#but it's still better than a lot of other films

[pankowcrumbs]

Just friends X Will Poulter

MasterList

Will Poulter Masterlist

It all started with a film. Not a love story, ironically but a sharp, witty drama-comedy called Chalk Lines, about a mismatched group of former sixth form friends reuniting after ten years for the wedding of one of their own. I played Lena, the opinionated, caffeine-addicted teacher with a tendency to monologue. Will Poulter played Jamie, a hopeless romantic with a dry sense of humour and a slight hero complex. Our characters weren’t love interests just longtime mates with an unshakable bond.

Still, from the second week on set, everyone, and I mean everyone, was convinced Will and I were secretly dating.

It started with a photo someone snapped behind the monitors me laughing at something Will had whispered in my ear while we waited for a lighting setup. Then came the fan edits. We were tagged in dozens of them clips of us bantering in rehearsals, walking to set side by side, sharing a snack off camera all cut to soft indie tracks and “Just Friends?” captions in bold.

At first, it was funny. Then... we just stopped fighting it.

Not the relationship because there wasn’t one. But the narrative. We leaned into the chaos, replying to fan comments with a united front of sarcasm and deadpan humour.

So when our press day rolled around cast interviews, panels, red carpet nonsense we knew what was coming. The fans had been relentless for months. Every interviewer seemed contractually obliged to ask about “Jamie and Lena’s chemistry off screen,” followed by a knowing look at us.

On this particular morning, we were on a panel interview for The Film Room, joined by the rest of our Chalk Lines cast Jonathan Bailey, who played the soon-to-be groom, India Amarteifio as the no-nonsense bridesmaid, Thomas Brodie-Sangster as the chaotic ex, and Aimee Lou Wood as the wildcard cousin.

And we all got on like a house on fire. I mean truly group chats, pub nights, silly traditions. The kind of friendships that outlive the shoot.

“Right,” said the interviewer, Sophie, flipping open her notes with a grin. “You lot clearly adore each other. So, before we even talk about Chalk Lines, can we address the elephant in the room?”

Will and I exchanged a glance.

“Which elephant would that be, Sophie?” he asked, smoothing out his shirt collar.

“The one wearing matching Converse trainers and allegedly sharing oat milk lattes every morning?”

I looked down at our feet. “Damn. Busted.”

The cast burst into laughter.

“Come on, we all see it,” Jonathan said, raising an eyebrow. “You two have more chemistry than the whole film industry combined.”

“I mean,” Aimee chimed in, “the way you argue over whose flat has better snacks? If that’s not love, I don’t know what is.”

Thomas leaned forward dramatically. “I’ve shared scenes with Y/N. I’ve never seen her look at me the way she looks at Will when he steals her crisps.”

India was already scrolling through her phone. “Hang on, let me find this edit I saw the other day had me in tears. Slow-mo footage of you two hugging between takes with Iris playing in the background.”

“I think it’s beautiful,” Will said solemnly. “That someone took the time to edit the moment I choked on a grape into a romantic montage.”

“I wasn’t hugging you,” I pointed out. “I was trying to do the Heimlich.”

“Same energy,” he shrugged.

Sophie laughed. “So just to confirm, nothing’s going on?”

“Nothing but deep-seated emotional dependence,” I said.

“And a mutual Spotify playlist,” Will added.

“God, you’re impossible,” I muttered under my breath, nudging his knee with mine.

He smirked. “Takes one to know one.”

The rest of the interview went about as well as expected. Any time the subject veered toward plot or production, one of the cast would sneak in a joke about our supposed secret love affair. Even the serious questions turned into comedy.

“What was the most challenging scene to film?” Sophie asked.

“The one where Lena had to slap Jamie,” I said. “Because I didn’t want to hurt him.”

“She’s lying,” Will said. “She asked for multiple takes.”

“Only because you kept laughing!”

Jonathan added, “And that wasn’t even a scene. That was just during lunch.”

Eventually, Sophie wrapped it up with a cheeky smile. “Well, thank you all for your time. And thank you, Will and Y/N, for giving fans endless material for their fanfics.”

We stood, the laughter still bubbling. Will offered me his hand and helped me out of my chair like some 1950s gentleman.

“That was chaos,” I said, once we were backstage, away from the lights.

“Lovely chaos, though,” he replied. “They’re not wrong, you know.”

“About us being in love?”

He gave a cheeky smile. “About us being best mates. Can’t imagine having done this film without you.”

I nudged his shoulder. “Same.”

We didn’t need to clear anything up. There were no secret relationships, no drama behind the scenes. Just two people who got incredibly lucky working on a film that brought together six idiots who genuinely cared about one another.

Maybe fans would never stop speculating. Maybe someone was already editing today’s interview into a new TikTok with “Can’t Help Falling in Love” playing underneath.

The plan was simple. A group dinner with the cast nothing out of the ordinary. We’d done it a hundred times since the press tour started. We'd meet at some trendy place in Soho, argue over the menu, and laugh until our cheeks hurt. No alarms went off in my brain when Jonathan texted, “Dinner tonight? Everyone’s in.”

“Looking forward to it,” I replied, shoving my phone in my pocket, completely unaware of the plot about to unfold.

Will and I arrived first. Typical. We were always a bit early me because I hate being late, and Will because he’s secretly the most punctual man alive, even if he pretends to be all cool and casual about it.

"Guess we’re the first ones again," I said, glancing around outside the restaurant.

Will gave me a crooked grin, shrugging. "You'd think these people would know better than to let a Ravenclaw and a Hufflepuff get to dinner before them."

I laughed. "You’re such a nerd. That wasn’t even remotely on theme."

"I can never not do a Harry Potter reference with you."

We stepped into the restaurant, the hostess smiling warmly at us. “Reservation under Bailey?” I asked.

She nodded and gestured for us to follow. “Of course. Right this way.”

She led us through the main dining room and down a narrow corridor to a private room intimate lighting, two chairs, a small round table with a single candle in the centre. I stopped walking.

“Sorry, I think there’s a mistake,” I said. “There should be six of us.”

“This is the correct table,” she replied with a practised smile before slipping away like a character in a murder mystery.

