#fashion in the hunger games

[anakin-vaders]

The role of Fashion in The Hunger Games saga a brief analysis.

Ok now with the hunger games renaissance we need to discuss the role Cinna plays in the whole series, and the role of fashion in the hunger games. I read this series when I was 11-12 years old, I grew to become a very, very queer fashion designer (I work for drag queens), I didn't think I truly understood how much THG series impacted me until very recently when I saw/read the whole series again. Like yes, Suzanne Collins makes the Capitol this shallow society, putting a real effort in making their citizens be superficial only caring about their looks, looking super extravangant and absolutely disconnected from the suffering of the districts. While their looks are vibrant, large, shimmery, and totally over the top (showcasing their opulence) the way they dress on the districts (specially 12 and 13) is minimalist, modest, the colors are washed, old. Their each other's antithesis. And of course Katniss expects only that from the people of the Capitol (classic Us vs. Them), and when Cinna, whom I think is very queer coded, comes in, and treats her like a human being, she starts to let her walls down, to let herself be guided trough this horrible thing she's got to endure. In the books when Cinna and his team are pampering her, she doesn't see herself as a symbol, she never really wanted to be one, she feels really dehumanized. Her only motivation upon this point is surviving and get back to Prim on her home, she still thinks everything on the Capitol in stupid and unnecessary. It's only when Cinna puts them in this very intricate and thought out looks inspired by their district industry (coal mining) that I think Katniss starts to understand the power of fashion, the power of symbols.

And later in her interview with Caesar we have the infamous red dress that catches fire and that lefts the audience gagged (if any of y'all have been to a drag show you know how amazing a good reveal is). This moment is so important because now fashion doesn't become something merely functional, or oppressive. Fashion is empowering, this moment is Katniss getting confidence in herself, asserting herself over her circumstances thanks to Cinna, thanks to fashion. It's also very brilliant because this is also catered to the Capitol, to the viewers and consumers of the games. One of the first things Haymitch tells Katniss is to make herself desirable, and this totally makes sense, the Capitol now roots for her, relate to her, so that later she can get sponsors and SURVIVE.

On Catching Fire we have another iconic fashion moment, fire is a very present theme for Katniss. She is of course the spark for the rebellion, and when she understood it, the message not only becomes clearer, it becomes a protest against the games, against the Capitol. The way she and Peeta are almost regal their second time on the games, shows how much she's understood the power of fashion, the power of the message it can send. They look like a piece of coal refusing to cool, refusing to stop burning. And this was all Cinna's mind.

And my absolute favorite. The wedding dress, such and iconic moment and dare I say, a pivotal moment for the rebellion. In the books Katniss and Peeta are doomed to keep their fake relationship for PR reasons, so they get engaged, and make their whole wedding (bear in mind they're both 17 ish here) a reality show-esque moment for the Capitol. Even after they've won, they still have to entertain them, a winner can never rest. The districts are never winners. So when Snow decides to make his personal quest that of making Katniss miserable, thus making his All Star version of the games, knowing district 12 only has 1 female winner...oh if that isn't some evil shit. On top of that, he is the one who request she wears her wedding dress to the interview, the dress that symbolizes all she never wanted (get married, have kids, loose her agency, being controlled by the Capitol). Snow does this hopping Katniss feels ALL THAT, and Cinna being the genius designer he fucking is, turns a 180 on it and gets the wedding dress as a façade, he uses the dress as a symbol of the tragic lovers that never got to wed, the wedding the Capitol never got to see because of the games. And it works. It fucking works.

And then, the dress burns up revealing a beautiful black dress with wings, a mockingjay, she literally becomes the rebellion, she embodies the rebellion and all that comes with it. The power of fashion in the middle of an uprising, and how much it strikes the Capitol because it's said in their language. All of these moments were essential in the history because the people on the districts already knew about the injustices, about the hardships of their conditions. But the consumers didn't. And Cinna, trough Katniss made them see that, he took everything that made the Capitol shallow and gave actual meaning to it. And without of all of it, who knows if the rebellion would've gestated as fast.

TL;DR: the hunger games saga made me a fashion designer, and fashion is really important in the story, dare I say it's a really clever use of fashion and Cinna is a FUCKING genius.

