a heady combination. Taking my chin gently in his hands, Peeta offers me a sliver of bread. "Eat," he purs.


This was as far as I was able to get without smashing my head repeatedly into my bookshelf. Someone requested I write this, and I thought it would be fun at first. 200 words and 100 tropes in, I was struggling. By the end I was clinically insane. I could not bring myself to finish it.