#hijacked katniss

I just got to ramble, because I have this idea for a canon divergent Peeta POV fic, where he is the one who gets rescued from the Rebels and Katniss is taking to the Captiol. I saw some posts about this, and it’s also meantioned in the books, when Haymitch says something like “He wouldn’t treat you like this, if you were the one being hijacked” (I can’t quote the actual line, because I just have a translation of THG at hand, but if anyone can add this part, I would be very grateful).

And this got me thinking about, how the hijacking took the one thing about Peeta, that was very exceptional in this world, which was his kindness. Everybody said, they couldn’t believe, how cruel Peeta was to Katniss. That was very much unlike him, like they just ripped out a huge part of his identity. yes, but also... His benefit to the cause of the rebels. He was pretty much useless in district 13 and he was a risk to be with 451. Truth to be told, he held them back a lot, which was okay, because the squad was willing to do the extra work, but well, it played into the Capitols hand, right? He would get rid of Katniss for them.

Now we turn this thought around. How could they hijack Katniss, without killing her, to diminish the Rebel’s cause? They wouldn’t turn her more violent. At least, that’s not what I was thinking. Because they would make her just a more useful weapon for Coin if she was mentally unstable and violent. Also at this point they wanted to discredit the star-crossed lovers, who basically pulled the trigger on the whole rebellion thing. Side thought: Snow saw something in the third quarter quell, that was real and not just for the cameras. He recognized how deeply they loved each other and he wanted to destroy their bond, because any form of alliance is weakening his powers, this bond in particular.

So they want to tear the star-crossed lovers apart, because Victors are important figures in this propaganda war and people look up to them, and also make Katniss useless for the cause. Not only in a way, she couldn’t be used for propos anymore, but actually keep her away from the whole fight.

For that to happen they need to take one thing from her: her fire. Her braveness to help those in need. Her survivial instinct. And Katniss was always willing to fight for something, somebody else. Rarely ever for herself. She was thinking about winning for Prim’s sake not her own, among other stuff. And she was able to keep going, because she always had somebody who would ground her.

Well, I’m trying to say. They would hijack her in a way, she would not be brave and selfless, but terrified and scared without any connection to those around her. They would make her see Peeta as a monster, a mutt, but not something she can destroy and overcome, but something that’s almighty. Like Peeta is not the one person she can trust, but the one person she can never defeat.

Just imagine this from Peeta’s POV. Him seeing her in person after months, and instead of the hug or something he expected, she starts crying and hiding, begging him to spare her. Because in her eyes she is seeing something so cruel and horrifiying, she doesn’t even put up a fight.

Based on the prompt: could you write a oneshot role reversal where Katniss is kidnapped in the Capitol and this is the everlark reunion scene?

In my opinion its not a real reunion between lovers unless they are both gettting naked! But I can’t just make it a Porn without Plot fic, so...Ok so, here’s the deal. Peeta went on the mission to free the captured victors in the Capitol and took his helmet off when he found Katniss in her cell. She then proceeded to strangle the shit out of him, because she was hijaked, but Boggs stopped her from killing Peeta and they all made it back to District 13. This ‘real’ reunion happens after moths of therapy and everlark fighting their way back through the hijacking. 

I find myself staring at him. 

Peeta’s full, plush looking lips are tinted a dark pink. I'm perversely proud of how swollen they look from my furious onslaught of kisses. I smile at him, just barely for a second and he gives me a heated but tender look. I flick my gaze away. Those mesmerizing lips of his quirk up at the corners, then he lowers his head past my mouth, skimming down my jaw. His lips are soft and reverent when he uses them to trace the column of my neck. 

Gently, feather soft kisses descend on my skin and ignite like live wires sparking and crackling with increasing intensity. Then, his hands, wonderfully callused from all that training, mirror the position of my own, tracing up and down my body. He feels strong and hard under my fingertips. I feel like I could touch him forever and forget about everything else in existence. 

