Nobody's paying attention, so I post whatever. Lots of Batfam, lots of Ilia Malinin, and whatever else I feel like posting. If not over 18, beware occasional adult material.
Mikhail did a bit of a Q&A today and it illustrated my point perfectly.
Why do some people always think just because you compete against someone it means you have to hate on the other ones ?
This is so strange to me. It sounds a bit like you have to be full of hatred because you compete for the same things.
Just saying I don't get this mentality. At the end of the day, it's just sport. Of course, you always want to win but at the extend of hating on someone else doesn't make sense to me at all.
He was a dangerous, everything you should have avoided, but God knows you tried, right? That should count for something, right, right!?
𝐖𝐀𝐑𝐍𝐈𝐍𝐆𝐒: explicit sexual content, age gap, infidelity, power play, obsessive behaviour, possession, cheating, minors dni.
Not part of the Rattle series.
You first met him on a damp Thursday evening in your father’s study, the kind of room that always smelled of old leather and whisky.
Your father had been talking about “this brilliant property chap” for weeks, and when Simon Foster finally stood up from the armchair and turned, the first thing you noticed was how easily he smiled.
It was the sort of smile that arrived a fraction too quickly, as if it had been waiting just behind his teeth.
“This is my daughter,” your father said, hand warm on your shoulder. “Be nice to her, Simon. She’s sharper than she looks.”
Simon’s gaze lingered a beat longer than politeness required. “I doubt that,” he said, voice low and pleasant. “She looks perfectly sharp already.”
You offered the kind smile you always did with your father’s associates, polite, open, the one that made people relax.
You listened while he spoke about developments and planning permissions, nodding in the right places, asking one careful question that showed you’d actually paid attention.
He liked that.
You could see it in the way his eyes warmed, but the warmth never quite reached the centre of him.
It started small. A dinner a fortnight later where he mentioned a local conservation group as “well-meaning amateurs.”
You set your glass down and said, evenly, “They’re the only reason half those sites still have any green left on them.”
He tilted his head, that same easy smile returning, and answered, “And here I thought you were the reasonable one in the family.”
The words were light. The look was not.
He was testing the edge of your patience the way someone tests a blade, curious to see where it might cut.
You told yourself you wouldn’t fall into his orbit. God knows you tried. But Simon had a way of circling. He’d appear at the edge of conversations, lean in just close enough that you caught the clean scent of his cologne, and ask questions that sounded innocent until you realised he was mapping you. What you valued. What irritated you. How far he could push before your polite smile cracked.
He loved pushing.
One evening at a charity drinks reception he found you alone by the window and said, almost conversationally, “Your father thinks you’re too soft for this world. I told him he was wrong. Soft doesn’t look at people the way you look at me.”
You met his eyes. “And how do I look at you, Simon?”
“Like you’re deciding whether I’m worth the trouble.” He smiled again, slower this time. “I am.”
The physical pull was there from the beginning, unwanted, inconvenient, undeniable. The way his mouth shaped certain words. The long-fingered hands that gestured when he spoke. The quiet intensity that made the hairs at the back of your neck rise whenever he stood a little too close.
You hated that it existed.
You hated more that he knew it did.
Then came the night you met Kate.
It was a gallery opening neither of you had expected the other to attend. Simon had brought his wife, blonde, younger, elegant in a way that looked effortless.
You saw them before they saw you. Kate’s hand rested lightly on his arm; Simon was laughing at something she said, the picture of a man who had already rewritten his life. When his eyes found you across the room the laugh stopped, just for a second and then the smile returned, wider, sharper.
He steered her toward you with the same easy confidence he brought to everything. “Kate,” he said, “this is—” He used your full name, the one your father always insisted on. “We’ve known each other a while.”
Kate’s smile was genuine, warm. “Simon’s mentioned you. He said you’re the only person who ever properly argues with him.”
You looked at him and he looked back, unblinking, almost amused. Fucking smug motherfucker. Christ I wanna smash your face in.
“I try not to make a habit of it,” you said, cocking your head slightly, lips pursing.
“Pity,” Simon answered. “I rather enjoy it.”
Kate laughed, oblivious to the current running under the words. You felt it like static against your skin. Later, when she stepped away to speak to someone else, Simon moved closer. His voice dropped.
“You weren’t supposed to be here.”
You didn't spare him another glance as you hissed back, “Neither were you, apparently.”
“I brought my wife.” He said it like a challenge. “Does that bother you?”
You held his gaze. “Should it?”
He smiled that little-too-easy smile. “I think it does. I think a great many things about me bother you. And I think you hate how much you notice them.”
You walked away before you said something you’d regret in public.
He watched you go and you felt the weight of it between your shoulder blades the entire way to the door.
The confrontations grew sharper after that. He sought them out. A planning meeting where he dismissed your concerns with a soft, “Sentimentality isn’t strategy.”
A quiet conversation at another of your father’s dinners where he leaned in and murmured, “You still look at me like you want to either hit me or—” He never finished the sentence. He didn’t need to. Your pulse answered for you.
You called him out once, properly, in the hallway of a half-finished development site after everyone else had left. Rain tapped against the temporary plastic sheeting. He stood with his hands in his pockets, calm as ever.