Will turned to me with a raised eyebrow. “Bit fancy for pizza and pints, innit?”

I was already pulling out my phone. “I’ll text the group. Maybe the others are running late.”

No one replied. Typical. I looked at Will and shrugged. “Should we just... sit? Eat? Pretend this isn’t weird?”

He grinned. “Might as well. If this is a setup, they’ve outdone themselves.”

We sat, laughing about the situation, still utterly clueless. Until the waiter came out.

Wearing a crisp shirt, slicked-back hair, and a moustache that looked suspiciously fake... was Jonathan Bailey.

He carried a wine bottle like he’d trained at a Michelin-starred restaurant and greeted us in a terrible French accent. “Bonsoir, monsieur and mademoiselle. Welcome to Chez Chaos.”

I choked on my laughter. Will leaned back in his chair, wide-eyed. “Is that Bailey?”

“Is he doing a bit?” I asked, already cracking up.

Jonathan continued, entirely in character, ignoring our stares. “May I pour you some of our finest red from the vineyards of... Tesco?”

We exchanged looks. “This is a setup,” Will said, smirking.

“No shit Sherlock.”

One by one, our co-stars made their entrances, each playing a different restaurant role. India brought bread in a waistcoat and bowtie, claiming to be the “gluten guardian.” Thomas delivered our starters with an Italian accent that made zero sense. Aimee, acting as the “water sommelier,” dramatically described the tap water’s “earthy undertones.”

None of them broke character. Not once. And when we tried to call them out, they’d say things like, “I’m sorry, I don’t know who this ‘Jonathan’ is,” or “Madam, I work in hospitality, not in film.”

I couldn’t stop laughing. Neither could Will. The absurdity of it all the dedication to the bit made it one of the best nights I’d ever had.

It wasn’t until dessert that the final surprise was revealed.

A camera crew emerged from behind a divider.

I blinked. “Wait. What?”

Out walked a talk show host we both recognised immediately known for viral interview segments and cheeky ambushes.

“Will! Y/N!” he called. “Welcome to ‘The Love Trap’!”

Will groaned, dragging a hand down his face. “Oh no.”

I stared at the camera, mouth slightly open. “This is a setup and a public shaming.”

“Absolutely,” the host beamed. “And look, your entire friend group helped.”

Jonathan threw his hands up from the corner, still in costume. “We did it for the fans!”

“You do realise we’re not dating, right?” I said, chuckling nervously.

The host raised an eyebrow. “Are you sure? Because Twitter disagrees. There’s a thirty-minute edit of you two looking at each other in slow motion set to a Taylor Swift song.”

Will tried not to laugh, failing miserably. “Let me guess, ‘You Belong With Me’?”

“‘Invisible String,’ actually.”

I turned to Will, grinning. “That’s at least an 8/10 edit.”

“9.5,” he agreed.

The host leaned in. “So. Are you sure there’s nothing going on between you two?”

Will opened his mouth, then paused. “Define ‘sure.’”

Everyone in the room exploded with laughter.

It was like that the entire evening teasing, sarcasm, banter. But what surprised me was how easy it all felt. Being with Will, even in this ridiculous setup, never felt uncomfortable. If anything, it felt... right.

When the cameras were off and we were walking out of the restaurant, I nudged him. “Well. That was eventful.”

Will chuckled. “I’ve never been so aggressively romanced by a film crew.”

“And your best mates.”

The car ride home was quiet but not awkward. Comfortable, even. The soft hum of the engine filled the silence between us as the streets of London slipped past in a blur of lamplight and rain-speckled windows. I fiddled with the bracelet on my wrist, stealing glances at Will’s profile illuminated by the dashboard lights. He looked calm. Focused. His left hand rested lazily at the bottom of the wheel, and every now and then, his thumb tapped to the rhythm of whatever song was playing through the speakers.

Neither of us said much since we left the restaurant.

What could we say, really?

Our friends had pulled off a complete ambush. A whole fake dinner, private room, them dressed as waiters, the lot and all of it filmed for a late-night talk show appearance. It had been a full-on matchmaking scheme wrapped in sarcasm, flirty accusations, and glances that lingered a little too long. For the first time, it felt like they weren’t entirely wrong.

“Thanks for the lift,” I murmured as he pulled up in front of my place.

Will didn’t answer straight away. He turned off the engine, but neither of us moved to open our doors.

“No worries,” he finally replied, voice soft. “Bit mad tonight, wasn’t it?”

“Completely.”

We both chuckled. And then… silence again.

I looked out the windscreen at the quiet street, shadows of tree branches dancing across the pavement in the glow of a streetlamp. My flat was right there ten steps away. But something in the air held me in my seat, like getting out now would ruin something unspoken, something that had shifted in the past few hours.

Will rubbed the back of his neck. “Can I be honest with you?”

I turned toward him. “Always.”

He didn’t look at me right away. He stared at the steering wheel like it held answers.

“I kept telling myself we were just friends. That it was just chemistry for the camera, a bit of banter. But I think tonight made me realise…” He paused, finally meeting my eyes. “I don’t want it to just be that anymore.”

My heart thudded. Loud and certain.

I swallowed hard. “You too, huh?”

He let out a breath that was half laugh, half relief. “So it’s not just me.”

I shook my head slowly, smiling. “Not just you.”

Will’s gaze softened. “Can I ask something a bit mad?”

“Go on.”

He hesitated. “Would it be completely inappropriate if I didn’t go home just yet?”

My breath caught. I knew what he was saying. He wasn’t suggesting anything crude or presumptuous. It was more about not wanting this moment to end. About the magnetic pull between us finally acknowledged and impossible to ignore.

“I was about to ask if you wanted to come in,” I said, voice barely above a whisper.

He smiled quietly, genuinely. “Then I’d like that.”

We got out of the car, not rushing, walking slowly toward the door. I unlocked it with slightly trembling fingers, not from nerves but something else anticipation. Inside, the hallway was dimly lit by the lamp I always left on, the warm amber glow casting shadows across the walls.

I kicked off my shoes, suddenly hyper-aware of the silence between us again. Will stood near the door, taking in my space like he hadn’t been here before, even though he had. But never like this. Never with the air charged and every glance saying more than words ever could.

