#intimate theater

[ancuniadecario]

Thoughts on Robert Eggers' "The Lighthouse"

"The Lighthouse" is a story of two men tending a lighthouse in the middle of nowhere and their dreading descent into madness, as a raging storm arrives, keeping them from returning home.

As their supplies get destroyed and depleted and with the water contaminated, they stick to drinking liquor, their mental and physical health deteriorating more and more by the day.

The almost square screen ratio amplifies the claustrophobic atmosphere the viewer experiences by watching them, living together in a cramped room. Combined with a monochrome color palette and dark imagery, it creates an atmosphere of constant dread, foreshadowing impending doom.

Mainly inspired by a true story and ancient mythology, it's a movie about dominance and rebellion, lies and betrayal, about fighting against primal urges by desperately clinging to the last dying bits of sanity, but also carrying a lesson: That pursuing and gaining enlightenment usually comes with a terrible price.

I'm not sure whether I like that message, but in the movie's context, this makes perfect sense.

Pattinson's and Defoe's brilliant performances paint an unsettling, at times even grotesque portrait of two men and their progressively volatile relationship in the face of isolation.

I'm writing this after my first re-watch, because like "Nosferatu", it's full of hidden details one cannot understand on their first watch. Since I really love Robert Eggers and his movies, this was no problem for me, at all. <3

If you really like deep, dark stories and respectful adaptations, garnished with a lot of research and occult symbolism, Robert Eggers is the guy for you and I highly recommend watching his movies.

To me, Robert Eggers is a genius, finding just the perfect amount of make-believe, neither validating, nor denying it's existence in the context of his movies. He keeps you wondering about whether what you see is real or just imagination - but would finding out the truth even matter?

By the way, "The Lighthouse" uses hardly, if any cgi, and cost only about 11mio dollar.

[lenbryant]

I saw this play in previews and HIGHLY recommend catching it if you can. Religious conservatives have a drinking party....Finally, a bit of press about "Heroes of the Fourth Turning" from the Los Angeles Times. Not a review yet, just a profile of the playwright, Will Arbery.

(Times) Did this Will Arbery play about young religious conservatives predict Jan. 6? By Charles McNulty, Theater Critic Aug. 22, 2023

“Heroes of the Fourth Turning,” Will Arbery’s critically heralded drama that was a Pulitzer Prize finalist in 2020, does something rare in the American theater. It turns the stage over to young religious conservatives, whose ideologies and articles of faith are presented without apology or indictment.

When the work premiered at Playwrights Horizons in 2019, audiences and critics seemed grateful for the opportunity to eavesdrop on the reunion of four friends who have gathered to celebrate the inauguration of a new president of Transfiguration College, a conservative Catholic institution in Wyoming that has shaped who they are today. In the still early days of Donald Trump’s divisive presidency, when party lines are hardening and public dialogue is coarsening, these late-night stragglers hash out around a fire pit their shifting political and religious priorities.

So much of conservative discourse these days seems bent on “owning the libs.” “Heroes” invites liberal theatergoers to listen to the other side reflect on the polarized historical moment when supposedly out of the enemy‘s earshot. The characters hardly form a monolith. They vary in disposition as well as ideological conviction, but all would be considered hardliners. Arbery denies progressive audiences a surrogate and then compounds that challenge by asking them to witness the vexing complexity of the characters as they bare their troubled souls.

Re-encountering the play at the Matrix Theatre, where Rogue Machine is presenting the Southern California premiere, I am struck by how prophetic it seems. Set in Western Wyoming on Aug. 19, 2017, one week after the Charlottesville riot and two days before the solar eclipse that became known as “the Great American Eclipse,” “Heroes” predates the Jan. 6 insurrection and the Supreme Court’s overturning of Roe vs. Wade yet now seems to anticipate both of these watershed events.

Sitting in a studio upstairs at the Matrix Theatre when rehearsals were still underway, Arbery said that the decision to situate the play at a precise point in time freed him from making revisions that might be seen as a “a bid for relevance.” His mission was to focus on the “human and spiritual journey” of his characters while being as accurate as he could to the terms of their debate.

“When the play was first going up and we were doing auditions in the spring of 2019, I hadn’t actually locked down a specific time for when the play was taking place yet,” he said. “I was going back and forth, wondering if I should change things based on current events, because so much history was happening so rapidly every day. And then I remembered that solar eclipse that was in August 2017, right after the Charlottesville riot. And it just felt like this moment when the whole country was looking at the same beautiful, terrifying thing.”

One topic the characters keep returning to is the imminent battle between the secular left and the religious right for the soul of Western civilization. The militancy of this rhetoric might seem to foreshadow the violent eruption of Jan. 6, but Arbery denies he had this in sights.

“The reason that I have all that language in my play about the coming war is because this was an issue that Steve Bannon talked about a lot and people on the right were obsessed with,” he said. “I remember looking at Jan. 6 news footage and being like, ‘Is this what they were talking about?’ But there’s no way in which I felt like I was writing this play in order to predict events. I was mostly just reflecting back what I was hearing.”

Austere in form, “Heroes,” steeps us in the heated conversation of its characters as they reveal how they’ve changed since leaving the security of Transfiguration. The positions they espouse (anti-choice, anti-LGBTQ+, anti-anti-racism) will be alienating for theatergoers accustomed to seeing their values mirrored back to them. But Arbery makes it difficult to dismiss their humanity even when they seem to be dismissing our own.

This is a difficult play yet a necessary one in an America that is either unwilling or incapable of binding its own fractures. If we can’t listen to one another, we certainly won’t be able to reach anyone. “Heroes” starts from this premise.

Rogue Machine’s production, astutely directed by Guillermo Cienfuegos, grounds the play in an enriching character-based realism. At Playwrights Horizons, “Heroes” (directed by Danya Taymor) seemed as enticingly abstract as a musical work, a symphony of provocative arias building to a desperate Rachmaninoff climax. At the Matrix, the excellent cast inhabits the silences of the play as adeptly as they slip into the boisterous arguments. The multifaceted nature of the drama requires more than one encounter to appreciate.

Theater critic turned TV producer (“Veep,” “Succession”) Frank Rich saw “Heroes” in New York and recommended the play to Jesse Armstrong, the creator of “Succession.” Armstrong liked what he saw and offered Arbery a consulting role on the HBO series.

“There’s some political stuff in Season 3 that I helped with, along with giving some notes on scripts,” Arbery said. “And then [Armstrong] asked me back for Season 4 as a full writer, which was great because the last thing that I wanted was to be seen as some sort of conservative whisperer. I feel I have more to write in that space, but to be asked on as a full writer and to write an episode that doesn’t have anything to do with politics was such an honor.”

The irony of “Heroes” launching Arbery’s profile is that he said the play isn’t characteristic of his work. He described his style as “unconventional,” even a little “weird,” and called “Plano,” the “freewheeling and surreal” play that came out a year before “Heroes,” his favorite of his works.

Arbery was raised in Texas in a conservative Catholic home. His parents are academics who now teach at a conservative Catholic college not unlike Transfiguration. He has seven sisters, no brothers. Arbery broke tradition by not attending a Catholic university. Instead, he went to Kenyon College and then received an M.F.A. in writing for the stage and screen from Northwestern University.

After grad school, he returned to New York, where he lived after Kenyon, and settled in Brooklyn. Inspired by such playwrights as Young Jean Lee, Richard Maxwell and Erin Courtney, he became part of the downtown theater scene. He named Maria Irene Fornés and Caryl Churchill as crucial influences and expressed an early affinity for Tom Stoppard that is clearly evident in his proclivity for cascading monologues.

“Heroes” had me imagining what a modern-day hybrid of Anton Chekhov and George Bernard Shaw might be like in a dramatic package that observes the same unity of time and place as “Who’s Afraid of Virginia Woolf?” Arbery said that while he loves Chekhov, he wasn’t aware of the metaphoric connection between the mysterious sound of a string breaking in “The Cherry Orchard” and the frightening noise that interrupts the backyard gathering in “Heroes” until someone asked him about it in New York.