[queerstudiesnatural]

funny how celebrities will raise $26M for a fashion institute but can't be bothered to mobilise even a fraction of that energy and money to help the people being tortured and killed in an unapologetic genocide as we speak. love that for society. what a moment for The Culture.

[amindindisarray]

Armani Prive Fall 2012 Couture

[bevsi]

“what fandom brought you to tumblr” genuinely none I logged in to use this site like 2010 pinterest and haven’t logged out since 

[incubationformadness]

obviously i am excited as everyone else for sunrise on the reaping but if there is a character i NEED to know the backstory of it's cinna. that man turned up, sparked a rebellion, and died.

[mariiastales]

okay but what are y’all’s predictions on what fashion in the capitol is going to be like in sotr?? already excessive and pompous like in thg or something in between tbosas and thg capitol styles

[antoine-triplett]

peeta mellark + favourite outfits

[finnickeys]

FASHION OF DISTRICT FOUR — district fashion typically is made up of layered looks during the winter, and much more loose and light things in the summer. all throughout the year, clothing tends to be colorful, reflecting the blues and greens and yellows that the district is covered in. many items are quilted or woven, regardless of season.

you’ll often see jackets, coats, vests, sweaters, lace and linen tops. pants and bottoms, aside those for sea work, tend to be light in color and weight. working pants tend to be dark and thick, to hold up under all the labor and keep sailors warm when out on the sea.

jewelry tends to be on strings and ropes tightly braided and knotted, with charms and glass beads. occasionally, they’re also adorned with metal, carefully made into iconic shapes and images. a lot of the district’s natural resources go into the jewelry such as fish bones and shells.

[alavestineneas]

Glass and mirrors

pairing: young!coriolanussnow x fem!reader summary: There is one thing the world needs to know about her: she didn't become a star overnight. She was born to be one. warnings: canon-typical violence, mentions of mental illness, narcissism, blonde men who need therapy, unhinged women, people in shitty relationships and toxic industries word count: 4.6k PART TWO IS HERE

author's note: Hello and welcome to our small community of people who have fallen victim to the charming (and evil) blonde man! This fic is heavily inspired by the edits of models that pop up on my ticktock feed every day. Shout out to them and the talented editors who bless my eyes with their creations. As for YN this time, prepare to be on quite a ride because she, surprise-surprise, is evil! In my head, there has to be at least one victor who feels no remorse at all; they can't all be morally good (and relatively sane) people. Also, the obsession with beauty in this fic is, in fact, intentional, so bear with me. Feel free to comment or insult the author in the comments, but only if you are creative with it. Enjoy and see you in part 2!

In all of her short childhood, she always loved mirrors. Her grandma used to joke about it with her old friends while they shared lunch at the factory: ''That empty-headed child wants to do nothing but stare at herself all day.'' The women would laugh, their raspy voices making the glid, already filled with toxic fumes to the brim, hotter. YN didn't mind; she would pretend not to hear them, clinging to the machinery in front of her instead. She would get out of here sooner or later, and she'd see whose laughter would be left echoing all through the narrow streets.

She wasn't born to rot in this place like these people were; YN was sure of that. Not with a face like hers, with manners she taught herself from the bright magic box in their cramped commune apartment, where a few times a year the government played the show. It was supposed to be a punishment, YN reminded herself each time, but it didn't look like one. She watched the children eat more food than she had seen in a month and then cry on the stage in front of millions. She wouldn't cry if she was there, that was for certain. People die every day here, but none of them get to dress up in the jewels provided by the wealthiest people she has ever seen.

It was funny how they had all the money in the world and still chose to dress so horribly. Mismatched fabrics and smudged colours on their faces, like the colours of the lake near her house—the factories polluted it with dyes, turning the water green, purple, and sometimes even pink. That's how she got her old grey dress to be such a pretty lavender colour. It didn't matter that everyone at school laughed at her, even Miss Kyla; she was horrendously ugly anyway, her hair resembling the colour of unwashed underwear. YN wore her dress with pride, mimicking the voice of the funny multicolour-haired man on the screen, chatting with long o's and a's.