“D’you want a drink or...?”

“I’m okay,” he said, cutting me off gently. “Unless you want one.”

“No,” I said, my voice dipping. “I’m good.”

We stood in the hallway for a moment before I nodded toward the living room. “Come on. It’s warmer in here.”

He followed me in, sitting on the sofa while I tucked my legs beneath me in the opposite corner. The television played a muted rerun of something we weren’t watching. All I could hear was the soft tick of the clock and the rustle of Will shifting to face me.

“Bit surreal, isn’t it?” I said, eyes locked on his.

He nodded. “Yeah.”

“Feels like we’ve been circling this for a while.”

He let out a quiet laugh. “More than a while.”

There was something about his expression that made me feel like I was floating something gentle and open, but laced with the weight of something deeper. That thing you keep locked away until someone makes you feel safe enough to share it.

“I always thought you were a bit out of my league,” he admitted.

I blinked. “What?”

“You just… You light up every room. You’re clever, and funny, and you’ve got this presence. Everyone sees it. I thought I was just the mate making you laugh in between takes.”

My heart twisted. “That’s ridiculous.”

He smiled sadly. “Maybe. But it’s true.”

I reached out without thinking, brushing his hand where it rested on his knee. “I’ve always seen you, Will. Maybe I just didn’t let myself admit how much.”

His fingers turned over and curled into mine, slowly, deliberately.

The silence returned, but this time it was thick with something else hope, fear, desire, everything layered together. The TV flickered softly, colours playing across our faces, and I knew in that moment that nothing would be the same after tonight.

Will’s voice came low and steady. “Can I stay? Just for a bit. We don’t have to do anything or talk about it if you don’t want to. I just…”

I squeezed his hand. “Stay.”

We didn’t end up sleeping in separate rooms. But it wasn’t what people would assume.

We sat up talking for hours on the sofa, then in bed. Under the covers, facing each other like teenagers, our legs tangled and our voices hushed in the dark. We talked about the shoot, the edits, the ridiculous fan compilations we pretended to roll our eyes at. He told me about growing up, the pressure he’d felt to always be the “nice guy” on screen and off. I told him about how I hid behind humour whenever I felt too much.

And we laughed. God, we laughed.

But underneath all of it, there was tension. This low hum in the background, like something unspoken but mutually understood. Our touches lingered a little longer, eyes drifted to lips more than once. When his hand slid along my waist under the duvet, I didn’t move away.

But we didn’t rush it. We stayed there in that liminal space between friendship and something more, letting the quiet speak for us.

At some point, my eyes started to close and I felt his fingers brush my cheek, tucking a strand of hair behind my ear.

“Sleep,” he whispered.

“You too,” I murmured back.

Morning came softly.

I woke up to sunlight streaming through the curtains and the sound of the kettle clicking off in the kitchen. Will was making tea.

When I walked in, still wearing the oversized T-shirt I’d thrown on before bed, he turned and grinned like he’d been doing this for years. Like this was normal.

“Morning,” he said, offering me a mug.

“Morning.”

I took it, our fingers brushing, and the butterflies returned instantly.

He looked at me, tilting his head. “You alright?”

I nodded. “Yeah. You?”

He smiled. “More than.”

He passed me the mug, and for a moment, we just stood there in the kitchen. The warm porcelain pressed against my hands, the smell of Earl Grey curling up like a comfort blanket, but all I could feel was the electricity radiating off Will.

The air shifted.

His eyes lingered on me on my lips, on the sleepy way my hair fell around my shoulders, on the oversized shirt of his I’d borrowed and forgotten was his until now.

He cleared his throat softly. “You, uh… you look good in that.”

I looked down at the shirt, cheeks flushing. “It’s yours.”

“Yeah.” He swallowed. “I know.”

It was such a simple sentence. But something about the way he said it, voice low and thick with meaning, made my heart stutter.

He took a step closer. “Can I kiss you?”

It was barely a whisper.

I nodded before I could talk myself out of it.

And then he kissed me.

Slow, unhurried, but certain. Like he’d been thinking about it for far too long and now that it was finally happening, he didn’t want to rush a second of it. His hands came up gently one settling at my waist, the other brushing against my jaw. I leaned into him, the mug forgotten, hands curling into the soft fabric of his shirt.

When he pulled back, we were both breathing a little harder.

“I’ve wanted to do that for ages,” he murmured, foreheads pressed together.

“Me too.”

There was a beat.

Then something shifted like we both felt the final thread pull taut.

He kissed me again, harder this time, more sure. I responded instantly, my fingers tangling in his hair, pulling him closer until there was barely space between us. His hands moved skimming under the hem of my shirt, brushing against the skin of my lower back, making me shiver.

“You’re freezing,” he whispered, lips ghosting along my jaw. “C’mere.”

He took my hand and gently led me back to the bedroom, neither of us saying much, because words would’ve only got in the way now.

In the soft light of the morning, he paused and looked at me really looked.

“You’re sure?” he asked, voice husky but earnest.

I nodded. “Yeah. I am.”

His smile was quiet, almost reverent, before he reached for me again.

There was nothing rushed. Everything he did was with care and attention his fingers brushing over my arms, my waist, my thighs as if learning them for the first time. Each touch sent sparks skating across my skin. When his lips moved down my neck, it was gentle at first, but soon heat began to replace softness.

He pushed the shirt slowly up my body, fingertips skimming along my ribs, pausing just below the hem like he was asking permission. I raised my arms wordlessly, and he slipped it over my head. His eyes swept over me, his breath catching, and then he kissed me again deeper, hungrier.

I tugged at his T-shirt in return, and he pulled it off, revealing a toned chest I’d seen in photos and on screen, but never like this. Never this close. Never while he was looking at me like I was the only thing that existed.

When I kissed down the side of his throat, I felt him exhale shakily.

We ended up on the bed him over me, then beside me, then under me our movements a blur of whispered words and tangled limbs. There was laughter, too. Soft, surprised giggles between kisses. I think that’s what made it feel so real.

And when he finally settled above me again, our bodies pressed together, his forehead against mine, we just... stopped.

“You’re beautiful,” he said, like it was a fact, not a compliment.