The success of the play has catapulted him into a different life. He relocated with his girlfriend to Los Angeles and has screenwriting projects on deck. Inspiration has been riding high. He had two new plays produced in New York last year: “Corsicana” at Playwrights Horizons and “Evanston Salt Costs Climbing” in a New Group production at Pershing Square Signature Center. And he’s working on a libretto for an opera for The Met, an adaptation of Dostoevsky’s “Demons” with composer Matthew Aucoin.

As the WGA strike stretches on and the American theater spirals from one crisis to another, Arbery has been developing a new screenplay he hopes to direct himself. But as fortune would have it, just as he was settling into his new home in Mt. Washington, Rogue Machine announced that they were doing his play.

Arbery is grateful to have been brought into the fold of one of the city’s most adventurous small theater companies. He didn’t want to speculate on why the larger theaters in the area weren’t vying to produce perhaps the most talked about drama since Jeremy O. Harris’ “Slave Play.” (Artistic timidity, I suggested.)

Harris, a friend and champion of Arbery’s, was behind an online presentation of “Heroes,” and it’s easy to see what impelled him to take a producing interest. “Heroes” excavates a stratum of white America with the same incisive probing that “Slave Play” brought to its investigation of our country’s interracial foundation.

“I remember Jeremy calling and telling me about ‘Slave Play’ and me telling him about ‘Heroes,’ so maybe there was a sort of energetic transfer between the two of us when we were writing these plays,” Arbery said. “Jeremy makes me feel braver. He always zeroes in on the bravest thing that my work is doing and pushes me a little bit further in that direction.”

Arbery was reluctant to talk about his own political and religious beliefs for the simple reason that he’d prefer an audience to see the play without preconceived notions about the author. It’s safe to say that he has trailed away from his strict conservative upbringing, but he was happy to report that “Heroes” has brought him closer to his family, where ideas of the kind debated in the play were rigorously dissected at the dinner table.

“In terms of my relationship with my parents, the play just allowed us to talk more openly about things, he said. “I think it was surprising and also satisfying to them to realize that I’ve been listening so closely and that I was invested in trying to get it right even if there were some artistic choices that maybe they didn’t agree with.”

Like one of the characters in “Heroes,” Arbery couldn’t resist baring his own soul: “Because I chose not to go to a classical Catholic school as all my sisters did, I was the one who got out. I think for a long time they were worried that I was floating aimlessly in the world. And then I circled back around with this play and they saw that I was really doing something out there.”

Digging into his own life has yielded creative dividends. “Writing with more honesty and specificity and courage about where it was that I came from, and just sort of owning that and not being ashamed of it, led me on a whole new path as an artist,” he said. “Rather than trying to be cool, clever or experimental, I just wanted to write truthfully. It became the only thing I was interested in, even though it was scary.”

Arbery said both “Plano” and “Heroes” were born out of this new commitment. His recent play “Corsicana,” perhaps his most daringly personal work, was inspired by his older sister Julia, who has Down syndrome.

“Now, it’s like I’ve created a new standard for myself,” he said. “Even if I’m not writing about my family, I want to feel like there’s something terrifying and impossible at the center of it. Otherwise, it’s not worth doing.”

'Heroes of the Fourth Turning' Where: Rogue Machine at the Matrix Theatre, 7657 Melrose Ave, L.A. When: 8 p.m. Fridays, Saturdays, Mondays, 3 p.m. Sundays. (Check for exceptions.) Ends Oct. 2 Tickets: $45 Contact: 855-585-5185 or www.roguemachinetheatre.org Running time: 2 hours, 5 minutes, with no intermission

Photo Credits: Playwright Will Arbery, whose play “Heroes of the Fourth Turning,” a Pulitzer Prize finalist, is having its Southern California premiere courtesy of Rogue Machine Theatre at the Matrix. (Dania Maxwell / Los Angeles Times)

A headshot of a man wearing glasses. Playwright Will Arbery, whose play “Heroes of the Fourth Turning,” a Pulitzer Prize finalist, is having its Southern California premiere courtesy of Rogue Machine Theatre at the Matrix. (Dania Maxwell / Los Angeles Times)

Rogue Machine's production of "Heroes of the Fourth Turning" Rogue Machine’s production of “Heroes of the Fourth Turning” — Stephen Tyler Howell, Evangeline Edwards, Emily James, Roxanne Hart. (John Perrin Flynn)

Rogue Machine's production of "Heroes of the Fourth Turning"  Rogue Machine’s production of “Heroes of the Fourth Turning” — Emily James, Samuel Garnett, Stephen Tyler Howell. (John Perrin Flynn)

Rogue Machine's production of "Heroes of the Fourth Turning" Rogue Machine’s production of “Heroes of the Fourth Turning” — Evangeline Edwards and Roxanne Hart. (John Perrin Flynn

Rogue Machine's production of "Heroes of the Fourth Turning" Rogue Machine’s production of “Heroes of the Fourth Turning” — Emily James, Stephen Tyler Howell, Roxanne Hart, Evangeline Edwards, Samuel Garnett. (John Perrin Flynn)

#refrigeratormagnet

[rhettmcsimp]

[asthedeathoflight]

I have a disease that makes me think the Theatre Des Vampires' plays were actually a serve and a great work of performance art

[snzyspencer]

There’s something so erotic about the idea of a couple (one or both have the kink) attending the screening of an unpopular movie just to have the whole theater to sneeze in. They’ve brought different things to induce with, and though they only purchased two tickets they know that all the seats belong to them.

Shall they sit close to the screen where they can watch their partner hitch with every tickle, or will the back of the theater cloak them in darkness, giving them the strange pleasure of only being able to hear and feel their partners wet sneezes? They’ll have nearly two hours to try everything out.

[alexturner2005]

last night me and a whole like seven rows of people saw tamino 😭

[do-you-know-this-play]

[ninashiki]

musical theater......actually....good......

[redladydeath]

you ever watch a youtube man try to analyze a musical and just realize… oh honey, you don’t actually understand this medium, do you?

[seveneyesoup]

it’s also fun how many times he gets really super duper close to referring to things as vulgar, in the gallifreyan sense

[monologue-city]

Desperate Housewives

2 person scene

Adult | Dramatic | 2-3 minutes | A restaurant owner talks with her employee (with whom she's been flirting) while closing

Lynette bids farewell to the last customers of the night

Lynette: Thanks, come again. Hey, I made you an espresso.

Rick: Great.

Lynette: You okay? You've been so quiet all night.

Rick: I had lunch with Tom today.

Lynette: That's funny, he didn't mention it.

Rick: He asked me if I was sleeping with you.

Lynette: What? I am so sorry. Oh my God, I'm so sorry. That paranoid idiot... You know, I knew it. I knew when we were watching the surveillance tapes that he would completely misinterpret it.

Rick: Did he?

Lynette: Did he what?

Rick: Did he misinterpret it? Or did he just see what is obvious that you and I can't admit?

Lynette: I don't know what you're talking about. There's nothing to admit.

Rick: Lynette how long are we going to kid ourselves? I have feelings for you. I know you feel something for me.

Lynette: Stop. Don't say it. You cannot say these things.

Rick: Well, we both know it's true. We've been flirting since we met.

Lynette: Yes, flirting that's it. It's what married people do because there's a line you don't cross. And maybe I've gotten close to that line, and maybe I've enjoyed getting close to that line. But I have never once crossed it.

Rick: Look, I know I don't have much to offer-

Lynette: And I have nothing to offer. I am taken.

Lynette throws a dish on the ground out of frustration

Rick: Great, great. Now what, you're mad at me?

Lynette: Yeah I'm mad. I am mad because I loved our nights together. It made me feel sexy and happy, and God how I needed that. And now it's over. You ruined it.

(beat)

You can't work here anymore.

Rick: You're going to fire me.

Lynette: Oh geez, what choice do I have?

Rick: Lynette. Lynette, please.

Lynette: Don't touch me. You have to go. Now. Please go. You have to go now. Go on. Go.