That's how she ended up here, on the first floor of the newly renovated training centre, with a drink in her freshly manicured hand. She had two hours before her stylists would need her again—a time designated for sleep, which she apparently so greatly lacks. YN doesn't care; she went without sleep for much longer than two days. Instead, she does what she loves the most—turns on a shiny screen and watches the golden letters appear: the 15th Annual Hunger Games.

It starts with reaping, as always, but YN skips that part—she doesn't like seeing herself in those dirty rags, although, as papers would later state, ''nothing could make this girl ugly, even if a potato sack was put on her body.'' She likes interviews better. Luckily, the wait is not very long; soon enough, her favourite host pops up, his hair shimmering with sea green.

''And now, our dear viewers, I am more than pleased to announce our next tribute from District 1—please let her hear how excited we are to meet her!'' His voice booms through the theatre as the crowd erupts into applause.

YN moves gracefully, a beaming smile on her face matching that of a host. Her gloved hands wave at the supposed people in front of her as if they were guests at her birthday party. But most importantly, dress. The one she chose herself, arguing over it with her stylist for the last few hours, the one that fitted her perfectly. Capitol enough to appeal to the audience, district enough to highlight that she isn't one of them—she is something new, undiscovered, and worth keeping an eye on. It's almost not a dress at all—the sparkling, sheer fabric of beautiful white, with stars gathering at her chest and bottom to finish the ''almost naked'' look. And the crowd goes crazy for it. People shout, and the splashes of the cameras blinding her create a new melody that is so unfamiliar to YN's ears. Admiration. The thing she craved for so long.

''Alright, alright,'' Lucky Flickerman smiles, gesturing for the crowd to settle down. ''We don't want to scare her off now, do we?'' He turns to her, a microphone in hand. ''What's your name, sweetheart?''

''YN Y/L/N. And I am afraid you can't scare me off, no matter how hard you try. The thing is, I am here to stay,'' she jokes, cocking an eyebrow at the man beside her.

''Oh, how I love your confidence! Now tell me—we heard you are a volunteer—the first in the history of District 1! Are there any special ties to the girl who was supposed to stand here tonight, or what's going on?''

''Well, I was dying to see you in person, of course—no pun intended.''

Oh, there weren't any ties to the girl, or the boy, for that matter. No, YN simply wanted to go at her peak chance of winning—countless years of secret preparation in the factory; working a night shift after school and full days of weekends; hours of studying every plant and animal known to mankind—all to ensure that she wouldn't waste her chance like most kids here did.

''That's an honour coming from your lips; we are happy to see you in the Capitol, Miss Y/L/N. Since you came here by choice, what strategy are you planning on using in the arena? Maybe something tied to your district's craft?''

''If you promise to keep this between us, I'll confess—I will use my charms to make everyone fall in love with me and watch them fight by promising the winner a kiss—and then I will take it from there.'' YN turns to face the lights, staring directly into the camera for a few seconds. The crowd laughs once more, some going so far as to cheer and whistle in excitement. ''But in all honesty, I think I have a fair shot—I would win in a day if it meant the unlimited supply of those amazing cupcakes with sprinkles on top.''

''Well, in that case, you should definitely get a good rest this night—you are not the only one who got your eye on them! Ladies and gentlemen, prepare for the Cupcake Games tomorrow, and don't forget to sponsor this lovely girl right here if you want to see her win! And now, a short word from our sponsors.''

Cupcake jokes are still funny to her, even after two years, although she got sick of them a week after her victory and was just as sick of all the titles papers came up with to fit her into the candy girl box. It served her well, for which she is grateful; the sponsors did send her a shitton of things, although mostly useless.

Next is the introduction of everyone else; YN doesn't care to look at it for more than just a few seconds, speeding it up to maximum. It's boring to no end—how do Capitolees watch it every year with such excitement? She stops to look only when her face appears on the screen, covered in crimson blood.