My hand traced the line of his spine. “So are you.”

And then there were no more words.

Just the press of lips, the rustle of sheets, the slow burn of something inevitable.

What happened next was like falling into a dream we’d both had before but only just remembered. Everything was slow and deliberate, his mouth trailing along my collarbone, my nails grazing down his back, the air between us filled with the kind of electricity that makes time feel irrelevant.

And when the final layer between us slipped away, it was like everything we’d been holding back the tension, the friendship, the longing finally found release.

Later, we lay tangled in the aftermath, skin against skin, his arm draped around my waist, my head resting on his chest. The morning light crept across the bed like it was trying to witness what we already knew.

That this wasn’t just chemistry.

This was the start of something real.

And neither of us had to say it out loud to feel it.

[bread0nhead]

The Beauty and the Blast | Chapter Eight

Summary: In the spotlight, the world calls her Pulchra. A rising celebrity model who's known for her quick, Infinite Beauty. A quirk that alters a persons perception of beauty, causing anyone who sees her to subconsciously view her as the embodiment of their ideal vison- making her universally captivating. 

Everyone either wants to be her, or to be with her. From obsessive fans to controlling agencies, everyone wants to own her. While the world sees her as perfect, behind closed doors she's deeply lonely yet craves the silence. 

He's loud, intense, blunt and more emotionally repressed than an angsty teen alone on Valentines. Everyone sees him for his explosions and strength, but its that short fuse that landed him battling the hardest war yet- public image and the PR team that comes with it.

Note: Cross posted on ao3 What's currently happening in LA is awful. It's Trump trying to show the people what happens if you oppose him. He wants people to be scared to speak up. Many times in my life, I've been told I won't go places because I'm too outspoken. That I don't play the game of the silent cog. I was told I make people uncomfortable for speaking out on injustice. I had to "find my place". But why should I be the outlier? Its those that sit in silence and let the safety other others be taken away, that should be uncomfortable. Because they shouldn't be the norm. Speak up for your boundaries. Speak up for the kid getting bullied. Speak up against unfair wages. Speak up for the safety of yourself, your neighbors, animals, and the parents being ripped away from their children. And most of all, FUCK TRUMP. God damn. Rating: 18+

You woke up early, wearing an oversized knitted sweater and the fuzzy shorts. In the kitchen was a perfectly curated balanced breakfast and a small espresso made by your private chef, waiting for you on your marble table. It was a french cuisine this morning. The portions were small, barely enough to fill your hunger. Which meant only one thing��whatever they had planned for you to wear today would be tight and revealing. 

As you sipped on your espresso, your fingers played with the small black and orange card with Bakugou's number on it. It’s been about 5 days and you still haven’t called or texted. What was there to say? 

“Hi friend- I know I read all of this wrong and you think our time together was stupid, but I think I actually like you??” Hell no!

You thought of a hundred things to say. Even typed most of them out. But you never had the nerve to send any. So now the card sits on your counter acting as a souvenir of what once was. 

The beeping of your security keypad echoed, drawing your attention away. When the doors swung open, Jun walked inside carrying a long golden dress wrapped in a protecting film. “Darling! You’ll simply be the bell of the ball tonight with this gown!” Jun sang. 

He strutted like he owned the place and you mindlessly followed towards your dressing room, which was more like its own separate apartment store full of every fabric and jewel to exist. Jun hung up the dress and carefully removed the plastic. It was a long, body forming, strappy dress that flowed like molten gold. The dress looked overly complicated on the hanger which always meant one thing. There would be a lot of skin showing. Your fingers played with the soothing sensation of the fabric, feeling the luxury of real silk. 

Tonight was the Venus Charity Gala, a yearly event where all the top actors, models and celebrities show up in the most couture on theme ensembles. 

“This is great, Jun.” “Oh honey, it’s better than great. It’s perfection. It’s magnetic.  You and Logan will be walking dreams!” 

“Logan?”

“Yes Sweety, didn’t anyone tell you?” 

Your face dropped. 

“Oh my. Well! Logan Rivera will be your sexy little arm candy tonight. His reputation as an actor is skyrocketing. The media is claiming he’ll be Japan's next hottest man of the year!”

You know all about Logan's reputation. But it’s one so well hidden from the public, only those in the industry know what he’s really like. He uses his fame and money to convince up and coming models or actors that he can make them celebrities. As long as they sleep with him. But it’s those girls who wake up beaten and bruised, forever tortured by the memories of Logan Rivera. 

You’re sure your manager and the rest of the team who own your brand know all of this. But they don’t care, all that matters is the articles the next day.

“Hair and makeup will be here around three to get you all glitz and glam. So be sure to lay off anything salty or sweet until then, yes darling?”

You tried your best to give a genuine smile “Yes, thanks Jun.” 

***

Bakugou did what he did best when he needed a distraction- blow shit up. Training dummies, punching bags, even interns. Nothing or no one was spared. He doubled his patrols, took on extra missions, took every opportunity to blow off some steam. If he kept his body moving, you would stay off his mind. 

With every buzz or ring of a notification on his phone, there was a small flicker of hope before it crushed him. Each time it wasn’t you, which was everytime, made the silence a little deeper. This feeling was driving him crazy.  

You drew the line of friendship, made it cut and clear. After everything, the relentless flirting, the touches that lingered a bit too long and the way you looked at him with longing. You chose distance. He should’ve seen it. It was all PR shit for glossy headlines and tabloid feeds. 

He’s not sure if it's his pride being shot that pisses him off, he’s never been rejected before. Girls always come easy to him. Or if it's worse. He actually fucking cares about you. 

Bakugou finished suiting up into his hero uniform ready to patrol his sector for whatever villainy may be stalking the streets. He’s hoping, begging, for some idiot to try him today. Give him an excuse to let loose. 

“Hey, man! You see Pulchra will be at the Venus Charity Gala tonight? Bet she’s going to look sooo hot!” Denki said in passing with a huge smile on his face. Bakugou was about to blow smoke from his ears, just hearing your name. “Who fuckin’ cares? Just some dumb dress up show.”

He didn’t stick around long enough to hear Denki’s response. He didn’t want to hear it.