Lynette exits

[xeniums]

he was very thirsty as wade and I would say

Not enough people are talking about the fact that Logan gets so turned on by Wade pointing a gun at his head that he immediately downs that bottle to show off his throat goat skills

[iniquitousyearning]

Mattheo Riddle. | We Are Done

Info: Mattheo calls things off during a nasty fight where you were only expressing your concern for his safety, putting an end to your months-long complicated fling. When he inevitably gets hurt and finds himself in the hospital wing as a result of his recklessness, you pay him a little visit, eager to get your revenge.

Word count: 5k

Tags: 18+, SMUT, Toxic Behaviours, Sadism, Masochism, Intense Bloodplay, Restraint, Dom!Reader, Sub!Mattheo, Begging, PIV, Sexual Punishment, Praise Kink, Degradation Kink, Humiliation.

A/N: went all the way to the depths of hell for this one☠️

The journey from the bustling opulence of the Great Hall to the clinical confines of the hospital wing unfolded like a protracted soul-search, nearly forty minutes of introspection that could have singlehandedly redefined the word regret.

A seething turmoil churned within, its intensity drawn solely from the arid kindling of memories involving your ex fling, Mattheo Riddle. Despite the passing week of newfound solitude, the inner maelstrom showed no fucking signs of abating.

The recollection of your fleeting intimate moments swarmed you, a ceaseless loop that played out in the theater of your mind--like an unresolved holodrama with seemingly no fucking end.

His imprint stained every fragment of your life; in the solitude of the shower, mental echoes followed the course of water, little rivers reminding you of the ones tracing intricate paths down his sculpted physique. Within the shared space of the common room, the mental tableau featured his fingers engaging in an intimate ballet, leaving the taste of his lips lingering in your mouth as they ever-so-dominantly stifled your lusty sounds.

And somehow, that wasn't even the worst of it. Oh, not even close. It was during the nocturnal realm that the memories unfolded their cruelest chapters.

In the shroud of night, it transcended beyond the mere visual replay of his figure dominating yours, or the sensory exploration of his hands traversing the curves of your body. It wasn't just the recollection of his teeth sinking into your neck that lingered. No, the intricacies of your mind wove a far, far more nuanced tapestry.

Nighttime summoned forth the vivid recollection of the encompassing warmth emanating from his broad chest, the haven discovered within the embrace of his strong arms, and the fragrant allure of his messy hair, intertwining with the visceral memories of each intimate encounter. His burning gaze that had seared into your consciousness was more than a mere look; it was an indelible mark, haunting the very core of your thoughts with the echoes of shared passion.

These were the nocturnal specters that besieged you behind closed lids, engaging in an unwelcome dance as you wrestled with the elusive embrace of sleep. These very memories, like a relentless blacksmith, stoked the inferno within, leaving behind the most acrid, bitter residue on your tongue--a taste of anguish and betrayal.

The haunting question echoed through the corridors of your thoughts: why had he subjected you to this intimate claiming, an emotional prison woven with shared intensity, only to abruptly extinguish it with the cold finality of three, sad little words.

"We are done."

And thus, even after the amount of passing time, all it took was a single sideways glance exchanged between Pansy and Draco during their spirited debate over impending assignments to inspire the catalyst for your abrupt departure. With a forceful clatter, you slammed down your fork and pushed up from the table, commencing a determined march into the unknown.

Their speculative gazes undoubtedly trailed your abrupt exit, but you paid no heed. The entire school was privy to the fact that you and Mattheo were done, seemingly officially this time--terminated by a colossal spat prior to one of his ludicrous nighttime escapades in the forbidden forest. Mattheo's hospitalization, a testament to the recklessness that marked him and his band of fools, left him nursing scratches, cuts, bruises, and a sizable gash on his lower abdomen.

Pansy's calls faded into the periphery as you strode away, your indifference resonating louder than any response could convey. The world around you blurred into inconsequential background noise, drowned out by the burgeoning tangle of spite that commandeered your thoughts. Initially relegated to the forefront, this resentment had now metastasized, occupying every crevice of your headspace.

The recollection of his outburst haunted you, a violent reaction triggered by your attempt to dissuade him from venturing into the forbidden forest. Advising caution, you found yourself confronted with accusations of control and a stifling of his fucking freedom. Hurtful words cascaded from his lips during that argument, culminating before he recklessly endangered himself in the perilous forest. All the moments of vulnerability you shared with him, surrendering yourself without reservation, only to be met with his callousness when you were simply trying to safeguard him.

And as the embers of revenge blazed within, so did the deafening roar for closure. The need to settle the score and the yearning for resolution thrived in the wake of an emotional maelstrom.

‘We are done’ felt insufficient—it couldn't conclude there. You wouldn't fucking allow it.

Approaching the hospital wing doors, a surprising fortitude replaced any expectation of your confidence wilting under the imposing pressure. Strangely, a heightened anger welled within you, as though Mattheo Riddle were the sun, each step forward intensifying the scorching heat enveloping you. With a decisive gesture, you flung the door open, your breath held in suspense as your eyes canvassed the beds. Yet, he remained conspicuously absent, amplifying the frenetic flutter in your heart into an unrestrained whirlwind.

"Miss? May I help you with something?"

You pivoted sharply, eyes ablaze, as if embers sparked from your gaze. "Mr. Riddle. Mattheo. Where is he?"

The nurse swallowed, brows furrowed in confusion, but she cautiously gestured toward the hall, taking a step forward. "We moved him into a private room yesterday. His father requested it. Third door to the left."

Your eyes rolled involuntarily as you turned away,  a silent commentary on the absurdity before you. Suppressing the impulse to scoff required a fucking Herculean effort--of course, his father would demand a private room for him. The bloody entitlement was as predictable as Mattheo's suffocating arrogance.

As your determined march neared its end, you found yourself standing before the designated door, caught in a tumult of fear and fury. Fingers trembled, folding in waves in a futile attempt to expel the excess energy coursing through your veins. This ritual had proved futile throughout the previous week, and it yielded no different results now. A frustrated exhale escaped through your nose as you charged through the doorway, propelled by a relentless surge of emotion.

Mattheo Riddle's vulnerability exceeded all expectations as he lay in his opulent private chamber. Shirtless, his body displayed a cruel artwork of black and blue hues, stretching beyond the healing gash on his abdomen. A chaotic tapestry of scratches adorned his shoulders, arms, neck, and the once flawless canvas of his face, now disrupted by a thin, blistering line over the bridge of his nose. A swallow lodged in your throat as you beheld him, a striking portrait of agony that rendered him almost unrecognizable.

"Why the hell are you here?" He stared at you, expression vacant. "Can't you comprehend simple instructions?"

With a cool, unwavering gaze, you shot back, "And miss the chance to witness your glorious downfall? Not a fucking chance, Riddle."

Mattheo clenched his jaw, exhaling sharply as he adjusted against the sheets. "You're insufferable."

You sneered, advancing with measured steps. "Coming from you, that's a compliment."

Advancing, you scrutinized his form, taking in the mosaic of fresh scars that adorned his skin. Arriving at the bedside, your gaze drifted downward, noting that beneath his waist, he was clad only in boxers. A scant, white sheet was the sole guardian of whatever remained of his dignity.

Mattheo's snarl reverberated in the room. "If you're here to extend your fucking pity, please, spare me."

A sharp retort escaped your lips, your eyes dancing with a hint of amusement. "Oh, I'm not offering pity...though you do present quite the pitiable fucking sight, I'll give you that."

"Then what the fuck do you want?" Mattheo's voice carried an edge, his eyes narrowing with impatience. “I told you, we are done.”

A pregnant pause filled the room as you let his question linger, a mental reel replaying the relentless week of torment he had unleashed upon you. Your gaze lingered on his tousled chocolate curls and once-enticing plush lips, forcing yourself to traverse the memories of months marked by a tumultuous dance between pain and pleasure. The realization hit like a sledgehammer--all those moments, the highs and lows, seemed to have led to an abyss of pure fucking nothingness.

A furrow etched your brow as you looked down at him. "It's unbelievable that I let myself get ensnared into feeling something for you."

"Your feelings were your own choice," he quipped, his head falling back with an air of indifference, eyes drifting to the ceiling. "Don't blame me for your poor judgment."

Your frown etched deeper lines on your face, the surge of anger unmistakable. "Regardless, you still manipulated me like a fucking puppet."