“You’re a conniving bastard,” you said, voice low and shaking with the effort of keeping it controlled. “You collect people. You test them. You wait to see what breaks.”
Simon stepped closer. “And yet you’re still here.”
“I’m here because someone has to say it.”
“Say what, exactly?” His eyes were very dark in the dim light. “That I push you? That I like watching the polite mask slip? That the attraction you keep pretending isn’t there is the loudest thing in every room we share?”
You should have left, but nstead you stayed, breath shallow, the air between you tight with everything neither of you would name.
It came to a head on a night of pure heat and bad decisions. Another argument, this one in the empty kitchen of a house he was showing, long after the prospective buyers had gone.
You’d found out something about the way he’d handled a deal, something that sat wrong in your chest, and the words came out sharp and unfiltered.
“You’re a conniving cunt,” you said, voice rising. “A cheating bastard who thinks charm and a well-timed smile make the damage disappear. You don’t get to rewrite every story just because you’re good at smiling through it.”
Simon’s expression didn’t change for a long moment. Then something in his eyes shifted, darker, hungrier, the testing look finally dropping away into something rawer.
“Say it again,” he said quietly.
You did, stepping closer, voice raising as you meant every word that tumbled out, “You are a fucking cunt. Cheating bastard.”
He closed the distance in two strides. One hand found the back of your neck, the other your waist, and the kiss was nothing like the careful, measured man he showed the rest of the world.
It was hard, open-mouthed, almost angry.
You shoved at his chest; he didn’t move, you bit his lower lip; he made a low sound and backed you against the counter hard enough that the edge dug into your spine. “Tell me you want this, fuck, tell me right now.”
You pathetic wanton little bitch, don't you dare. But fuck, this man was a walking fucking red flag and you didn't care at that moment whether anyone saw you waving it, “Fuck, just shut the fuck up and fuck me.”
Clothes became obstacles, his shirt buttons scattered, your dress was pushed up without ceremony, there was no slow build, no careful seduction, only the weeks of friction finally snapping.
He lifted you onto the counter, pushed your thighs apart, and drove into you in one long, relentless thrust that stole the air from your lungs. “Fuck,” he breathed against your mouth, almost reverent and furious at once. “You feel—”
You raked your nails down his back. He fucked you harder for it, rhythm brutal and precise, the kind of intensity that felt like punishment and hunger in equal measure.
Every time you tried to speak, another insult, another accusation, he kissed the words away or bit the side of your throat until the only sounds left were broken and desperate.
The physical pull you’d both been circling for months had nowhere left to hide. It was heat and friction and the sharp edge of everything you’d called him still hanging in the air between gasps.
The counter dug into your hip as Simon slammed into you, hard and relentless, his cock splitting you open with every brutal thrust.
Sweat slicked your skin where he pressed you down, his breath hot against your ear while he fucked you like he hated you for how much he wanted it.
“Look at you,” he growled, voice low and vicious. “So fucking wet for me. You act like you can't stand me, but your cunt's gripping my cock like it never wants to let go. Pathetic little slut.”
You shoved back against him, teeth bared. “Shut the fuck up, Simon. You're the one who couldn't keep his hands off me for five minutes. What does that make you? Desperate?”
His hand fisted tighter in your hair, yanking your head back so he could bite at your throat.
“Desperate? I'm balls-deep in the mouthiest bitch I've ever met and you're still running your fucking mouth. Maybe I should stuff it full next time.” He drove in harder, the slap of skin echoing off the walls. “But right now? I'm gonna make this greedy pussy come whether you like it or not.”
You clawed at the counter, insults dying on your tongue as his cock hit that spot over and over, dragging ragged moans out of you. “Fuck you,” you gasped, voice cracking. “Fuck you, Simon—”
“That's it,” he snarled, hips snapping faster. “Come on my cock like the desperate whore you are.”
Your orgasm ripped through you, thighs shaking, his name torn from your throat in a broken snarl. “Fuck, Simon!”
He followed right after, face buried against your neck, teeth sinking into your skin as he groaned. One hand stayed fisted in your hair while the other braced against the counter, his whole body shuddering as he emptied himself inside you, cock twitching with every pulse.
Afterwards the kitchen was quiet except for the sound of rain and your uneven breathing.
Simon didn’t step back immediately.
He stayed close, forehead almost touching yours, that same unreadable intensity still in his eyes.
“You can keep calling me whatever you like,” he said, voice rough. “But you’re not getting rid of me. Not now.”
You already knew it was true. The moment Simon Foster decided something, or someone, was worth his attention, escape stopped being an option.
And as the night settled around the two of you, still half-dressed and marked by everything that had just happened, you understood with unsettling truth that the orbit you’d tried so hard to avoid had closed completely.
Remember when Bruce was so worried about Dick's safety that he broke through the window of some random building so he could use the phone inside to call Dick, and he left the owners of the building a note that he would send payment for the window he smashed 😭.
Some of the Vinnie pics I'm like he's so taaaaall 😍 my boyfriend is 6'1 and looms over me I can't imagine what it would be like to be in the presence of his 6'4 self 🥺
True! Vincent is insanely big. Id *imagine* it would be just awe inspiring to be in the precense of such a big star, literally and figuratively.