Patrol was painfully uneventful. Not even a simple purse snatcher or carjacker. Just quiet streets and too much time to think. 

He took a turn down a street he usually avoided and immediately regretted. There you were, or at least a towering billboard of you. Some advertisement for high-end makeup brand. Your eyes stared down at him, wide and bright. Lips curved into a carefully practiced smile. 

“Tsk, whatever.” 

He turned away and walked in the opposite direction back to the agency. It was nearly 6pm by the time he got back and stripped off his uniform. There was an itch gnawing at the back of his mind. His phone was burning a hole in his pocket, telling him to check the news, just once. With a frustrated growl and slamming his locker enough to break the hinges, he yanked his phone from his pocket and typed in “Pulchra Venus Charity Gala” into the browser.

Instant regret.

The screen lit up with a flood of images and video clips. There you were, standing on a red carpet and flashing cameras, dripping in a gown that looked like it was poured on your skin. 

Your hair done up into a loose updo. The liquid dress that cascaded on one shoulder and left the other bare. Opulent gold fabric swept across your chest and crossed back around to your waist until it fell into a long train with a high slit. The dress was tight forming and left little to the imagination. Your chest and midriff barely covered and your ass perfectly sculpted in the clinging fabric. The media described your look as “sexy, daring, and unpredictable.” 

His body tensed as he watched you through the screen. But it wasn’t anger, it was something darker. The kind that pulsed as blood rushed. Made the mouth dry and mind hazey. Then he saw him. 

Some polished asshole with slicked back hair, sculped jaw line and a smile that won awards. Logan Rivera. Some actor pretty-boy he’s never heard of. 

Bakugou’s stomach twisted as he watched you lean into the bastard, hand resting on his chest and smiling at whatever stupid shit he had to say. The media gushed over how perfect you looked together. He wanted to break his phone. 

But against his better judgment, he tapped on a livestream clip.

You looked at the camera with a perfect smile and eyes that dared the world. They drew crowds in, pulled by desire. 

A press reporter came up to you with a mic, craving a story.

“Pulchra, what about 15th hero Dynamite? Have you turned in hot-headed hero, for hot and handsome?” 

Bakugou didn’t want to hear your answer. He closed the browser, locked his phone and slammed it on the bench. 

Fucking waste of time. 

***

The gala was all reds and golds. Flowers spilled from ornate vases and marble fountains flowed with liquid gold. Sparkling crystal chandeliers hung from the ceiling, refracting small beams of colors in all directions. Silk dancers floated from the ceiling, circling around the audience. Classical music playing modern songs could be heard from every direction. 

Only a few photographers were allowed inside the venue, a true mercy,  but that didn’t make them any less of vultures. They cataloged every glance, touch and whisper. 

After two flutes of champagne and a few stiff uncomfortable dances with Logan, he drifted away. You didn’t entertain his flirtatious comments and pulled away when his hand crept too low. Eventually he got bored and latched himself onto a group of young, entirely too young, models with bright eyes and empty smiles. 

Good. 

You hadn’t wanted a date to begin with. It was your PR teams idea in the first place. Something about optics and perception, staying ahead of the tabloids. Logan was nothing more than a calculated move in a finely tailored suit.  

The room was packed with familiar faces from the industry, but despite the size you felt claustrophobic. Heat building from the weight of too many bodies in designer clothes. The air reeked of a mixture of expensive perfumes and desperation. Everyone hid behind perfectly blended foundation, hollow jokes, veiled insults and dull flexing of success. At every corner were whispers of scandals. 

You were speaking to a new starry eyes model who's only been in the industry for a few months. The only reason she's even at this event is because of some big name actor she's sleeping with. She was going on and on about this fad diet she's on. The kind where there's more risk than reward. But you know if she doesn’t do it, she’ll lose her contract. She changes the subject to you, how she looks up to you. How you’re the reason she began modeling. You feel guilty everytime someone says you’re their reason for getting into this shit hole of an industry. You don’t want to be responsible for their misery. The more she spoke, the more her voice faded away. The music turned to a high pitch ringing. Your pulse quickened, muscles tensed.  You began to feel cold and exposed. There was a shift, like eyes were on you. Not in the usual kind you expect from an event like this. 

You whipped your head around and found an unfamiliar face staring at you from behind the tower of champagne flutes. There was a look in his eyes. A fixation. An unblinking predatory fixation. 

The young model called out your name a few times but her voice fell of deaf ears. It's not till she grabbed onto your shoulder, did you blink and the sound of music and chattering of voices all came flooding back. 

“S-sorry” 

You tried to smile, refocus on the young model in front of you. You forced laughter and small talk. But the way the man's eyes burned into you kept replaying, keeping you frozen in fear. 

You finally got the courage to glance back, but the man was gone. You looked all around and he was nowhere to be seen. 

You spent the rest of the event entertaining other celebrities with your charm, laughed off flirtatious comments and discussed new work opportunities for some product you couldn’t care less about. 

But despite all the drinks, conversion and fake smiles. You couldn’t get your mind off that man. You decide to slip out of the party early without notice. 

***

Back at your home, before you even had a chance to slip out of your dress and into something comfortable, you found an envelope laying on the floor of your white marble. Your heart began to race and your palms sweat as you reluctantly picked up the unmarked envelope. Your hands shaked as you ripped it open.

Inside were photos of you alone in your penthouse from this morning, eating your breakfast. From the angle of the photos, it appeared to have been taken from your balcony. And being on the 33rd floor, only added to the terror. 

Moments later your phone chimed and you nearly jumped at the sound. You looked at your phone only to see a text from an unknown number. 

UNKNOWN: 

You looked beautiful tonight. The fear only made you that more enticing. 

Without a moment of thought, you instantly ran to where you kept the card Bakugou gave you and called the number he scratched on the back. Tears ran down your cheeks and the air thickened in your throat as the phone rang. 

“Who is this?” “Can…can you come over?” He recognized your voice instantly and the way it shook. 

Bakugou grabbed his keys before you even finished your sentence. “I’m on my way.” 

You texted him your address with shaky fingers and the keyword for the front door security to let him in. 