There are a million unsaid words he exhales against my skin with each ragged breath he draws across the pulse point in my neck. I wonder how he manages to say so much with just the slight pressure of his hands or his lips? 

It's intoxicating and…different. I wonder why his lips feel so different from anyone else's.  

More importantly,  how can he still want to do this after everything I've done to him? After everything that’s been done to me?

I draw back just enough to look at his expression.  I'm startled to find his blue eyes openly staring into me, unguarded and suffused with longing and adoration. 

That look makes my breath hitch and my blood sing. 

I'm so impatient to have him naked and panting over me, under me, in every way imaginable, that it's unbelievable. 

But then of course, I'm certifiable now. 

I wonder if he's slightly mad too, or maybe he's just too naive to know when to quit. 

He stares back at me, letting me drink my fill of him with my eyes. And slowly, like peeling back layer after layer of false impressions and shiny memories I uncover the truth in his gaze. 

He's not insane. Or stupid. 

The distress of opening himself up like this again is evident in the crease of his brow, the uncertain tilt of his mouth, the tension in his hands as they shake just slightly while continuing to caress me. 

There's an impossibly deep look in his eyes, like a promise or a vow known only to himself. I wonder if he thinks that by coming back again and again he will somehow make up for leaving me to rot in the Capitol for so long. 

But the quiet pant of his breath and the wide sincerity in his eyes doesn't speak predominantly of guilt. 

He's got that look that Finnick gets when he looks at Annie. 

That wonderfully grateful look that silently screams of devotion. 

It makes me uncomfortable.  

But before I can shift away from him, his lips are back on my neck, and he's breathing soft words into my skin. 

"I'm yours," 

"Body and soul."

"Whatever you want, only if you want."

"Anything for you, Katniss." 

Even though his lips barely move and his voice is so light I have to strain to catch what he's saying, I hear him just the same. It's not quite an apology, (which is good because I don’t want one) it’s more an overture. Which I can handle infinitely better than a tear soaked 'sorry', and if for only that reason I find myself relaxing into him a little more. 

I'm glad, infinitely glad, that he doesn't try to tell me I'm sexy or beautiful, or something like that. Those words would have made me gag after all the times I'd heard them repeated to me in the Capitol. 

And he doesn't try to touch my breasts or my ass right away, either. 

He just keeps kissing along my collarbone and murmuring how he'll follow my lead. 

And it's the best offer I've gotten in a long time. My core throbs, achy and enticed with the idea of a partner eager to give instead of take from me. 

Was he always this generous in bed? Or did he only become such an attentive lover in response to what he thought I needed after all I had been through?

I pushed the questions out of my mind and focused on the only thought that mattered. 

This is what I wanted right now. 

He is what I need. 

I don’t need to psychoanalyze his motivations. I just need him to show me why this strange connection we share hasn’t been severed, by time, distance, or even the mad science of the Capitol. 

It's with that knowledge that I pull his shirt free from the waistband of his pants, slipping my hands inside and ghosting my fingers over his skin.

He shudders above me. I watch as his thickly muscled arms tremble as they work to keep his body hovering over mine. I know it's not fatigue that's affecting him, but my touch. I pry his shirt off of him and toss it somewhere on the floor. He doesn't blink when I do, but his pupils dilate even further, the pretty blue of his eyes slowly being swallowed up by the black. 

It's an effervescent feeling that rises up inside of me, when I realize how much I affect him. I want to revel in it at first and touch every inch of him slowly. But I don't know if it's wise to draw this out. Who knows how long this clarity of need will last? 

What I do know is I want to feel the weight of his body over mine. I want it to settle into my bones and I want to taste the moans off his tongue when he slips inside me. 

I want to watch his blue eyes grow dark with lust and then roll to the back of his head when he floods me with his warmth. 

I want everything he is offering and then some. Because the hazy memories I have aren’t enough. 