"Amusing how complaints disappeared when you were screaming for more every damn night," he retorted, lids fluttering with evident irritation. "Your anger's just a cover for the fact that you'll have to find a new playmate now...have fun chasing those highs, princess, but I promise you'll only end up disappointed."

Your jaw dropped in disbelief, gaze narrowing into a potent mix of anger and hurt. "You're a real fucking prick, you know that?"

Mattheo regarded you with eyes that seemed to hold nothing but emptiness. His silent response coaxed your hands to curl into tight fists, and your chin to tremble with the pressure of boiling blood. You hadn't come here for him to treat you like a mere specter, to act as if you were invisible, as if you were nothing--something you knew you had never been. And still weren't.

"Answer me," you hissed, your voice shaking with a blend of frustration and desperation.

He remained silent, his gaze an unyielding anchor in the stormy sea of your emotions. The void in his pupils became increasingly maddening, an inscrutable abyss that left you grappling with the uncertainty of what the fuck he was even thinking right now.

"Answer me, Riddle." Your demand sliced through the air, a fervent plea for any sign of acknowledgment.

But he remained stubbornly mute.

Your chest surged with frustration, the world momentarily blurring in your escalating anger. "Say something, damn it!"

It was only when the sting of his skin met the back of your hand, and red streaks of blood marked your knuckles, that you realized you had slapped him, reopening the scab on his cheek. Yet, that wasn't the shocking part--though it certainly played a role--what truly stunned you was the quiet, wanton moan that escaped Mattheo's lips, his lids fluttering while his body tensed against the bed. In awe, you gulped.

And then, a peculiar, wicked force stirred within, a voracious entity feeding on the months of torment he had subjected you to. Something that hungered for more.

So, succumbing to its dark allure, you withdrew your hand and unleashed another sharp, resounding slap across his cheek. Blood painted his face, and Mattheo groaned, fingers clutching at the sheets as his hips thrust into the air, his arousal blatantly revealed beneath the fabric. Spellbound, you observed as he collapsed back onto the mattress, his eyes fluttering open, holding a gaze that teetered between vulnerability and desperation.

Between the conflicted expression in his eyes and the pulsating bulge between his legs, the sinister impulse within you deepened, intertwining with a more primal sensation. One unmistakably identified as pure, unbridled lust.

"You fucking like that, don't you?" You breathed, your lips twisting into a sadistic grin.

"Are you trying to hurt me, princess?" Mattheo's intense gaze focused on you, alternating between his increasing arousal and your exasperated expressions. "You'll have to put in more fucking effort than that..."

"Hm." You hummed, grin widening. "If you insist."

You locked on to Mattheo's gaze, feeling empowered by the way his normally stoic expression was now clouded with a burning need. With a coy smile, you swung your knee onto the hospital bed, letting your skirt ride up around your hips and exposing your panties. His brown eyes lingered between your legs, and you could feel the heat of his gaze against your skin as you climbed over him, straddling his strong thighs. He tensed as his eager cock twitched beneath you, silently begging for more.

The power dynamic between you had shifted so drastically in this moment. Mattheo Riddle, famed for his cunning and ruthlessness, was now completely at your fucking mercy. It was an intoxicating feeling, knowing that you had the power to make him feel truly vulnerable.

"So weak," you spat, a wicked grin spreading across your face as you dipped your hips just enough to skim the head of his cock. The sight of his full-body convulsion was mesmerizing, and the shaky breath that left his lips told you everything you needed to know.

You could tell he was still in pain, but there was something else there too--desperation.

"Poor boy," you murmured, running your fingers down the curves of your own figure, taking pleasure in the sensation of your own heat as you slipped your hand between your thighs, caressing yourself. "This is what you want, isn't it?"

Mattheo's eyes fluttered closed, his mouth falling open in a low groan. It was clear he was entranced by the sight of you touching yourself, and the way your words dripped with sinful seduction only added to his lust.

"Yes," he gritted out through clenched teeth, his hips bucking up to meet yours. "This is what I want."

"Look at you...so fucking needy..." you clucked your tongue and chuckled, extending out your free hand and running it along the wounded flesh of his chest, digging in with a little more force than you'd intended, judging by the groan that left his lips and the blood that split through the scab. "You're such a pathetic mess, Matty...it's almost too easy to control you like this..."

"Go to hell." His jaw tightened, a vein throbbing in his temple as he recognized the truth in your words. "You don't control fuck all."

"Oh, is that right?" you snarled, leaning forward and pushing your hands into his stomach, pressing down on his wound with added force, now. His face twisted in pain, and he let out a strained grunt. "How about now?"

Your heart was thundering with adrenaline, and while you had undoubtedly expected him to be furious at you for causing him harm, as he met your gaze, you saw something else entirely. There was a desperate need in his eyes, a yearning for more of the pain and pleasure that only you could provide. His lips were parted, his breaths coming in short gasps as he struggled to contain the sensations coursing through him. Despite the pain, there was a sense of longing that tugged at your heartstrings, filling you with a powerful desire for more of this intoxicating mixture.

"More," he whispered, his voice low and husky with need, barely above a breath. "Do it again."

"Oh, I don't fucking think so..." you sneered, your cunt clenching involuntarily at his request. But you were determined to make this man suffer. To humiliate him just as bad as he'd humiliated you, time and time again. "If you want something, you’ll have to ask for it nicely…I want to hear you beg for me."

Mattheo grunted again, bucking his hips, trying to grind back despite the pain of his injuries. Finding that impossible, his hands went to your waist, gliding up and down your thighs as he attempted to move you faster along his member, craning his head forward to get a better view. You scowled and smacked him away.

"I don't recall extending an invitation for your touch," you asserted, a glacial edge to your voice. "Why would I want your hands on me? After everything you've fucking done?"

His fingers balled into fists, exhaling when his head fell back against the pillow. You could feel him aching below you, already entirely fucking anxious to get inside of you. But then, he was still, hungry eyes trained on yours as he waited for your prompt.

"That's better," you purred, and found the next words coming out before you'd even thought them. "Good boy."

Your hips moved sinuously against his, a deliberate motion that left him breathless, his fists tensing against the desire to seize hold of your flesh. The surge of power was intoxicating, a heady blend with the fervor of your overwhelming desire and simmering rage. More than ever, your yearning for him to suffer consumed you. With a wicked grin, you lifted your hand to your lips, sensually running your tongue along the length of your crimson-stained fingers, sucking off the remnants of his blood. The sharp note of copper lit up your palate, sending a delightful shiver through your being.

"Mmm...you taste so good." You met his gaze between the long licks of your digits, his taste coating your mouth. "Wanna try?"

Mattheo remained silent, his gaze tracing the movement of your tongue as he moistened his lower lip. You enveloped one of your fingers with your lips, emitting a soft hum as you sensually cleaned it, gliding it in and out with deliberate slowness. Finally, you withdrew it with a wet pop, eyes rolling in dramatic effect.

Mattheo's jaw constricted, the sinews in his forearms taut from the tension in his fists. "Please..."

But you, unfazed, dipped your fingers back into the trail of blood leaking from his gash, adorning your skin with a bold red hue before returning them to your mouth.

"Mm, not good enough, I’m afraid..." you murmured, eyes twinkling with sadistic satisfaction. "You'll have to do much better than that, big boy..."

A growl echoed in Mattheo's throat while he gripped your thighs, pushing you down onto his swollen cock. His own hips thrust up against you, seeking any friction, any pressure at all from your heat. Frowning, you slapped his hand--and to your amazement, he pulled back, averting his gaze.

"These hands of yours are growing quite fucking insolent," you observed with a sly smile. "It's high time we addressed their rude misbehaviour."

A sinister grin etched across your lips as you shifted, smoothly extracting your wand from its thigh strap. With a deft flick, you summoned restraints, securing Mattheo's wrists to the metal headboard. His lips parted, eyes smouldering with desire, pulsating beneath you as the tightness closed around his wrists. Once finished, another few flicks ensured the door was locked, and the room was cloaked in a silencing charm.