What you considered your fortress now felt like a cell of granite and glass. You sat on the kitchen floor, crying into your hands. A half empty bottle of wine next to you. You were still in your dress, but your hair now undone and lightly tangled. 

Not even ten minutes later you hear three wraps on your door. The sudden sound scares you but you scramble to get up. As soon as you open the doors, you wrap your arms around Bakugou's chest and cry enough to dampen his black shirt. He grabs your shoulders and pushes you back enough to get a good look at you. 

“What happened?” Concern and anger written all over him. 

You move aside and let him follow you in. He kicks the door shut behind him and scans the room like it was a battlefield. Cataloging exits, shadows or any points of weakness. He noticed the number of locks on each door, the monitoring cameras in every corner and the security system screwed to the wall. 

“You said come over” his voice low “So. What happened?” 

You didn’t answer right away, just gripping onto the skirt of your dress. Your makeup had been smudged and your hair tousled. You looked small. 

Silently you handed him your phone with the unknown numbers text. 

“You block the number?”

You nodded and your hands shaked. 

“Thats…not all.” 

Next you handed him the envelope and when he looked at the photos inside he felt his blood boil. Right away he knew this wasn’t some average stalker. This was someone who managed to get past security and avoid the systems you have in place. 

“You have access to your security cameras?” 

You nodded and handed him a tablet that had all camera recordings. As he reviewed the videos, you sat on your couch and wrapped yourself in a blanket. 

There was nothing in the recordings. Not even a shadow. His fists clenched. When he looked up he saw you shaking and trying your best not to cry. 

“You tell security about this?” You shook your head. You kept security guards to a minimum, preferring not having someone always breathing down your neck. “They’re used to crowds, eager fans, but not this. You’re the first I called.” 

Bakugou let out a sigh and ran a hand through his hair. He sat next to you, close. He was warm. Present. 

“I see how people look at you. You can’t live alone and not have 24/7 patrol watching over you.” “I know!” You were too loud and too sharp. 

Then quieter “I know.” 

Silence fell between them. 

“Everyone thinks they own Pulchra. They think I belong to them. So I chose this solitude. The silence. I wanted freedom.” 

Bakugou's jaw flexed and he inched a little closer to you. 

You leaned against his, resting your head on his broad chest. He let you. 

“I’ll keep you safe.” Bakugou stroked your back with his thumb, fire burning in his eyes. 

“Will you stay with me tonight?” You looked up at him with pleading eyes. A look he could never refuse. 

“Of course.” 

[creatingblackcharacters]

im wondering how you personally would address a situation where there was racism both in the plot and in the production of a film, but the Black actors performance was still stellar- ie, the only Black character is the villain, and their performance is EASILY the best, but its so egregiously obvious that the director/casting director/scriptwriter were blind to the fact that having your only Black character be an unrepentant villain is Very Bad. And by address, i mean when discussing it with people- "he was great but there was a lot of underlying racism in the writing" is true and to the point, but i was just wondering if you had any further opinions (the movie is the Unholy Trinity btw, a middling and dubiously "socially conscious" western in theaters rn)

I mean, I would just say all those things. 😐 What else do I need to say? There's plenty of media where a performance is excellent but the writing is not. The Black actor's performance could be the best thing about it and that's all. They deserved better. Imitation of Life is a Mammy Movie, but Juanita did good in it! Chadwick Boseman certainly never deserved to be cast amongst the White Brits playing in Gods of Egypt. I'm not sure what else you want me to say other than shoving my syllabus in their face. 😅

Also, I wouldn't say that having your only Black character being a villain is automatically bad! It's the rest of what's happening in the movie around it that offers context, that "yeah they clearly didn't think about this, the intent is lacking". And you said it addresses racism? Nothing worse than something trying to address racism and it sucks or makes it worse. Like thanks for that soapbox speech we all coulda ignored.

[vibraniumqueen]

Ok, reading back on it. It does come off as way more passive aggressive than I wanted it too, I apologize.

I know John had shit moments in fatws. I'm in no way saying he wasn't an asshole. I just thought that being reminded that Alexei was at the very least compliant with child trafficking that John wouldn't seem worst.

You are right, we don't know enough about Alexei's background to really say much. We don't know what he knew exactly about The Red Room. But you kinda got to admit, having wishful thinking that he doesn't know anything is kinda like "He was on the plane but he didn't go to the island" He knew something horrible was going on.

What we do know that he greeted Dreykov as an old friend, asked him for more missions, talked Natasha down from trying to escape, looked her dead in her teary eyes as she said "I don't want to go back there. You can't take her[Yelena], she's only six" and straight up said "You were younger." Then watched her get drugged and taken away.

But you do have a point that, the writing makes John as asshole while Alexei is buffoon.

Anyway, I know my initial ask seemed like it was meant to be an argument, sorry about that again. Neither this one or the last one were meant to be! but mostly, long story short it was just a "Alexei not as bad? He helped The Red Room!"

Thank you for your response! In the future, you might want to use tone tags to indicate which emotion you are trying to convey. For instance, you could use /gen to indicate it's a genuine question/statement, or /lh as shorthand for light hearted, so people know you're not putting so much weight into your message. If you dont know what tone tags are, you can look them up on Google or even here on Tumblr.

Anyway, back to Alexei and John. I think they're both terrible people. I do think Alexei has come farther in trying to make up for his past than John has. I asked my fiance (also a huge Marvel fan) for his opinion on the MCU versions of the characters, and he agreed with me that he thinks John is worse. But that part of that is him trying to do better/being removed from the situations where he was doing bad work/things.

I also want to make sure I'm clear that I think both of these characters are bad. I don't think either one have redeemed themselves (at least not completely) and I am interested to see what the MCU has in store for these characters and if they will try to redeem them, or bring them back to their low points/villain eras.

I know assuming Alexei doesn't know is not a super strong argument. But at the end of the day, it's the studios job to show us and give us context for these characters, and they omitted that from the Black Widow film. I think maybe the purposely left his character vague, so that they could leave open different options for future appearances of the character. (Which is kind of lame, but whatever. Ig it's a smart money-making decision to wait and see how audiences receive the character).