"Take off my clothes Peeta." I command, in a stern voice. It might sound laughable to someone else, the bossy tone in my voice even though I’m on bottom. But it’s not really a laughing matter for either of us. We will be equals in this no matter who’s physically taking the lead. I can see it in his eyes and I feel it in the way he holds me.

But I must still catch him a little off guard with my boldness. 

Peeta’s eyes widen slightly in response and he searches my face for only a moment before he finds the certainty he's looking for.

Then, as if someone has thrown a switch, he's different. 

His hands are steady and efficient as they unzip the front of my jumpsuit. He doesn't fumble when he reaches behind me and  unclips my bra. 

Neither does he hesitate when he unbuttons my pants and drags my underwear down at the same time. 

And he doesn't break eye contact with me the entire time. Waiting for me to make the next move. 

I love it. His confidence, his patience, the practiced way he undresses me. He’s quick and efficient but not possessive or disrespectful. It’s hot, and I can admit that to myself before I attack him with my mouth again.  

I latch onto the spot below his ear, and swirl my tongue in light circles in between kisses before I begin to suck on his slightly salty skin. It's all I can do to not bite down hard, when I inhale the scent and taste that feels so familiar and delicious.  

Peeta's breath hitches and he mumbles something incoherent against my hair that sounds like 'I've missed you so much.' Since he seems to be speaking more to himself than me I don't let it phase me. I can do without the emotional declarations. So I kiss him again on the mouth to stop anymore from leaking out. 

 If he's put off by my one track mind he doesn't show it. He kisses me back with a fervor and passion that makes heat spread through me like colored ink bleeding onto a page. 

It's only when my teeth scrape against the large artery in his neck that he reacts adversely for the first time. He stiffens up, as a tremor of fear runs through him. Because of course, even though the bruises have faded, and even though he’s already hard as steel against my thigh, he no doubt remembers the last time I paid so much attention to his neck. 

Right before I strangled him. 

“Are you scared of me Peeta?” I ask him out of morbid curiosity, between breaths as I continue to lavish his neck with my mouth, albeit slightly more gently and without the scrape of my teeth. 

He automatically starts to shake his head, but pauses mid shake. 

“A little,” He admits in a breathless voice. 

“Hummm,” I murmur vaguely in reply, giving him no assurances or warnings either way. He’s bigger than me, stronger too. But I’ve been training the same as him. Harder and more frequently too, since he spends more time filming propos than practicing his hand to hand combat. 

“If you're going to try to kill me, I think I’ll be ready this time.” He adds, as he threads his fingers through the hair at the base of my neck and tugs just a little. I clench my thighs and bite my own tongue to stifle the moan that threatens to slip out and slowly cast my gaze upward until I meet his eyes. 

He looks as serious as he sounds. It’s a promise that while he is more than happy to keep getting naked with me, he’s also on alert. 

I grin lazily up at him, while deliberately brushing my leg back and forth over his erection, delighting in the tortured groan that springs from deep in his throat. 

“Good. That makes two of us.” I tell him with a smirk. 

He lowers his head to my shoulder and curses quietly and I continue to rub him through his pants. 

“Katniss, I never tried to kill you. You have to know that by now.” He tells me, in a flustered, out of breath tone. I stop stimulating him with my leg and give him a breather.

I chuckle in reply before slipping my hands slowly down his chest and back respectively, feeling every peak and dip, every muscle rippling and tensing as I recommit them to memory. I close my eyes briefly, indulgently. 

“There are a lot of things I should know, Peeta. But so many of them get mixed up when you’re near me. You’re like a drug, and I can never quite predict the side effects you’ll bring with you after the first hit. Sometimes it's an unbelievable almost unending high. Sometimes it's terrible, stress filled paranoia. Sometimes it’s painful lows that drag me into endless waking nightmares. But always, it's intense. And no matter how broken I feel afterwards, you still leave me craving more.” I admit. 

I feel his strong arms tighten around me, and he emits a soft mournful sound. 

I’m glad that at that moment I can’t see his face. 