"Much better," you said, tossing your wand aside. The gleam in your eye was almost maniacal as you reveled in the exquisite agony you were causing him, feeling a sense of power and control that you had never experienced before. "How's that feel, hm? Ready to utter those pleas for me, Riddle?"

"You're going to regret this, little witch..."  he spat out through gritted teeth, his gaze locked onto yours. "Nothing you could do to me is worse than the fate that awaits you when I get out of here…your days are fucking numbered."

Involuntarily, you clenched at his threat, a sly smirk playing on your lips as you dipped your fingers back into the pool of blood emanating from his wound--and with a decisive move, you seized his jaw with your free hand, thrusting your bloodied fingers past his teeth before he could voice a protest.

"Now isn't the time for your futile threats, Mattheo," you husked, tilting your head. Your fingers pushed forcefully into his throat, emphasizing your point. "Look how fucking pathetic you are...if only your friends could see you now...big tough guy, bound and gagged by his own bitch…it’s beautiful, really."

Abruptly, you withdrew your fingers, leaning back to assess your handiwork. His wrists were securely bound, a vivid red imprint gracing his skin, while his mouth shimmered with the subtle traces of his own blood. It was a tableau of perfection--humiliating yet exquisitely so. The image of him squirming against the taut restraints, his chest rising and falling with each desperate breath, compelled your hand between your legs. Sliding up your skirt, you explored through the delicate lace of your panties, skimming eagerly over your clit.

"Fuck," you murmured, glimpsing his mouth, “you look perfect like this."

This was retribution, and as you teased yourself while admiring the pathetic sight of him, thoughts buzzed with the torment he'd inflicted--the scalding intensity of his erratic behavior, the icy indifference he wielded, treating you with disdain, unfounded accusations of infidelity, and the frigid distance he maintained. The searing resentment flared as you recollected the havoc he'd wreaked upon your life.

It was months of emotional manipulation. A pattern that was impossible to acclimate to. His cycle of hot and cold, the relentless mistreatment, the baseless accusations, and the moments of aloofness, all preceding his inevitable return, pleading for your affection--this was the culmination of his deeds. More than anything, this was the reckoning he deserved.

"Come on, princess..." he muttered, eyes wide and pleading. "For Godrics sake, please...fucking please..."

A grin creeped across your lips, your heart leaping with excitement. You'd finally fucking broke him.

"There we go, Matty...that wasn't so hard, was it?" You purred, inching backwards along the length of his thighs, reaching out to pull the cover from his waist in an excruciatingly slow fashion, exposing his black briefs. "I love hearing you beg for me...you're being such a good boy..."

Mattheo's response came in the form of an exaggerated huff, and his eyes locked onto yours, silently pleading for your touch to alleviate the burning desire between his legs. Your grin expanded, reveling in the palpable tension.

"You want me to fuck you, Matty? Do you think you fucking deserve that?" You cooed as you caressed his erection through the fabric, glaring at him while he jerked and shook from your touch. It was incredible, watching him trying to thrust into your fist, whimpering, head lolling while you sped your ministrations. "Do you think you fucking deserve me?"

His groan reverberated, his body twitching beneath the firm clasp of your fingers. His lids fluttered, and his head arched back in a nearly imperceptible shake of denial.

"You never fucking deserved me, did you?" Your frustration at his silence echoed in the air as you delivered a sharp crack across his face, prompting a gasp from him. "Fucking answer me, Mattheo!"

"No!" he finally hissed, his knuckles whitening as his entire frame tensed. "Fuck! No! I didn’t…”

"That's right, you didn't…” you laughed, shaking your head. The sinful delight coursing through you at his torment was undeniable. "At least you can finally fucking admit it...a tiny step towards what might pass as progress, I suppose."

As Mattheo huffed, not daring to meet your eyes, you sighed, finally feeling as though some of your anger had dissipated. Not by much, but by enough. Granting him the smallest percentage of mercy, you wrapped your fingers around the waistband of his boxers, freeing his needy, throbbing cock--the length of his smooth heat springing back and slapping against his belly, a low groan leaving the depths of his throat as it did.

You clenched at the sight, the pool of heat in your abdomen expanding throughout your entire body now, your mouth practically watering at the mere vision of him. Just when you thought this whole thing couldn't get anymore perfect. Gods, he was undeniably fucking delicious.

"Tell me what you want, Mattheo..." you said, wrapping your fingers around his cock, slicking the bead of precum around the head, twisting your wrist as you stroked him. "Tell me what you need."

His eyelids pressed together in bliss as he panted, the rhythmic movement of his throat visible with each swallow. In the throes of pleasure, he surrendered himself to the intensity of your touch, the heat enveloping him in a cocoon of sensation.

"You..." was his only reply, head snapping back and forth, thighs tensing, cock twitching. "Please-fuck-"

"You like that?" you purred, biting your lip. "You like when I jerk your cock like this? Hm?"

Mattheo's jaw was slack with desire, his voice laced with breathy need, "yes..."

"Yeah?" You purred, tightening your grip, increasing your pace as you stroked him, leaning down slightly to spit on the tip, slicking your saliva along his shaft. "Who else could make you beg, huh? Who the fuck else can make you this fucking hard?"

"Fuck-" he choked, chest rising and falling in shallow bursts, you could tell he was close. "No one-princess-fucking no one..."

"Mhm...that's fucking right, Riddle..." smiling, you threw your head back, your other hand resuming its motion on your clit, teasing yourself as you continued stroking him. "You know you can't fucking live without this...I don't know why you have to make things so goddamn complicated..."

"Fuck," he hissed, sputtering your name, "please, fuck me, please. I fucking need you."

"Shit...you're just spoiling me now," you mewled, your pussy clenching undoubtedly at his words. "Such a good boy...so eager to please me, hm?"

Mattheo released a long, exasperated sigh as you released him, shifting yourself closer. With a swift motion, you shimmied your panties to the side before you aligned his cock with your dripping core--the moan that escaped your throat was deep and lengthy as you sank onto him, feeling every inch of his hard, aching cock stretching you wide, filling you up with ease. Mattheo's body lifted from the bed in response, a sound somewhere between a sob and a scream escaping his chest as you enveloped him to the hilt. Leaning forward, you placed your palms on his stomach, shifting your weight to the heels of your hands as you began to slide up and down his shaft.

"Fuck," you breathed, lids fluttering. "I missed this cock...shit, you feel so good..."

Mattheo's only response was a string of shameless, guttural moans, his eyes rolling to the back of his head as he surrendered to the potent mix of pleasure and pain. His body writhed beneath yours, his abdominals tightening in response to your movements. You panted heavily, bouncing up and down on his cock, taking pleasure in every inch of him slamming deep into your wet, eager pussy.

With each movement, you drove Mattheo wild with desire, listening to his moans grow louder and more intense with each passing moment.

Having control was entirely different--you were able to drag him into you, squeeze him tight with your walls while you slowed your pace, slam down onto him and make him howl. You watched him struggle below you, realizing he was trapped at his peak--and you were happy about it. This. This was close to what he deserved.

"I fucking hate you," you growled, the depth of your emotion evident in every word. "You embedded yourself into every part of my life and now you want to just fucking end things? Just go back to being fucking strangers? Over nothing?" Your voice cracked, the words flowing from your lips without restraint as you continued to ride him, hips moving in an untamed rhythm. "Why do you always fucking do this to me? Fuck-why?..."

Between his deep groans, his shuddering gasps as his wrists fighting their resistance, he managed to shake his head, his noises only growing louder the harder your rode him.

"I...I'm..." the words were forced through barred teeth, his eyes pleading for mercy. "I'm fucking sorry."

"Are you mine, Mattheo?" Your voice was strained with exertion, sweat growing on your forehead. "Were you ever fucking mine? Or was it all just a big game to you?"

"No,” he stammered, almost wincing. "No!"

Unable to resist the intense sensations coursing through you any longer, you brought your fingers back to your clit, setting a frenzied pace as you massaged the stiff nub with the pads of your fingers. You could feel Mattheo pulsing inside you, could feel his overly urgent need to cum, but right now, all that mattered was your own pleasure. As you worked yourself toward climax, your breaths grew ragged, soft moans escaping your lips as your body responded to your own touch. The pressure inside of you was building with each passing moment, urgent and insistent, and you knew that you wouldn't be able to hold off for much longer.