Part of why I bring up Alexei being a buffoon, is that I don't think he's super street smart. I think there's a good chance his character is too blinded by his love for Russia that he does not infer what is going on in the widow program, other than depriving children of a childhood, and training them to be killers. (Which is still pretty terrible that he's okay with that). I don't necessarily like that they chose to make him somewhat of an idiot, but that's how I interpret his character. Of course, being ignorant doesn't absolve someone from all wrongdoing. They should do their due diligence. But I think Alexei not completely understanding what's going on isn't as bad as him potentially knowing what's going on. I hope that if we see a lot more of his character, that they explore his background some to give us much needed context.

At the end of the day though, these are all just opinions and we can all have our own opinions.

Trigger Warning: mentions of real world csa (child sexual abuse) and discussions of the immorality of murder. Brief suicidal ideation

Getting into a really deep topic here, I am a CSA survivor, and my personal opinion is that when you murder someone in cold blood, not in self defense, that is worse than SA (purely in MY opinion. Everyone is entitled to their own opnion on this matter). With murder, you end a life. With SA, you ruin a life, but you don't end it, and it is possible to heal from, despite it being a long journey and there being spots along the way where it doesn't feel like it's worth it.

So to me, John Walker's crime is worse, especially since he committed it himself. Alexei may have known about what was going on and didn't do anything to stop it, (which is super horrible if that is the case), but he didn't perpetrate the crime itself. Which while being horrific, isn't as horrific as actually committing the act yourself. The only counter argument i could see to this that I would agree with, is that John Walker only did that to one person (that we know of). While Dreykov committed his crimes en masse.

Ok, sorry about getting really dark and serious there 😭

I hope none of this came across as passive aggressive, because I don't mean it as such. I mean it as a serious discussion between two fans (and whoever else chooses to interact with this post). If there's any more you'd like to discuss (on this or anything else Marvel related) feel free to shoot me another ask! (This goes for everyone reading this as well)

<I didn't proof read this, so sorry if anything is glaringly wrong or tone deaf 😭 >

[erisponsibility]

This film managed to shoot anamorphic and not look like shit. Congratulations Sonic you're better than Zack Snyder (and also half of Hollywood films nowadays in general but Snyder is the most egregious example)

Sonic Movie 3 trailer Shadow gifset part 2

[myokk]

I splurged on a new pencil/sketchbook today (late Christmas present/early bday present??) & WOW😳 I’m obsessed…💘 EXPECT A LOT MORE ART🙏🙏🙏🙏🙏🙏🙏🙏🙏🙏🙏

[kaythefloppa]

Enough time has passed to where I think we can openly admit how WK has gone through seasonal rot within its previous 2 seasons and how the hype of Season 7 along with the generally positive reception is a really green flag for the show's quality.

[mariocki]

Don't Answer the Phone! (1980)

"Don't you give a shit about getting this strangler off the streets?"

"What would you prescribe for the man, a firing squad?"

"That's not a bad idea. Mainly I don't want him back on the streets in a few years - or sooner, if some misguided shrink discovers he can find his ass in the dark with both hands."

[keepthemacramesecret]

always fun to see what new bizarre details a midcentury raffles adaptation will throw in to avoid writing bunny as a lead character

[harumscarumcos]

I’m just happy to know no Disney/Disney adjacent films won for the sole fact they are Disney/Disney adjacent

Congrats to The Boy and the Heron on the Oscar win, still proud of each movie that ended up nominated in the section

[felidthing]

nausicaä and princess mononoke are not The Same yes they are similar in Having Environmental Themes and A Cool Princess Character but they are very different movies. very very. nausicaä is about a societal ignorance of the nature around it its about conflict between nations and a desire for a peaceful solution. its about taking the time to research the land and animals you live alongside and challenging your current beliefs about them. its about genuine interest in and compassion for animals no one else will love. princess mononoke is about hatred and revenge and how those things can ruin you and its about humanity's impact on its environment and respect for the environment and other animals and sacred things. its about being ostracized and finding new companions and having stronger relationships with them than could ever happen between you and your original home and its about finding those relationships again despite everything. both movies are about war and nature but so are countless others even from the same studio. san isnt even the same kind of "princess" nausicaä is

[theheadlessgroom]

@beatingheart-bride

In turn, Randall squeezed her hand back, as he drew in a deep breath. Despite his best efforts, clinging to the notion that his parents would at the very least be understanding once everything was laid out on the table for them, seeing that Emily really meant him no harm and that they truly were in love, there was no denying that growing cold pit in the bottom of his stomach, worsened only by her suggestion. A part of him sort of wanted to (however lamely) protest, instead suggest they save it for another day, and just enjoy themselves for now...

...he knew, in his heart, she was right. They would have to tell them at some point, and it was better to do it now rather than later; Randall had never been one keen to lie to his parents, and he knew the guilt of keeping such a massive secret from them would eat him up from the inside out. Thus, it was just better to get it out of the way-for both his and Emily's ease of mind.

"You're right," he sighed, as he brought her closer, wrapping his arm around her as he nodded, "They...they do deserve to know. I'll, uh...I'll give them a call in a little while, tell 'em when I'll be home, and that you'll be with me. We'll...we'll tell them together."

He punctuated this with another loving kiss, this one pressed to her cheek as he reassured her, "It'll be alright, Emily."

[lacomandante]

I've been working on a fic since last year from Ramon's POV and his thoughts on Teresa and Sharpe (bc i LOVE those fics where it's viewing relationships from an outside perspective) and one point that I had to stop and think about was whether or not, in the film universe, Ramon would've met Sharpe before Company. In the films, he's replaced with Maria, Teresa's sister, but in the books it's just Ramon, her brother. I kept both bc I love Ramon- but because of timelines and the mess that is the Sharpe films doing stuff out of order, me and Sam have been slowly working out how exactly Sharpe's Gold (book) would translate into a film version, what would change, and what pieces of the plot we've moved to other ideas we've had. Obviously in the book it's where Teresa first meets Sharpe, and it's completely different from how they meet in the films, and the circumstances are different too. Ramon very easily could meet Sharpe in this rewrite. But honestly I think it would be x100 times funnier if Ramon knows of Sharpe through Teresa, never meets him, Teresa mysteriously goes undercover in Badajoz and has Ramon take control of the partisans, and then 16 months later or so Teresa shows up at his doorstep, husband and daughter in tow, and Ramon is like TERESA????? YOU MARRIED????AND HAD A BABY???????? and Teresa just laughs and smiles and says yes!!! surprise!!! meet my family!!! Sharpe would be so awkward at first but Ramon of course loves him right away bc he's heard a lot about him from Teresa and through the grapevine and also he's an UNCLE now and immediately welcomes Sharpe in and he loves his niece soooo much ;w; after he recovers from the shock and mental whiplash of course

[sassyfever]

Okay but why is Meet the Robinsons so amazing, like I'm used to finding good movies long after their release but to find a movie of THIS level without even hearing anyone talk about it even a little bit. I was just trying to pass time and stumbled upon a masterpiece.