She counted six canons when she finally stopped to take a breath in and look at her surroundings. That was about right, although YN didn't count how many times she pulled a knife out of somebody's still-warm body and lurched into another nearby. The sand soaked up the blood fast, she noticed, stepping over the pile of what used to be her competitors and walking towards the cone-shaped something. Nobody in sight—each one of the ''better'' kids is now dead without a chance to kill each other, to kill her, and ''others'' will die like flies under the hot sun of what looked like a desert. YN noticed that some even left behind the given jackets; she collected them before stepping into the Cornucopia, claiming them as her own. Not everyone grew up in hot factories, she thought to herself, so they have no chance of knowing how cold it gets at night.

YN doesn't like how the uniform looks on her; the T-shirt hangs around her frame too loosely. It's evident that she didn't eat enough back then, but it was tolerable. The dried blood looked worse; with her stoic face and eye colour, the streams looked too grotesque, almost unserious; it didn't fit the look she was going for. Her hands itch to wipe it before YN remembers that it's non-existent now—the girl on the screen is just a recording. She forwards a little more, looking for the commentary of the first night from the hosts—their excitement and praise never get old—but hears knocking at her door just as she is about to press play. YN glances at the clock—it's too early for the prep team, so it must be someone else—and turns off the TV just to be sure she heard it right.

When the knocking continues, she shouts a quick ''Come in,'' after checking her reflection on the now dark screen. ''Ah, Maggie!''

''How many times do I have to repeat that my name is Mags, not Maggie? Not Mags with fangs either, to be clear. Just Mags.''

''But everyone calls you that! And I want to be special,'' YN whines, laying back on the sofa.

It's Mags. YN likes Mags. Mags is the only girl besides her on the victors' list. Mags is the one who is always down to eat lunch together or to watch the new collection in the magazines. She is funny and down to earth, and, most importantly, Mags doesn't take bullshit from anyone.

''Even more special?'' Mags smiles, opening the fridge to look for something edible. There isn't much; they both know that YN would never eat something to ruin her figure. ''I saw your photoshoot on the street today. It's beautiful.''

''Thank you,'' YN smiles. She doesn't remember which one of her campaigns was supposed to air today, but it doesn't matter. ''Are you here for the promo again?''

The curly-haired woman nods, not looking up from the shelves. ''I hate it. I wish they would just leave me alone, so I can go home and forget about all of this.''

YN is always weirded out by such comments from Victor from 4 but never says anything. Not everyone was born to be in front of the camera; if that were the case, her talent wouldn't be so special anymore. ''It's our job, Maggie. They'll never leave us alone.''

''I know.'' Mags sighed, planting her body on the sofa beside her.

They are different, but YN thinks it's better that way. They are the same age, both 20, and that's about the only thing that ties them together. YN watches as her friend's chest rises and falls as she stares at the ceiling, her long, curly hair in some type of twist. YN would never style it like that, but Mags doesn't ask, so she stares at her in silence, trying her hardest not to compare them. She knows what type of conclusion will sparkle in her brain, but she doesn't want to admit it. Mags is her friend, her only good friend, so something inside YN fights hard to leave her alone. It's an unusual feeling, almost foreign, but YN wants to make an exception. She thinks Maggie deserves it.

''Are you okay?'' the woman asks her, finally snapping out of her trance. ''You are less talkative than usual.''

''Oh, yeah—just a little tired from work, that's it.''

Work. It's not the type of work people can really get tired from, and if anybody thinks otherwise, they never worked a day in District 1. Sometimes, YN can still feel the burning cloud of steam hitting her face when she closes her eyes. The work she does in Capitol is child's play—photoshoots, interviews, promotional campaigns, and runways. She is the only one with this kind of hectic schedule, the only one who is interesting enough for the general public to want to see her everywhere they go. Multiple shows a day wasn't uncommon; photoshoots until five a.m. were basically her usual routine; she did so many of them that she never remembered the brand name for more than an hour.

''Well, I hope I don't interrupt your me-time,'' Mags notes. ''Panem knows you need it. ''

''You worry too much about me. Better tell me about how life is in 4—anything new?''

There is probably nothing exciting, but it feels nice to listen to somebody talk with such love for their home as Mags does. It's also a great opportunity. YN catches every subtle expression and every movement of her friend with attentive eyes, making sure to parrot them later. She noticed from the recording today that her speech misses a certain effortlessness.