"Say it," you panted, eyes rolling and body trembling as you slammed down on him again and again. "Tell me who you fucking belong to."

"Fuck-fuck..." he grunted, teeth bared, eyes squeezed shut in concentration. "Please, princess...you keep squeezing me like that and I'm going to fucking cum-"

"If you want to cum, you'll fucking say it, Mattheo-" you practically moaned, entire body quivering with excitement. "Fuck-say it..."

A string of whimpers slipped past Mattheo's lips, his fists balled so tight it looked almost painful. "Fuck--you! I'm yours, fuck..."

Every word leaving you was a curse, and between every word was a strangled moan, resonating through your throat as you worked your clit fasting, fucking yourself on his cock harder.

"Gods, Matty, I'm going to cum," you moaned. "I'm going to cum on this thick fucking cock-fuck..."

Without being able to hold off any longer, you shattered, your hips jerking and twitching in an erratic rhythm, free hand digging into the flesh of his chest as you clenched and pulsed around him, forcing another onslaught of pleasured whimpers to leave his throat before he too reached his high--the tight heat of your orgasm sending him over the edge, twitching and thrashing beneath you as you continued riding him through your collective highs, not beginning to slow until the aftershocks began to rumble through you.

And after you stalled, you allowed yourself a moment to regain composure before you wearily eased yourself off him, releasing a prolonged breath--with a cautious movement, you reached over and gathered a sampling of your intertwined cum on the pads of your fingers, briskly bringing them up to his lips.

"Taste what I did to you," you murmured with a smirk, relishing in his groan against your flesh. Methodically, you glided your fingers against his bottom teeth, leisurely pulling them from his mouth. "Tastes good, doesn't it?"

His breaths lingered in the air, an unspoken acknowledgment of his silence, his eyes seemingly unable to leave your form. With deliberate movements, you leaned over, deftly undoing the restraints that bound him. As you meticulously adjusted your appearance back to its usual state, a mask of calm control, your gaze shifted towards the door, a calculated glance.

"May your recovery be swift, Riddle," you uttered with a tone that held a hint of farewell. "Until next time."

[spookysanta]

Orbit. (MBJ)

Summary: Reader goes with Michael to the premiere of his new film, Sinners. She's not prepared.

Pairing: Michael B. Jordan x reader

Warnings: SINNERS CONTENT, heavy smut

if you haven't seen sinners by now... babe. idk what to tell you lmao but SPOILER WARNING (kinda?) and listen idk if that whole scene was improv okay it's for the plot

from the drafts

MINORS DNI

She thought she was ready.

She’d seen the dailies. Heard the whispered rehearsals when he thought she was half-asleep, slurring Stack’s lines into her neck before sunrise. She’d watched his jaw clench during tense calls with Ryan, caught glimpses of bruises from long days on set, rubbed sore muscles while he mumbled about Annie, about Mary, about blood, sex, heat. Hell, she though she knew the script, scene by scene.

But nothing could’ve prepared her for watching it unfold, thirty feet tall, bathed in light, in IMAX. For the way it gutted her. For the way it stole the air from her lungs.

And Michael? He sat beside her like it was any other Tuesday. Warm. Calm. Smiling.

Smug motherfucker.

The premiere was small, invite-only. Intimate. Just the cast, close friends, key crew. Everyone smelled like perfume and money. The theater hummed with low voices and champagne bubbles. But the second the twins appeared onscreen, everything vanished.

Smoke.

The moment he appeared, her breath caught. She felt it. Everyone did. His body moved with a lazy weight, a predator’s patience. When Smoke stepped into her shack with sunlight catching the edge of his cheekbone, the theater went still.

And then…

Then he bent her over.

The way his hips rolled wasn’t frantic but calculated. Possessive. Hungry. It wasn’t vulgar. It wasn’t even explicit.

It was just unholy.

Her hand flew out and smacked Michael’s arm hard enough to sting.

He leaned in, voice low and teasing. His lips brushed the shell of her ear. “You good?”

She kept her eyes on the screen, breath shaky. “You didn’t tell me you got down like that.”

His fingers slid along her thigh, firm and slow. “You know I do.”

“Not like that, I don’t.”

He squeezed hard to quiet her. “Watch the movie.”

Like hell she could.

The scene replayed over and over behind her eyes, even as the film moved on. She couldn’t stop clenching her thighs, couldn’t keep her breathing even. And then it got worse.

The juke joint.

Stack and Mary slipped away from the noise, hands tangled, breathless. Hushed words. Glances. A hidden room off to the side.

And then she saw that scene.

Stack's eyes looked up at her from the floor, dazed. “Baby,” he rasped, “you’re drooling.”

Mary’s grin curled slow. “You want some?”

He nodded once.

And then she let it drip, thick and slow, from her mouth to his.

She gasped, audibly. Actually clutched the pearls she wasn’t even wearing.

Michael turned his head slow, mouth twitching. She slapped his leg, eyes wide.

“Michael!”

He leaned in again, eyes gleaming. “It was improv.”

Her head whipped around. “WHAT?”

He shrugged like it was nothing. “Hailee went off-book. Ryan kept it.”

She slumped in her seat, betrayed by the editing team and her own body. Her thighs burned. Her lip was red from biting it. And Michael? He was relaxed, arm draped over her shoulder, like she wasn’t unraveling beside him.

He leaned closer, breath warm. “That part got you hot, huh?”

She couldn’t speak.

“You gonna act normal the rest of the night or should we leave early?”

Still, no answer.

Because she was already picturing it. Not the scene. Them. Him. In her. Behind her. Real hands. Real weight. Real breath. Not staged.

His hand slid higher.

They didn’t stay for the Q&A.

—

The car was silent.

Not tense. Just thick. Molten. Her knees were pressed together tight, heels dug into the floormat. She stared out the window, lips parted, still tasting the salt of her own tongue.

“Those scenes were…” She exhaled sharply. “So nasty.”

Michael glanced over, jaw flexing.

“That drool?” she added. “I literally couldn’t look at you.”

He drummed his fingers against the leather. “Did you even like the rest of the movie?”

“Of course I did.” Her voice jumped. “It was incredible. I was just... distracted.”

He smirked. “You mean turned on.”

She glared. “I’m allowed to be stunned that my man’s out here with porn-star energy.”

“And you didn’t mind one bit.”

“Didn’t say that.”

His hand found her thigh again, this time slower. Thicker. “You were squirming.”

“Because, what the fuck, Michael?”

His voice dropped. “You wanna see what it looks like when it’s not choreographed?”

She sucked in a breath. His eyes dipped to her lips, then her dress. Then back.

“We’re almost home.” His voice was molten. “And I plan on seeing you bent just like that. But louder. Sweeter. Messier.”

She whimpered.

He smirked.

The rest of the ride blurred.

She barely made it through the front door before he had her pressed against it. He locked it one-handed, the other already tugging the zipper down her spine.

“Don’t act shy now,” he muttered, mouth grazing her jaw. “You were almost creamin’ in that seat.”

The dress slid from her shoulders like a sigh. Her shoes hit the floor.

“Michael—”

He turned her, palm against the door, crowding her space. “Nah, say it.” His mouth ghosted hers. “You liked watching me bend her over. You liked that spit too. Had you twitchin’ in your seat trying to keep it together.”

“You looked…” Her voice cracked as his hands mapped her sides. “You looked so fucking good.”

He grinned, wicked. “You were losing your mind.”

“Still am.”

He kissed her, slow and punishing. Let her feel every inch of it. Then again, deeper. His lips parted over hers, tongue sliding in. One hand pressed flat to her lower back, arching her into him as the other grabbed the back of her neck. His mouth moved like he meant to taste every gasp.

He lifted her without breaking the kiss, her legs locking around his waist. Each step to the couch felt like a countdown. He sank down with her on top, his hands already tugging the straps of her lingerie down her arms, peeling the lace aside with reverence and heat.

She rocked her hips once, testing. He exhaled hard against her lips.

“That’s it,” he whispered. “Take what you need. Ride it how you want.”