I don’t think I’d like what I would find. 

So instead of searching his expression I reach between our bodies and unzip his pants. His fingers dig into my skin, and his tightened grip only serves to spur me on. 

I don’t want to stop. In fact I don’t think I could at this point even if I wanted to. 

I think it's the same for Peeta, because even though he doesn't help me remove the rest of his clothes at first, he does nothing to impede me. 

After I push his pants and underwear down over his ankles, he kicks them the rest of the way off. We’re both naked now, but he still holds himself gingerly over me, not quite touching. 

He sucks in a huge breath and finally looks at me. His eyes sweep up and down my body slowly and I allow him his time. 

I stare back at him unapologetically as well. My gaze linger over his well toned stomach, his trim hips, and his thick cock that bobs in the empty gap between our bodies, pointed like an arrow at me. I lick my lips in anticipation but when I look back at Peeta he seems withdrawn from the immediacy of the moment. 

“I wish it could be different. I wish there was a way I could wipe away all the fear between us.” He whispers as he tucks a loose tendril of hair behind my ear. 

I stare up at him, unblinking. 

I don’t think it needs to be said that I wish for the same thing. I’m sure that’s obvious. 

But I know I have to say something. 

“No one else's hands can make me forget the bad memories like yours can.” I tell him quietly. 

He gives me an unreadable look. I think he’s trying not to show how sad or happy that makes him. I know I shouldn’t be irritated by this, but I am. I don’t want his pity, if that’s what this is. 

He notices my mouth tipping down into a scowl almost immediately, and mumbles a shaky ‘sorry’, before his mouth descends to kiss the frown off my lips. 

Everything else is forgotten, and it's just him invading everyone of my senses. 

Taste first. 

His lips are clean and sweet, washing away the memory of rough mouths that tasted stale and bitter like too much alcohol and something rotten underneath the lingering traces of decadent Capitol delicacies. With each swipe of his tongue against mine he paints a different picture, of something pure and pristine.  

Smell next. 

The sweet and spicy aroma of his skin intermingled with the light sheen of sweat condensing on both our bodies makes me feel dizzy with pleasure. It's such an eroticly familiar smell. I’m so wet, and getting wetter by the second that I can distinguish the light scent of my own arousal that is slowly perfuming the room with its headiness. There’s also a small amount of fluid that must be leaking from his tip, that I can smell him too and I revel in the knowledge that our scents will ultimately combine to create something unique that is all our own.

Hearing directly after that. 

Peeta groans so long and low when my scent hits him, that I feel it rolling through my core like thunder. He inhales deeply, like I’m an aphrodisiac. He hardens even further, and seemingly can’t help rocking his hips into mine, his erection dragging hot and hard over my naked skin. A small whimper escapes my throat at the thought of him being so turned on. I claw at his skin, trying to get him closer, as close as I can. 

Then touch. 

He lowers himself over me until his strong chest touches mine, and the nearly invisible blond hairs on his chest brush against my beasts and tease my hardened nipples into harder peaks, making me gasp and urging me to rub up against him like a cat. The planes of his torso fit perfectly against my diminutive curves and I get the feeling we fit better together than most. I hook a leg behind his right thigh, the one made completely of flesh and close my eyes to enjoy the building tension and pleasure at every point where our  bare skin meets. With my other hand I reach down and caress what remains of his left thigh, dragging my blunt nails lightly over his stump and enjoying the feeling of his coarse leg hair. He doesn’t flinch, just allows me to caress him thoroughly. I toy with the idea of taking him in my hand and pumping him for a while, anticipating the velvety texture of the soft skin of his cock over the beautiful hardness it conceals. But I refrain, worried that he might get too worked up. I certainly feel overstimulated and we’ve barely done anything yet. 

Finally sight is the last. 

We both open our eyes to look at each other and I know he can read my silent request for him to skip the rest of the foreplay. I want him now, and I don’t want to wait to feel him filling me up. He holds my gaze for what seems like an endless moment. 