[lesbian-david-tennant]

I just watched Star Trek II: Wrath of Khan and wow that is also some gay shit

"I have been and always shall be yours" FUCK

Spock going in for the vulcan kiss through the glass and then Kirk hesitating and spreading out all his fingers instead. you would friendzone him while he's dying? diabolical

"of all the souls I have encountered in my travels, his was the most... human" what if I ate glass

I'm so glad I know that Spock comes back after this, because if I watched this in cinemas in 1982 and I had to live with this ending... I would be WEEPING. I would be in full mourning for 2 years

I just watched Star Trek: The Motion Picture and wow that really is some gay shit

I'd seen the "this simple feeling" scene, I was prepared for that. but I wasn't prepared for the full extent of the conversion therapy allegory

and then Spock saying "it knows only that it needs but like so many of us, it does not know what" while gazing at Kirk

and then the whole fucking resolution being that V'ger needs to discover something more, "a human quality, our capacity to leap beyond logic," through union with a human

it clearly parallels Spock and Kirk with V'ger and Will and directly implies that 'this simple feeling' is love, romantic love

WHAT THE FUCK I can only begin to understand what my fandom ancestors felt seeing this in 1979

[webism]

pornstar!toji who is known for being easy with his scenes. he's there for a good fuck and an even better paycheck: it doesn't matter who, or where, or how... if he's being paid he will do it. he doesn't mind getting nasty, and so he's often booked for more exotic scenes. he fucks good, and he fucks a lot.

pornstar!toji who is strapped for cash one week after an unfortunate loss on the horses, and takes the first scene offered to him. a vanilla fuck with a new-to-the-scene pornstar with potential... at least that's what his agent, shiu, tells him. he's confused on what potential he's hinting at until he rocks up ten minutes late to the shoot and lays eyes on you, already naked and on the stage bed. you have a look to you that makes a man like toji feel obliged to drop to his knees.

pornstar!toji who is already harder than he has been in a long time when shiu clarifies that when he called you 'new to the scene' he meant it: this is your first porn shoot. and though you're not a virgin, toji has the honour of taking your first time on camera... and god does he love the thought.

pornstar!toji who is greeted with a small smile and a soft 'hello' from you, shy beneath his gaze as if you aren't naked and soon to be stuffed full of his cock. he watches your eyes shift, from his piercing eyes to his beautifully scarred lip to the gorgeous tone of his body, all the way down to his awfully large cock. he can tell you're nervous, worried about taking all of him on film.

pornstar!toji who isnt good with gentle comforts, but still wants you to feel at ease with him. so, despite his instructions for a simple fuck scene, toji attacks you with deep kisses first, gets you used to the burning heat of his body against yours. and when you're melted enough against his skin he trails down and eats you out for a long twenty minutes. production would try and stop him, but he's already tipsy on your taste and the moans leaving your lips are, frankly, made for porn.

pornstar!toji who revels in the way your back arches off the mattress—he'd accuse you of putting on a show for the cameras if your hips weren't bucking up against his face in an almost primal need. he can taste it on you, the genuine lust, the way you drip wet on his tongue and still grab at his hair for more. and when he gives you more—when he finally slips his cock into you—he can't help himself from groaning out something needy. he's the silent type, letting his costar take center stage, but god can he not keep quiet feeling your walls wrapped around him.

pornstar!toji who has never had an issue with porn before, but with your legs wrapped around his waist, your eyes locked onto his as he pumps in and out of you with white hot need, he finds he hates the thought of anyone else seeing you like this. he's not a possessive man, he shouldn't feel this way, but he does. even the watchful stares of the cameramen piss him off, and he finds his hips moving faster and his cock nestling deeper inside of you just to show them that he's the one pleasing you.

pornstar!toji who can't help but kiss you as you both cum in unison. he ruins the shot, the cameras cant see your orgasm face when he's swallowing your moans like they're sweet wine. he's surprised his pay doesn't get cut for it.

when pornstar!toji does get paid, it's the first cheque in a very long time that he doesn't blow the same night it comes through. because he doesn't have time to go out and waste his money: he's at home fucking his fist to the film you made together and mentally degrading himself for being so pussy whipped. he strokes himself in time with his own thrusts in the video, and tries so desperately to recall your taste on his tongue, but its fruitless. he's agitated and sexually frustrated and keeps reloading your personal pages to see if you've filmed with anyone since him.

pornstar!toji who becomes so lost in his own mind that he starts turning down shoots with other actors—shoots with good pay. he's done everything under the sun, done all the hardcore porn and weird fetish content but now that he's gotten a fresh taste of plain passion sex with you, he can't stomach anything else. he'd say your name, he knows it—and it doesn't help that he hasn't been able to reach orgasm for a week without thinking of you.

pornstar!toji who, after three weeks of pure misery, decides to make a move. he doesn't do dates or romantic nights on the town. he doesn't do flowers or sweet nothings or eye contact even, but he finds himself contacting shiu and threatening the poor man in hopes of your real name, your address, anything.

and you, late one evening fucking yourself on your fingers to the brink of frustrated tears because they're not his cock. even more disgruntled when theres a pounding knock at your front door, and after cleaning yourself up a little you swing it open to find pornstar!toji stood in the rain outside. and you can only take him in—his heavy build and desperate eyes—before he's crashing his lips against yours, walking you into your own home and kicking the door shut behind him.