She kissed his jaw, then dragged her tongue down his neck. She bit lightly where his pulse kicked. He groaned, low and sharp.

“You got so into character,” she murmured. Her teeth grazed the shell of his ear. “Didn’t know you had that in you.”

“I was acting then.” His voice vibrated in his chest. “This is real.”

He flipped her beneath him.

Every movement intentional. One knee between her thighs. One palm spread across her belly to keep her grounded. He kissed her again, slower now, dragging his tongue across hers.

His mouth traveled down her neck, kissing and licking each inch. He nipped at her collarbone, then kissed the sting away. His hands traced the outline of her ribs, the swell of her breasts, the softness of her stomach.

When he dipped lower, his lips wrapped around her nipple. He sucked once, slow. Then again, harder. Her breath shattered.

He didn’t stop.

He kissed lower. Down her torso. The inside of her thigh. The crease of her knee. He spread her open with both hands and stared.

“You been this wet since the theater?”

She whimpered.

He licked her once, long and slow. She nearly bucked off the couch. He groaned, tongue flicking again. Then again. Then harder.

Her hips rocked helplessly as he sucked her clit with heat and rhythm, and when she moaned his name, sharp and broken, he slipped two fingers inside, curling them slow and deep.

“You mine?”

“Yes, yes. Michael, please.”

“Say it again.”

“I’m yours.”

He undressed, dragging her panties down her legs like he was unwrapping something sacred. Then lined himself up, eyes locked to hers.

And when he pushed in, deep, all the way, she sobbed.

He kissed her through it. Through the whimpers. Through the stretch. Through the way her nails clawed his back like she needed him deeper.

He gave her everything.

Every stroke. Every growl. Every kiss.

He flipped her again onto her knees and pressed her into the couch.

“Louder,” he panted. “I want your neighbors to know who fucks you like this.”

She screamed his name as he came undone.

And when they collapsed, sweat-soaked, trembling, bodies still twitching, he curled her into his chest, brushed her curls back, kissed her forehead and whispered,

“Next time I play a preacher or a prince, you better act like you give a damn then too.”

She laughed into his throat.

“Only if you bend somebody over again.”

He grinned against her skin.

“Bet.”

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[wh0reforcoriolanussnow]

hii!! could i request a snow fic where she finds out she cheats on him and voluntarily tributes and hes trying to get her back? i loved the other fics!! I NEED MORE CHEATING SNOW FICS OMGG

Don’t blame me, love made me crazy. || Young President!Coriolanus snow x district!reader

A/n: Sorry anon I hope you’re not disappointed that I didn't fully write your request. I wanted Coryo to lowk suffer in this which is why I didn't dive into details of him getting her back. There is also one scene that is heavily inspired by a scene in the movie Priscilla! I also spent so many hours perfecting this and it was super fun!!!

Warnings: fem!reader, implied infidelity, toxic!coriolanus, manipulation, not proofread, if there's anything else pls lmk!

Wc: 1609

Divider by @firefly-graphics

The rapid clicks echoed throughout the hallway, the sound reverberating off the 12-foot-high ceiling walls. You walk with an eager stride, each step filled with anticipation as you take the familiar route to Coriolanus' office where he spent most, if not, all of his time cooped up in due to the upcoming hunger games.

There was a heaviness in your heart. You have always been the epitome of grace and composure, a woman who played her role in the political theater with finesse, albeit your brief upbringing in district 2. However, behind closed doors, the truth unfolded, resulting in you heartbroken and most of all betrayed. You couldn't ignore the letters that would pile up weekly, the gifts, all for him, from someone by the name Lysandra.

Not bothering to knock, knowing it would provoke a reaction from him, you forcefully swung the double doors open. There sat Coriolanus Snow, seemingly unbothered at your entrance. "Is there a problem?" An icy, impersonal tone carried his words, sharp and emotionless.

Your nose flared as you felt a surge of frustration, his lack of concern and emotion fuelling your anger. Besides, you had never stormed into his office unannounced before. Surely, he would question your sudden abruptness and, visibly, your anger.

Your voice, though filled with a trembling resolve, posed the question, "Who is she?" You hold a letter between your fingers, lifting it up to show him. He lifts his head up from his papers. "And why on earth is she sending my husband gifts and-and love letters?" You stammer, throwing the piece of paper with writing and a kiss—in the form of a lipstick mark in a shade of deep red—on his desk; your façade crumbling at your feet.

Snow stares at you before a scoff leaves his lips, leaning back on his chair. "You know how the people admire me, it's likely that whoever it is, she's simply passionate about expressing her feelings to me," Coriolanus shrugs. Your eye twitches at his response. Lies.

"Really? Well, Lysandra is ever so passionate about expressing her undying love for you," You recite the words from her letter as you watch a subtle glint of knowing in his eyes, "She's the only one who has described her so-called affection for you so intimately!"

As you question your husband's loyalty, an unsettling quiet settles around him. His eyes, cold and calculating, hold yours without a trace of vulnerability. The absence of words from his lips becomes a formidable response, leaving an ominous uncertainty lingering in the air.

His office echoed with a tense hush, broken only by a subtle tapping of his fingers against the armrest in a rhythmic patter. "For god's sake, Coryo. Say something! Who is she?" The slip of his nickname makes you swallow.

"I won't entertain your accusation. She's merely an admirer, nothing more! Have you finished exhausting yourself with this matter, wife?" Coriolanus seethes, abruptly standing up as he gathers his papers, opens his drawer, shoves them in, and slams it shut with such force that you swore you felt it in your bones.

"Is there something your hiding from me?" There was a tense silence that followed your question, Snow's features contorted with a mix of frustration and defiance. Avoiding eye contact, he clenched his jaw and emitted a sharp exhale. The air was thick with unspoke tension, revealing an anger that simmered beneath the surface.

"I have nothing to hide from you," He says calmly but you knew damn well there was anything but calmness within him. Annoyed and frustrated at the lack of information, you open your mouth again.

'"Throughout our entire marriage, I have done nothing but showed you how grateful I am that you chose me to marry, a district girl. You helped me build a reputation here in the capitol so that I would finally be respected, and now, I ask just one simple thing of you," As you speak your voice wavers slightly, revealing the depth of emotion behind your words. "Who is she to you?"

In mere seconds, Coriolanus storms past you, a blur of motion, leaving you momentarily bewildered as you blink, only to find yourself in the same spot. "Coriolanus!" You yell, spinning around as you follow him. "I've just had about enough of you for today y/n," He spat as he briskly walked up stairs, you following him. Servants who were around hurriedly walk pass, heads down.

He steps into your shared private chamber, adorned with decadent furnishings and overlooking the Capitol. He walks a couple steps before he just stops. His breath came in heavy, rhythmic waves, his chest rising and falling with urgency, leaving you standing frozen at the entrance.

"You know, I think you should go see your family for a little while," He turns around as you felt your heart drop. "What?" Your voice echoed with a helpless tone. "You heard me, I think your family has been missing you in the districts, go pay them a visit. Tell them how grateful you have been that I chose you as the First Lady of Panem, hm?"

He takes purposeful strides to the next room, filled from top to bottom with expensive, lavish pieces of clothing befitting both him and you. Coriolanus then pulls out a travelling trunk. The thought of you going back to district 2 sent shivers up your spine. You knew that everyone there now thinks of you as a traitor.

"What- No- Coryo, I'm not going-" Coriolanus cuts you off with a yell, tears forming in your eyes, "I think you should! Matter of fact, I'll help you start packing." A loud noise comes from the trunk making contact with the floor making you jump, a sob leaving your lips. The trunk opening as he starts aggressively pulling your clothes from the black velvety hangers, tossing them into the trunk.

"Coryo- please. Don't make me go back there," You fall to you knees in front of the trunk as your shaky hands remove the pieces of clothing from it. "Yeah, well I think a few months in the districts, away from your lavish life here, will make you realise how easy it is that I can send you back there." He forcefully takes your chin in between his thumb and index as your glassy eyes stare back at his icy, raging, blue eyes.

"Please, please don't send me back there-" Your beg becomes interrupted as he drops his grip on you and yells out the door, "Simon! Get the train ready now for Y/n to go back home!" He calls out to his assistant who answers out a "Of course Mr. President," You let out another sob as you rest your head on the pile of clothing.