-

Curl and twist, curl and twist—YN has learned the pattern by now, sitting in front of the gigantic mirror, surrounded by a team of stylists. Hair, make-up, nails, and toes—five people work hand in hand for her to appear for two minutes on the long podium. The backstage is loud, and a lot is going on—last-minute changes, alterations, and quick touch-ups. YN doesn't bother to look around; she closes today like a face of the collection, and after she is done with this podium, the day is finally coming to an end.

''Oh, YN, darling, here you are!'' The bald man in his forties appears on the horizon of her peripheral vision, clasping his unnaturally white hands together. ''How are you doing, my little star? Anything you need?''

She is irritated to no end; her team booked seven shows for her today; she hadn't had anything to eat in the past six hours; and the loud music makes her head throb. But she doesn't voice any of that—nobody really wants to know how she is feeling.

Just like she guessed, the man doesn't wait for her response. ''There have been some changes in the order today, sweetheart. Jenovia will be closing today, and you will walk in her dress instead,'' the man says, turning to face her styling team. ''Change the hair to fit, and take off the blue in her make-up—it won't match. Good luck!''

''Do what he says,'' YN announces, her mouth twitching just a little. She is furious. To have that blonde bitch Jenovia walk in the best dress of the collection YN inspired? Over her dead body. Or, should she say, over Jenovia's? She will figure it out but do so later. Now there are only four girls before her, so she needs to be ready.

''Three, two, one! Go, go!'' the stage coordinator shouts, opening the curtain for her.

Right and left, hip and hand, followed by the strong clicking of her five-inch heels. The music is even louder here, with the beets vibrating through the runway and pouring into her bloodstream. She doesn't pay any attention to the glass floor underneath her. Surprisingly, her training before games helped her model more than one could guess. YN doesn't see anyone but the blinding lights lining the podium—not that she needs to see the hungry faces of the spectators. It doesn't matter what piece of fabric covers her body; they are looking at who wears it. Final pose at the centre—no smile is her go-to. Hold and turn is the golden rule.

''Here you are!'' One of the seamstresses grabs her hand, pulling her into a small, curtained space with countless clothes on racks. ''Calio wants you to hold a purse for the backstage photo and lose the belt. Where the fuck is the golden belt?'' she shouts, searching for one. ''Wait here; I'll go find it,'' she finally announces, running away before YN has the chance to suggest anything.

YN looks around, carefully moving the laying rags with her foot. She mentally goes over the outfits labelled with names, rating them one by one, until her eyes stop on the white dress. The closing dress, the one she was supposed to model. Underneath it are velvety black high boots.

The idea comes to her mind quickly: she steals a needle from the nearby table and carefully places it inside the shoes, making sure it looks like an accident.

''Finally,'' the woman returns with a belt in her hands, oblivious to YN's half-smile. ''Put it on and go; they are already waiting.''

''Of course, thanks.''

YN isn't sure how much time has passed before she hears a scream, standing up from her place in the corner with a blanket around her exposed shoulders. Surely enough, Jenovia is on the floor, crying crocodile tears—a needle inside her heel deep enough to make a few of the girls around her gag.

''What the fuck happened?'' It's Calio, the boss here; he was ordering her around before.

''I don't know,'' all the blonde girl can manage before bursting into tears one more time.

''Well, can you walk?'' he asks, kneeling to take a look.

''No,'' Jenovia whispers, her hand holding her bloodied foot.

The bald man sighed, more annoyed than concerned. ''We need a replacement. You,'' he points at YN. ''Take it off and change into the dress. Quick!''

YN does what she is told in no time; she doesn't want to wait until Jenovia suddenly gets better or the man finds a better-suited girl to close. After a few minutes, she is almost ready; she only needs the lipstick to finish it off.

''We don't have time!'' the man roars, dragging her to the exit. ''Here!'' He puffs out her hair and adjusts the layers of fake pearls covering her neck. ''Three, two, one! Go, fucking go!''

And go she does. A few steps on the runway, and she discovers that lipstick is still in her hands. YN puts it in the pocket of the enormously large black coat that hides the gorgeous white dress underneath. Step after step, her long black boots draw patterns on the glass. She will have no choice but to buy them; YN doesn't care if it's stupid. They helped her, so she will have them.

