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darkficsyouneveraskedfor · 8 months ago

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The Quiet Ones 1

No tag lists. Do not send asks or DMs about updates. Review my pinned post for guidelines, masterlist, etc.

Warnings: this fic will include dark content such as dubcon/noncon, and other possible triggers. My warnings are not exhaustive, enter at your own risk.

This is a dark!fic and explicit. 18+ only. Your media consumption is your own responsibility. Warnings have been given. DO NOT PROCEED if these matters upset you.

Summary: You live a quiet life, but your peace is fractured by a chaotic man.

Characters: Lloyd Hansen, short!shy!reader

Note: don't ask me why I did this.

As per usual, I humbly request your thoughts! Reblogs are always appreciated and welcomed, not only do I see them easier but it lets other people see my work. I will do my best to answer all I can. I’m trying to get better at keeping up so thanks everyone for staying with me <3

Your feedback will help in this and future works (and WiPs, I haven’t forgotten those!) Asking for more or putting ‘part 2?’ is not feedback.

Love you all. You are appreciated and your are worthy. Treat yourself with care. 💖

You keep to yourself. That’s the safest, the easiest way to live. You keep your head down, your eyes to yourself, your voice bottled up.

You grip your phone as you approach the coffee shop. You stand on your toes to see through the painted windows and frown at the long queue. You won’t have to worry about that. Like everything else social, you’ve found a work around.

You look at your phone, the app showing your order as ‘preparing’. It should be done shortly as the progress bar fills close to complete. You can bear the claustrophobia for a minute or so until it’s ready.

You go to open the door but an arm reaches past you and does that first. You step back, patiently waiting for the other customer to precede you. They don’t move. You stare at their shoes. Dark blue velvet loafers with gold emblems on chains.

“Go on, baby face, I got it,” the man’s voice makes your skin crawl.

You shrink down and give a nod, throat clenching as you struggle to find your voice. You’re not much for conversation but you’re but impolite.

“Thanks,” you force out without raising your head.

You scurry through quickly, a bit to close to the stranger than you like, and you clasp your phone against your chest as you stand just away from the cluster of people awaiting their orders. You bounce on your feet as the noises join together to form a cacophony; the hissing steam, the clanging metal, the clinking porcelain, the calls of the workers behind the counter, and the buzz of the crowd seated or standing around the cafe. Sweat gathers on the nape of your neck as the chaos swirls a storm around you.

You pull your phone away from the front of your pullover and check the screen. Should be ready any moment and you’ll be free of the circus. You adjust your grip on the phone, almost jittery as another customer joins the wait at the pick up window.

You breathe out. It’s not usually this busy at this time. You have a routine. You can handle the expected. You order on your phone so you don’t need to talk to anyone. You wait outside until it’s almost done then come in too quickly claim your prize. But not today, something’s different and it’s throwing everything off.

It’s only on Wednesday’s that you venture down to the cafe. It’s the halfway point of your week so you mark it with a taste of motivation. The same order every week. A London fog latte. Simple and affordable. Nothing fancy, nothing complicated.

Your name cuts through the din, “...medium London fog.”

You drop your arm to your side and set your shoulders. You march forward through the parting bodies ahead of you and reach for the cup. Before you can grasp it, someone else scoops it up. You nearly cry out in horror. Someone’s stealing your order!

You turn to the tea thief but they make no move to flee. They hold the cup nonchalantly, turning it to read the sticker on the side, reciting the same name that just rose from the barista’s lips seconds ago. You face the stranger but again, your eyes are downward.

The blue loafers!

“Cute name,” he comments as he holds the cup out.

You once more try to take the cup but before you can, he has it out of reach again. Your lashes flick and your fingers twiddle helplessly. His large hand is firmly around the cup so even if you did try to wrestle it from him, you doubt you’d have any hope but to spill it all.

You look around but no one else seems to notice. They’re all staring at their phones or talking with the person next to them. The staff behind the counter are too busy appeasing the rush of orders.

“I’ve never tried one of these,” he taunts, “I’m more of a ristretto guy. Like my espresso.”

You shake your head and rescind your hand, balling it against your fist. What does he want? Why is he bothering you? You said thank you. Did he not hear you?

“Don’t get yourself in a tizzy,” he pushes the tea towards you, “there you are, sweat pea.”

You hesitate. You slowly unfurl your fingers and reach for the cup. As you wrap your fingers around it, you can’t help but brush his. Thick and strong and unmoving. He clings to it for just a moment before he lets you have it.

“Thanks,” you squeak again, this time louder so he certainly hears you.

“You got a sweet voice,” he puts his hand on his hip, a glimpse of a shiny gold watch face peeking out from beneath his sleeve, “I’d love to hear more of it.”

Your eyes round as you focus on the zipper of his thin jacket. You shake your head and meekly raise your cup awkwardly and dip your chin slightly. No thanks.