He’s amazingly focused as he looks down at me, hair golden and tousled from my wandering hands. I have a small flash of memory of him years younger, being backlit by a flaming cape and headdress while a crowd roars around us instead of the weak light from the overhead fluorescents and the silence that’s only broken by our ragged breathing now. 

But in my memory he’s looking at me the exact same way he is presently, like I’m the most beautiful thing he’s ever seen. The memory fades, and I don’t try to catch it, preferring instead to live completely in the here and now. 

I suck in a breath before I lift my hand to trace the seductive outline of his lips lazily with the tip of my finger. He mirrors my actions by brushing his thumbs in circles over the tips of my breasts. Twin bolts of pleasure shoot down my body and pool in my core, swirling and tightening all at once.

“Don’t make me wait any longer.” I tell him as I exhale and close my eyes for a second before opening them again. He blinks at me, those impossibly darkened blue eyes inviting me to drown inside their beautiful fathomless depths. 

I don’t think I’ll ever get over his eyes. They entrance me. Especially after the hijacking. Looking headlong into them leaves me feeling like I’m staring over the edge of a great precipice. It's wonderful, frightening, and maddening all at once. For a moment I feel like a fly caught in amber, trapped within his hypnotic gaze. 

And it's only when his lips simultaneously capture mine at the same moment he pushes inside me that I feel like I can breathe again. 

“Fuck!” My shout is almost immediately stifled by his mouth, and my eyes tilt up to the ceiling of their own volition. He groans against my lips and twitches inside me and it makes my clench around him. He breaks our kiss and hisses my name, in a mixture of pleasure and strained warning. His eyes are screwed adorably shut in an expressoin that screams of tortured pleasure. All I can do is kiss it off his softly trembling lips. 

“Oh Peeta…..” I whisper, reveling in the quiet satisfaction I feel. My voice trails off as he presses his forehead against mine and briefly opens and closes his eyes against the raptourus sensation of finally uniting himself with me. He’s bigger than I anticipated and I feel wonderfully, perfectly stretched. He holds off on moving though until he feels me relax completely. His teeth gritted and his eyelashes that go on forever fluttering while he waits. 

It feels like the universe is holding its breath along with me. 

He draws a shaky breath and retreats an inch or two.

Then he sinks into me again, and I’m as lost in him as he seems in me. 

And we’re burning, meeting, yielding, and combining in between each breath. 

My hands are everywhere, his shoulders, his back, his hips, and his ass as he moves in a deliberately slow and steady pattern where he alternates grinding his hips into me and thrusting deeply. 

I can’t fight the noises that escape me, soft and high and desperate as I lift my hips to meet him. 

And words tumble from his mouth. Confessions, adorations, and praise that’s so earnest and sincere that it rips away any pretense I have of guarding myself against his captivatingly open heart. 

I rush headlong into the all encompassing feeling of him worshiping me with his own body. And I can’t help but respond in kind. I comb my fingers through his hair as I kiss along his neck tenderly, trailing my tongue along his skin and nibbling on his soft earlobe. The strained sounds of pleasure he makes when I do are almost as satisfying as the feeling of him filling me over and over again. 

I moan his name while I arch against him, inviting him deeper, welcoming him to touch and fill me as deeply as I can stand. 

This kicks him into overdrive and he shifts my legs forward until I’m tilted at a different angle, breaking my mouth’s contact with his neck, before he begins driving into me with abandon, my name punctuating every thrust. It's just what I need, and after only about a minute I come hard, sharp and bursting, unable to even scream his name. All I can do is squeeze him inside and out, my muscles clenching around his hard length and my hands grabbing his thighs for dear life.

 Once the euphoria begins to subside, I stutter out his name and he licks his way into my mouth, drinking the blissful pleasure off my tongue, as if my orgasm was a shot of liquid adrenaline that energized him further. 