It's time for the final pose: YN takes out the lipstick from her pocket and applies it with two swift motions, blowing a kiss to the camera. It will definitely be a hit with the photographers. YN throws one last look before turning around and returning to the curtained exit. On her way back, when the lights lower to follow her back, she can see a little clearer. In the sea of vibrant hair colours and clothes, the platinum-blonde hair and a simple black suit stood out too much not to notice. There is only one person who could afford to look so simple—YN knows it. An opportunity of a lifetime.

She makes another stop in the middle of the podium, right in front of his seat. The coat slides off her shoulders effortlessly, and YN catches it just when the fabric is about to hit the floor. The crowd goes crazy, clapping and whistling at her tricks, but YN has no wish to entertain them any further. YN pauses for a moment, her eyes meeting icy-blue ones, before turning away and finishing the show. There is one thing the world needs to know about her: she didn't become a star overnight. She was born to be one.

-

Since the last show, she has done fifteen more—day after day, opening and closing. Her little trick got her where she wanted to be, with more money than one person could need in a lifetime and nowhere to spend it. Even now, standing in the long hallway of the training centre, she wears nothing she bought herself; all are gifted, sent, or handed by the adoring fans. Like a rag doll, with no say in how she looks or what she does, YN hears everyone say that it was ''a price of fame''. She doesn't think so; she was told what to do long before she tasted real butter on her toast.

The sliding door to her apartment moves almost without noise. While most victors complain that the lock system reminds them of prison, YN is grateful to have it. The thought of some crazy fanatic waiting for her in the dark isn't the most pleasant one. The designer bag finds its place on the floor, soon joined by the coat—room service will clean it up later. The heels slide off her feet quickly, leaving bloodied marks on her skin, but YN doesn't care enough to do something about them.

''Forgive me for joining you without an invitation.''

YN turns around, her hands grabbing the keys in her hands tighter. She mentally goes over her means of escape or fight—a mirror could easily be broken and used as a weapon; if necessary, she could also grab a nearby ottoman. The man in the chair doesn't look too impressed with her thought process. His lips curve into a smile, blue eyes staring at her with undivided attention. A suit, not very different from the one he wore at her show, was a deep brown colour.

''Mister President,'' YN breathes out, lowering her hand.

Coriolanus Snow. Light, almost white hair frames his face like a halo, with his suit hugging his waist just enough to highlight the broad shoulders. YN saw him on TV a couple of times, but seeing him in person was something entirely different. It's like the air shifts around him and changes with his presence.

''I believe we met before,'' he humours her, his eyes shining with mischief.

The light knocking on the door doesn't leave YN any time to answer. She presses a button near it, fixing her hair before opening it. YN tries to look as composed as possible without betraying her nerves—why was he here? ''Yes?''

''The dinner, Ma'am.'' the room service declares, pushing a cart in front of her.

YN nods, even though she didn't order one. ''Leave it here,'' she says, gesturing to the place nearby. When the door closes and she is alone with the man in her room again, her heart skips a beat.

''I took the liberty of ordering; I hope you don't mind.''

Even if she did, she knew better than to say anything. Instead, YN watched as the man stood up and took the dishes from the cart, placing them on the coffee table, before turning to her once more.

''Please, have a seat.''

She does what she is told, sitting down on her king-sized bed—the chair is already taken by him—and waits for the blonde man to start speaking. He doesn't right away, choosing to pour a glass of wine for her and himself.

YN watches the dark liquor pour into the glass, swirling with each drop. She isn't hungry—she rarely was—and the soup he ordered looks more like vomit than a dish, but she still takes the spoon and carefully places it into her mouth. Her lipstick stains the silverware with colour, leaving a small circle right at the end—that's when the man finally decides to speak.

''Dare I say I am a huge fan of your work ethic? Everyone who I've spoken to is very satisfied with your,'' he pauses, searching for the fitting word, ''dedication .''

''Thank you, Mister President,'' YN replies with a polite smile before returning to her soup. She watches him only from the corner of her eye. The way he cuts his steak with his ringed fingers and the way he places a small bite in his mouth before his lips close. There is a subtle roughness in his movements, a power play of some sort.

