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.
Bertie Carvel attends the "Game Of Thrones: The Mad King" World Premiere at the Royal Shakespeare Theatre on August 08, 2026 in Stratford-upon-Avon, England.
Bertie Carvel attends the "Game Of Thrones: The Mad King" World Premiere at the Royal Shakespeare Theatre on August 8, 2026 in Stratford-upon-Avon, England.
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!?
ππππππππ: 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 fatherβs study, the kind of room that always smelled of old leather and whisky.
Your father had been talking about βthis brilliant property chapβ 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.
βThis is my daughter,β your father said, hand warm on your shoulder. βBe nice to her, Simon. Sheβs sharper than she looks.β
Simonβs gaze lingered a beat longer than politeness required. βI doubt that,β he said, voice low and pleasant. βShe looks perfectly sharp already.β
You offered the kind smile you always did with your fatherβs 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 youβd 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 βwell-meaning amateurs.β
You set your glass down and said, evenly, βTheyβre the only reason half those sites still have any green left on them.β
He tilted his head, that same easy smile returning, and answered, βAnd here I thought you were the reasonable one in the family.β
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 wouldnβt fall into his orbit. God knows you tried. But Simon had a way of circling. Heβd 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, βYour father thinks youβre too soft for this world. I told him he was wrong. Soft doesnβt look at people the way you look at me.β
You met his eyes. βAnd how do I look at you, Simon?β
βLike youβre deciding whether Iβm worth the trouble.β He smiled again, slower this time. βI am.β
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. Kateβs 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. βKate,β he said, βthis isββ He used your full name, the one your father always insisted on. βWeβve known each other a while.β
Kateβs smile was genuine, warm. βSimonβs mentioned you. He said youβre the only person who ever properly argues with him.β
You looked at him and he looked back, unblinking, almost amused. Fucking smug motherfucker. Christ I wanna smash your face in.
βI try not to make a habit of it,β you said, cocking your head slightly, lips pursing.
βPity,β Simon answered. βI rather enjoy it.β
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.
βYou werenβt supposed to be here.β
You didn't spare him another glance as you hissed back, βNeither were you, apparently.β
βI brought my wife.β He said it like a challenge. βDoes that bother you?β
You held his gaze. βShould it?β
He smiled that little-too-easy smile. βI think it does. I think a great many things about me bother you. And I think you hate how much you notice them.β
You walked away before you said something youβd 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, βSentimentality isnβt strategy.β
A quiet conversation at another of your fatherβs dinners where he leaned in and murmured, βYou still look at me like you want to either hit me orββ He never finished the sentence. He didnβt 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.
βYouβre a conniving bastard,β you said, voice low and shaking with the effort of keeping it controlled. βYou collect people. You test them. You wait to see what breaks.β
Simon stepped closer. βAnd yet youβre still here.β
βIβm here because someone has to say it.β
βSay what, exactly?β His eyes were very dark in the dim light. βThat I push you? That I like watching the polite mask slip? That the attraction you keep pretending isnβt there is the loudest thing in every room we share?β
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.
Youβd found out something about the way heβd handled a deal, something that sat wrong in your chest, and the words came out sharp and unfiltered.
βYouβre a conniving cunt,β you said, voice rising. βA cheating bastard who thinks charm and a well-timed smile make the damage disappear. You donβt get to rewrite every story just because youβre good at smiling through it.β
Simonβs expression didnβt change for a long moment. Then something in his eyes shifted, darker, hungrier, the testing look finally dropping away into something rawer.
βSay it again,β he said quietly.
You did, stepping closer, voice raising as you meant every word that tumbled out, βYou are a fucking cunt. Cheating bastard.β
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 didnβt 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. βTell me you want this, fuck, tell me right now.β
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, βFuck, just shut the fuck up and fuck me.β
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. βFuck,β he breathed against your mouth, almost reverent and furious at once. βYou feelββ
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 youβd both been circling for months had nowhere left to hide. It was heat and friction and the sharp edge of everything youβd 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.
βLook at you,β he growled, voice low and vicious. βSo 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.β
You shoved back against him, teeth bared. βShut 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?β
His hand fisted tighter in your hair, yanking your head back so he could bite at your throat.
βDesperate? 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.β He drove in harder, the slap of skin echoing off the walls. βBut right now? I'm gonna make this greedy pussy come whether you like it or not.β
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. βFuck you,β you gasped, voice cracking. βFuck you, Simonββ
βThat's it,β he snarled, hips snapping faster. βCome on my cock like the desperate whore you are.β
Your orgasm ripped through you, thighs shaking, his name torn from your throat in a broken snarl. βFuck, Simon!β
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 didnβt step back immediately.
He stayed close, forehead almost touching yours, that same unreadable intensity still in his eyes.
βYou can keep calling me whatever you like,β he said, voice rough. βBut youβre not getting rid of me. Not now.β
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 youβd tried so hard to avoid had closed completely.
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