Coriolanus glances over his shoulder, his breaths lingering in the air, he could hear your quiet pleas. There's a yearning within him, a desire to approach you and envelop you in a reassuring hug, to tell your that everything is alright and that forgives you. Yet, and unyielding pride restrains him, holding him back from acknowledging that what he was doing was wrong.

With one final look, he turns around, leaving you in a crying mess. Coriolanus was going to send you back to district 2 until the hunger games finished, then, he would come get you and hope that your time there made you ponder your actions, although he knew they were quite reasonable.

Your allegiance to your husband shattered when you were forced onto the train, Coriolanus stood a couple metres away from you as you squirm in the peacekeeper's grips. As you made your way back to a place you once called home, a quiet determination settled within you as you hatched a plan that would not only expose Coriolanus' betrayal, but also allow you to reclaim a piece of your shattered identity.

~

As the Reaping day approached, you made a choice that sent shockwaves through the carefully orchestrated world of Panem. With a steady hand, you inscribed your own name on a slip of paper and placed it in the glass ball, committing yourself to the Hunger Games.

On the day of the Reaping, the Capitol Square buzzed with anticipation, the districts, not so much. Coriolanus, very much unaware of his wife's hidden actions, stood in front of the dignitaries on the stage.

The customary ceremony began, the escort pulls a slip pf paper from the glass ball, announcing the male tribute who would face the Capitol's twisted version of justice.

As the tension mounted, the escort unfolded a slip of paper and read aloud, "Y/n Snow." A gasp rippled through the crowd, and Coriolanus's face contorted with disbelief. Time seemed to free as he processed the shock of seeing his wife's name called out. Surely there was a mistake.

The realisation hit him like a sledgehammer, and anger boiled within him, mixing with the shock and confusion as the crowd erupted in whispers. A woman of Capitol elegance was now standing among the district 2 residents.

You weave through the rows of people, maintaining a stoic expression. As you step up on the stage, your eyes land on the camera a couple feet away from you where you know Snow was watching back in the Capitol.

Coriolanus stared at your face and in that moment, he saw the resolve and defiance that had replaced the hurt in your eyes. The Capitol, known for its love of spectacle, witnessed an unprecedented turn of events. Coriolanus Snow, the powerful President, was rendered speechless as his own actions came back to haunt him in the cruelest twist of fate.

[fromdove]

WHAT EACH BATBOYS' LOVE LANGUAGE WOULD BE !

“God help me, I think I’d let you burn every part of me, just to feel your fire.”

— bruce wayne, dick grayson, jason todd & duke thomas.

© fromdove— All rights reserved. Reposting, translation, or modification of these works is strictly prohibited, regardless of whether credit is given.

∿　 　 . `💭` ㆍ

Bruce Wayne — Acts of Service

Bruce Wayne speaks in the language of absence. Not just the physical kind—but the ache that blooms in the hollow of a sentence never finished.

He remembers, with the grim precision of a ticking clock, the last words his father said before the world cleaved open. They were nothing special—a reminder about theater etiquette, half a laugh. Ordinary, so utterly human. And then: gunpowder, scream, silence. Since then, Bruce has distrusted words. They are fleeting, breakable, unable to stop death.

So when he loves, he does not say it. He builds it, piece by trembling piece, behind the scenes. A second suit, custom-fitted for your frame. A silent wire transfer to cover your mother’s hospital bills. Patrol schedules adjusted so you never cross paths with the villain who left you limping. It is not spoken, but it is known—like the steady thrum beneath Gotham’s streets. Like the warmth in the gloves he leaves you before a snowstorm.

He is a man who wears grief like a second skin and still—still—teaches others how to survive it. That, perhaps, is his most intimate offering.

But sometimes the silence he trusts falters. His hand will linger too long on your shoulder. He’ll ask a question with more softness than precision. And in that moment, you are not just a soldier under his command, but someone who frightens him—because you matter. Because you could be lost, too. And he could not bear it.

For Bruce, love is not red roses or soft mornings—it is the constant readiness to shield you from a world he long ago stopped believing could be kind.

Yes, you’ll sometimes hear “I love you” from his lips. You’ll feel it in the way he drapes a blanket over your shoulders at 3AM, after you’ve fallen asleep at the console—no sound, no comment, just the quiet choreography of someone who remembers what it means to be cold and alone.

Dick Grayson — Physical Touch

Where Bruce is structure, Dick is soul. And his soul speaks in touch.

Raised in the spotlight of the Flying Graysons, his first language was the grasp of a hand mid-air, the trust-fall embrace between trapeze and skin. He was taught to reach, to catch, to cling—not just as a performance, but as a promise: I will not let you fall. That promise never left him.

Dick is the kind of person who will brush your arm when he passes by, lean his head on your shoulder just because, give the longest hugs and never pull away first. He’s that rare kind of warm who makes you forget cold ever existed. For him, physical closeness is grounding. He’s lived through enough loss to know how fast everything can be taken away—and so, when he loves you, he stays close. Literally. Always an arm around your back. Always the warmth of his hand over yours.

When you're hurting, he doesn't always know what to say—but he knows how to be there. He’ll sit with you on the floor, cross-legged, your knee touching his, until the words come. Or don’t. That’s fine too. He’s not there for the conversation. He’s there for you.

Dick loves like a campfire—glowing, open, steady. He lets you sit beside his warmth until you can feel your fingers again.

Jason Todd — Words of Affirmation

Jason loves like he’s running out of time.

He came into the world loud—gritty, rough-edged, smart-mouthed. But underneath that exterior was always a boy who wanted to be seen, heard, valued. When he first became Robin, Bruce gave him a purpose—but he also gave him silence. And when Jason died, when he came back to a world that barely whispered his name, something inside him shattered. He decided he’d never again sit in silence and wait for love to show itself. If it mattered, it had to be said. Out loud.

So now, Jason speaks with fire. With honesty. With vulnerability that burns in the back of his throat but comes out anyway. He tells you when you impress him. He tells you when you scare him. He tells you that you mean something, because he's not sure you’ll believe it unless you hear it. Over and over.

But more than that, he needs to hear it too. He needs someone to look at him and not see a mistake, or a weapon, or a ghost. He needs someone to say, I’m glad you came back. To remind him he’s not just the aftermath of tragedy, but someone who can still be loved and chosen, now.

He doesn’t want compliments. He wants truth. He wants raw, cracked-open honesty. When he loves you, he’ll write it into the way he talks to you. He’ll defend your name in rooms you’re not in. He’ll remember every little thing you say and bring it up a month later to prove he was listening.

Jason doesn’t say I love you casually. But when he does? It sounds like a promise. And it is.

Duke Thomas — Quality Time

Duke Thomas loves like a summer shadow—wide, warm, stretching long across the pavement beside you. Never ahead, never behind. Always beside.

His world cracked early, its colors blurred by the slow unraveling of his parents’ minds. And still—he reached toward the light. Still, he chose tenderness. There is something miraculous in that. Not naive. Brave.

Time is his love language because it was the first thing taken from him. He gives it now as offering, as resistance, as prayer. When you speak, he listens with the weight of someone cataloging galaxies. When he laughs, he laughs with his whole body—shoulders, chest, throat—as if joy is something sacred that must be honored, not hoarded.

He remembers your grandmother’s name. The stupid inside joke you made three months ago. The song you skipped, and the look in your eyes when you did it. And he never brings these things up to impress you. He remembers because you said them, and to Duke, what you say is part of who you are. And who you are is already worth remembering.

Love with Duke is not loud, not possessive. It is presence. It is walking to the edge of the rooftop and sitting beside you for an hour, saying nothing, letting the silence build a shelter. It is the beat before a battle where he catches your eye and nods—not a command, not a question. Just: I’m here.

He will never love halfway. He cannot. Even when the world turns brutal, he offers his whole self like a field of sunflowers that somehow blooms after the fire.

Time with him doesn’t feel like a countdown. It feels like breath returning. Like finally being seen not through a sniper’s scope, but through the steady gaze of someone who stays.