From the way he pulls me up, quick as lightning, into a sitting position on his lap as he moves me bodily up and down his cock, it might as well have been. He knows exactly what he’s doing. I can see it in the serious and determined look in his eyes. I can feel it in the powerful flex of his legs and hips as he pumps into me expertly. My thighs tremble and I can feel my mouth quivering as I stare at him wide-eyed and caught off guard. 

He knows me and what I like. He remembers everything apparently. He reads my expression and the signs my body gives off as easily as a child reading from their favorite book that they have lovingly memorized. 

 It takes just seconds for me to come again in this new position, and he rides out the waves with me with a joyfulness that makes me forget absolutely everything but his steadiness and his sweet tenderness underneath the power and strength he keeps humbly in check. 

It’s such a contradiction to the venom tainted lies that the Capitol force fed me. 

His hands affirm every secret pleasure that only an experienced lover could remember, and it doesn’t feel cheap or tawdry when he palms the cheeks of my ass, or when his mouth dips to suck one of my nipples in between his lips. 

It feels exquisite. 

I feel exquisite. 

I cling to him like he’s the only anchor I have in this seemingly endless sea of pleasure as he rewrites so many ideas I had of what sex between us was supposed to feel like. He holds onto me just as tightly, as if he never wants to let go. We fuse together until there’s no way to distinguish us as separate entities. My hands gripped his closely shorn hair and my breath came hard and fast against his ear as he increased his tempo, giving it his all, while our sweat slicked bodies slid against each other in a frantic push and pull that hurdled both of us towards a brilliant end. 

 “I’m close.” He says between gritted teeth, as his hands struggle to find purchase on my slippery skin. I dig my knees into the threadbare mattress and wordlessly throw myself into his pounding rhythm wholeheartedly, rising and sinking with him. 

“You feel so-” He tries to say, but shakes his head, drops of perspiration scattering as he does so. I merely nod. He doesn’t have to explain, I know what he means. 

“Please,” He whispers entreatingly against my shoulder, and it’s all I need. 

 I feel myself splinter into a thousand little pieces filled with sharp, bursting pleasure. Distantly I hear myself screaming his name. 

His hips snap against me, all instinct now as I pull him along with me, catching him up in the undertow of my climax. 

He comes with a startled cry, burying himself impossibly deep inside me. I feel every throbbing inch of him emptying hotly into me and for a single blissful moment the entire world feels good and right and clear while we fell apart together. 

We fall backwards until my back hits the bed and his considerable weight settles on me heavily. He’s uncomfortably heavy but I savor the solidness of him pressing me down into the mattress. It feels like he’s the only thing keeping me from floating away. 

I gently comb my fingers through his short hair as I try to recover. My touch seems to revive him, or remind him, and he eases some of his weight off me, by supporting himself on his elbows. 

We stayed like that for several seconds, just trying to regain our equilibrium. 

“Was it always that good?” I ask him, more out of curiosity than a real need to know. I had a feeling I already knew what the answer was. 

He’s quiet for a few beats, and when he speaks it is in a reverent tone. 

“It was for me.” He whispers, and exhales a long breath, “I think, it was good for you too. At least it always seemed that way.” He concludes before looking up into my eyes. 

I released a long held breath and nodded before returning to play with his hair. 

“I think you’re right.” I finally say before closing my eyes and letting sleep begin to claim me. I miss his reply, if he even gave one, and only frowned slightly when I felt him slip out of me, having grown too soft to remain.