He catches her gaze and, for a moment, is silent. ''You probably wonder why I am here in the first place, outside of the amazing steak they cook here, of course. The thing is, Miss Y/L/N, that you are popular not only with the general public but with people higher in power as well. One may even say they fell in love with the way you present yourself.''

''I am pleased to know that, Mr. President, but I am only doing my job as a victor.''

''Then you will understand the weight of my dilemma. Those people who have served Panem all their lives faithfully usually don't ask for much recognition; they work because they want to build a better future for all of us. So, when they do ask for a small favour or two, I am more than happy to satisfy them. But recently, all they ask for is you .''

''I believe I don't quite understand. They want to meet me?''

''You can phrase it like that, yes. For a night or two, of course, with all expenses covered.''

It's heavy, the understanding of what Mister President really implies. The thought of someone's hand roaming her body brings her dinner up YN's throat. ''Why?'' Her voice is shakier than she would like, but she is more focused on composing the rising anger than noticing it.

''I am sorry, Miss Y/L/N, but I am afraid there is nothing I can do; I am greatly outnumbered. Unless,'' he starts but doesn't finish his sentence.

''Unless what?''

''Unless you are seen with me.''

His piercing blue eyes look at her, but there is nothing in them. Her chances are limited, and he knows it. There is something rogue in him beneath the veil of chivalry he offers. YN smiles at him. That's what this whole charade was about—he wants her. Coriolanus Snow, the most powerful man in the whole world, wants her.

''Of course, Mr. President. That's very generous of you.''

''Mister President is too official, don't you think, Miss Y/L/N? Perhaps we could find a more informal way of addressing each other?''

''Informal?'' YN asks, tilting her head to the side. If he wants her, he'll get her. ''What about Mister Snow?'' The buttons on her shirt are easy to manage—a few quick motions, and it slides off her shoulders onto the cream cover. ''Or, Sir Coriolanus?'' The pants are a little trickier, but YN learned that backstage, every second counts, so they soon also pool around her heels, the fabric hitting the floor with a slight thud.

The blonde man watches her intently, his eyes following every move of her hands. His legs are still spread wide on the lime-green chair as he slightly leans back. YN can't tell if he is enjoying her antics or not, but frankly, she doesn't care; she is enjoying it.  The way her shadow dances on the wall, the way the air shifts in the huge room, transforming it into a tiny stage. YN looks at him with mischief, with superiority, even. After all, she is the show here. Why not let Mr. Savior think it is for him?

''Come, Mister Snow,'' she says, throwing it in his face like a bone to the dog.

He doesn't have the haste to join her; on the contrary, he stands up painfully slowly. His tall figure almost seems to stretch as he raises, covering the floor lamp behind him fully. When he finally circles the table to stand above her, his presence is overwhelming. YN lets him stand between her legs, his unusually cold hand on her thigh.

''I prefer Coriolanus,'' he whispers in her ear, lowering himself enough to touch her ear with his velvety lips. He pulls away slightly, planting a kiss on her cheek instead. ''Have a most pleasant night, Miss Y/L/N.''

And then he walks away. YN watches as his figure disappears behind the sliding door before she lets out a breath she didn't realize she was holding. Her gaze instinctively finds her reflection in the nearby mirror; there is no reason to shine if no one watches her.

[ozzieinspacetime]

Yet again I'm thinking about the eradication of culture within the THG universe,, I have very complex opinions on culture wars within Panem and if they would exist at all in certain cases but like. Do you think they still speak Spanish in Ten? Do you think trans people can still change their names and wear what they please as long as they meet their daily quotas? Do families with religious ancestors remember to observe their holy days, even if it's in private, or was the eradication of religion in Panem so concrete that they don't remember anything at all? Much to think about

[eyelinerandmcr]

🦇 OPHELIA'S INTRODUCTION POST

ophelia | she/her | scenmo | scorpio (even tho im not really big on astrology i still think its fun) | bisexual | greek orthodox christian and i support all religions!! | always open to meet new moots! | feel free to ask me anything at all as long as its not creepy |