Chapters: 7/? Fandom: Hunger Games Trilogy - Suzanne Collins, Hunger Games Series - All Media Types, The Hunger Games (Movies) Rating: Not Rated Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence Relationships: Katniss Everdeen/Peeta Mellark, Katniss Everdeen & Peeta Mellark Characters: Katniss, Peeta, Katniss Everdeen, Peeta Mellark, Finnick Odair, haymitch, Finnick, Haymitch Abernathy, President Coin, President Snow Additional Tags: POV, peetas pov, Peeta is the Mockingjay, highjacked Katniss, Role Switch, Role Reversal, Mockingjay, Catching Fire, Mockingjay Peeta, Peeta POV, everlark, Katniss/Peeta - Freeform, hunger games mockingjay, Hunger Games Catching Fire Summary:

“I’m going to tell you a little story, Miss Everdeen,” the voice hisses, the stench of roses wrapping around her, suffocating her. She tries to turn her head away from it, hold her breath until she passes out, but everything is so heavy now. Nothing moves. Nothing listens as her mind desperately pleads to stop breathing. Escape is impossible. Death too kind.

 “And after,” the voice continues in that calm, controlled tone, “we shall discuss what to do about your little tantrum in the arena.” 

The pain returns. 

Her vision brightens.

(Well, yes, that topic is still very much on my mind and I want to start writing this soon)

So... if Peeta’s and Katniss’ roles were reversed in Mockingjay and Peeta is the one who gets rescued from the arena and not Katniss, another thing I can’t stop thinking about is who is he stuck with in D13.

No matter who got saved or not from the arena, the Capitol would still taking it out on D12 to set an example and to punish the star-crossed lovers. Gale would still see the warning signs and start evacuating people. Still a lot of people would not react fast enough and therefore be left in D12, when the bombing starts. Peeta’s family would be among them and therefore be dead.

There he is, alive and somehow well, in D13. His family is gone, Katniss is in the Capitol and he is stuck with... sober Haymitch, crying Finnick and... raging Gale. Well, of course, there would be Prim, Mrs. Everdeen and Delly, but let’s focus on the male characters first.

I read the tags in on my first posts of the little series called: “Katniss and Peeta’s roles reversed in Mockingjay” and quite a few people mentioned, that they’ll like the version of hijacked! Katniss the most when she is hysterically afraid.

And I already explained, why I think, turning her just like Peeta more violent, would make little to no sense for the Capitol, actually playing into Coin’s hands.

Well, I honestly must say the focus of the people commenting was clearing on the time after Katniss would be rescued from the Capitol, but in Mockingjay it took a while to come up with a plan and convincing Coin to go through with this and she liked Peeta more than Katniss.

If their roles would have been reversed, I highly doubt, Coin had any plans on rescuing Katniss, who was perceived by Coin as a wildcard. Coin even tried to kill Katniss in Mockingjay, by sending Peeta to them, to turn Katniss post-mortem into martyr. Which would benefit her, because then they have the symbol of the Mockingjay without actually having to deal with Katniss’ temper. So, why would that be any different, if she was the one to be stuck in the Capitol?

I kinda figured out everything I want to say about this whole situation and now I’m adding the part, where I eleborate on why I think:

Peeta is a bad-ass motherfucker

"you’re punishing him over and over for things that are out of his control. now, i’m not saying you shouldn’t have a fully loaded weapon next to you round the clock. but i think it’s time you flipped this little scenario around in your head. if you’d been taken by the Capitol, and hijacked, and then tried to kill peeta, is this the way he would be treating you?” demands Haymitch" (mj, 229) (thanks again @thesmileykate for searching that quote)

So, Peeta is in Katniss’ position in D13. He is approached by Coin to represent the rebels and the ongoing revolution, after learning his own district was bombed to pieces and his whole family is dead. Katniss is gone. He doesn’t trust Haymitch anymore. Finnick is a crying hot mess. Gale and him will never be friends. The house is literally on fire.

Of course, his biggest concern is going to be: saving Katniss. Just like she was so desperate to save him. But he is still not the type of guy to run around with a gun and killing randoms... he is just not like Gale. He was never a hunter, since he was in the Games, he knows: “Killing is always personal.”

Like even when he is put in that position, where he has to be this brave war hero, I can’t really wrap my head around this one. Yes, he can act, but I highly doubt his moral compass would allow it. Also, he is smart enough to play Coin and Plutarch. He would convince them, that they’re going to get a better result, if they let him do this his way.