→ MY INTERESTS: music i like: my chemical romance (my fave!!), pierce the veil (my second fave!!), mazzy star, all time low, amy winehouse, black veil brides, system of a down, ayesha erotica, evanescence, bring me the horizon, chappell roan, solya, escape the fate, avril lavigne, taking back sunday, gerard way, hole, (old) panic! at the disco, misfits, sleeping with sirens, the cure, fall out boy, & more!

youtubers i watch: chad chad, stephanie lange, salem tovar, danny gonzalez, film cooper, drew gooden, not even emily, sarah chio, nailea devora, ally purugganan, jarvis johnson, erika diane, kurtis conner, verilybitchie (even tho i disagree w/ some of their opinions), d'angelo (also disagree w/ some of their opinions), benoftheweek, annemarie forcino, occasionally johnnie guilbert

books i love: !!literally anything by leigh bardugo shes my fave!!, the hunger games series including the ballad of songbrids and snakes, the house in the cerulean sea, the red queen series, the outsiders the book thief, loveless, a tree grows in brooklyn, hell followed with us, the scythe series, darius the great is not okay, a wrinkle in time, the woman in me by britney spears, i am the cheese, hole, twilight, the bell jar, that was then this is now, station eleven. always open to recs! <3

hobbies: writing, drawing, doing my makeup, thrifting, reading (especially fantasy), going on walks, baking, singing, collecting perfumes, listening to music, analyzing poetry and lyrics, teaching myself guitar, painting my nails, debating about pretty much anything as long as it stays respectful, journaling, sewing and altering clothes, making collages, swimming, playing the piano, watching long video essays on youtube (especially ones about anything related to music), talking to my friends irl or online, talking about music but especially mcr!!

people i'll write fics about (requests are currently open): gerard way, frank iero, mikey way, pretty much any character/person in the mcr fandom, vic fuentes, tony perry, but honestly feel free to request anyone! (speaking of fic writing: i wont write non-con or age play or illegal age gaps or anything along the lines of that; i won't write smut about an underage person; please do not plagiarize my work my writing is one of my favorite things and i work really hard on it) Fanfiction Masterlist

⋆⋆⋆⋆⋆⋆⋆⋆⋆⋆⋆⋆⋆⋆⋆⋆⋆⋆⋆⋆⋆⋆⋆⋆⋆⋆⋆⋆⋆⋆⋆⋆ → DNI: - if you are anti palestine (this does NOT mean anti hamas! i don't support hamas! i mean if you believe that the people of palestine do not deserve to be free and live on their own land) - if you are racist, sexist, homophobic, transphobic, or discriminatory towards any group of people - if youre over like thirty or something but honestly idc just dont be weird ⋆⋆⋆⋆⋆⋆⋆⋆⋆⋆⋆⋆⋆⋆⋆⋆⋆⋆⋆⋆⋆⋆⋆⋆⋆⋆⋆⋆⋆⋆⋆⋆ → OTHER PLATFORMS: a03: lanaslollipop wattpad: lanaslollipop (literally have not uploaded/edited anything on this account for so long except a few random convo posts) (those were both from when i had an intense lana del rey phase and i feel like theyre too sentimental to change)

→ xoxo, ophelia! <3

[kitdelune]

the costumes poll won. Here’s the sketch idea for District 1 with Courtney and Tommy!

Trying to contemplate whether to make a cleaner piece :P

[thefabledfrog]

The capitol:

Also the capitol:

[sea-owl]

Another person I fully believe would have slayed at the Met Gala, Mama Effie Trinket.

Not only would she be one of the best dressed, but if her team was with her, she would make sure they would be on theme in their own personal styles. She's not gonna have her husband and kids being labeled as badly dressed, not on her watch.

[the-fatal-impact]

When he's evil, but he's also wearing a skirt, so he's Babygirl💖💖💖✨✨✨

[moon-mirage]

Could you please draw everlark with their babies 🥺 thank you ❤️❤️❤️

Hi anon! I know you asked for the whole family but I was a bit pressed for time, so I focused on the Everlark babies.

Nevertheless, I hope you liked how it turned out. Thank you for the prompt!