You turn and weave your way back through the crowd. Your heart is thumping in your chest. What an odd encounter.

More so, you’re dismayed that he saw you. That he noticed you. For years, you’ve done your best to be invisible. You prefer it that way. You don’t even think your neighbours know you exist. But that man, he seemed to see nothing but you.

You push outside and nearly drop your cup. You try to steady yourself. You’re all knotted up and tense. You tuck your phone into your back pocket and bring the cup before you nose, inhaling the sweet scent of the foam. Something about it isn’t as soothing as usual.

You turn down the pavement and wince as a sole scuffs close behind you. Suddenly, another set of steps walk next to yours, measured to keep in tandem with your own short legs. Blue velvet.

You walk faster. Is he following you? Why? What does he want? He’s much taller, you can’t outpace him.

“You know, when I said I’d like to hear more, I thought maybe over a coffee?” He suggests.

You don’t say a word as you keep your eyes forward, squeezing your cup tight as you try not to swish it around too much. You’ve never had to deal with this before. Men don’t see you. There was a time you hated that but since, you were grateful for that.

“I mean, I could do most of the talking, never had much of a trouble with that, jellybean,” he offers.

You shake your head. Your throat tightens. You can’t speak. You want to scream but you can’t make a noise.

As you get to the corner, you stop short. He steps past you but just as quickly catches himself and turns to face you. You gulp and look down at your cup. You can’t keep going. If you do, you’ll lead him right to your home.

“What’s going on, sweetheart? You forget something? How about we head back and I’ll buy you something sugary to go with that?”

You furrow your brow and step back on your heel. You bring your eyes up, a furtive glance at his face, brief and flickering. You just want to know what he looks like so you never see him again.

His blue eyes twinkle, his nose is long but proportioned to his chiseled face, his hair is combed back, the sides shaved, and a thick swatch of hair lines his upper lip. He’s older than you, you know that much, but you’ve never good at gauging age. You’ve never seen him before but you can’t be sure. You don’t look at many faces.

You pivot and cross the street without looking. You narrowly miss a bumper and get a honk in remonstrance. You can’t stop yourself. You’re panicking. You head down the next street as his footsteps follow. It’s all you can hear.

As you pass a bin, you dump the drink. You don’t pause as it plummets heavily into the trash and you fall into a brisk half-jog. You pump your arms, puffing wildly, dizzy as you search for a saviour.

You dash into the library. You don’t know what you’re looking for. Just for anyone to get this man to leave you alone.

You don’t look back as you enter and head straight for the front counter. You’re out of breath as you approach the rounded edge and tap the bell frantically. A woman emerges from behind the window wall and she greets you with a confused chime.

“Hello, can I help you?” She asks.

“Yes, I need...” you gulp and glance at the doors. You push away from the counter and spin, searching. You don’t see the man. He’s probably waiting outside. But you never looked back. You never really saw if he was following. “I...” you turn back to the woman, “never mind.”

You cross your arms and turn away. You cringe as you realise how ridiculous you must have seemed. Worse, you didn’t mean to bother someone just doing their job and over what? You’re own issues. You should go home, back to your reclusion, where you can’t be in anyone’s way.

👄

When you finally muster the courage to leave the library, your journey home is slowed by your paranoia. You have your phone out, held up so you can see over your shoulder with the front camera. You watch the screen more than the sidewalk ahead of you.

You get home without a second shadow. As you let yourself through the grated front door of the building, you can’t help but feel stupid. That man must’ve got the idea when you as good as ran in the other direction. You’re being dramatic.

You close the camera and put your phone away. You waist six dollars in your frantic flight. You mourn the tea latte as the heavy inner door clunks shut behind you. You drag your feet up the stairs as your keys jingle on your finger.

You apartment is at the very end of the hall. You enter and twist the latch. You slide the chain into place and hang the key ring on the little hook beside the door frame. You untangle your purse and leave it with your phone on the table in the corner.

You shuffle the few feet to the front room and look around. You find comfort in the familiarity of your little apartment. Your hideaway.

You go back to your desk and sign back in. You’re back later than usual but you can still make up the time. As long as there’s enough tasks left in the portal. You don’t have to let that man ruin your whole day. You’ll never see him again. In a few days, you won’t even remember him.

👄

Wednesday. Halfway through the week.

You scroll and click around your screen as you watch the clock in the corner tick on. Usually around this time, you’d be excited. You’d clock out for your break and go down to the cafe. As much as you looked forward to the treat, the walk alone was relaxing in its own way.

Not that day. Despite your efforts to shrug off the strange encounter, you haven’t shaken it. So instead, the kettle boils as a bag of earl gray sits in an empty mug. You’re not going. Maybe next week.

You’re a bit depressed but you’re too nervous to make the venture. Oh well, you’ll save a bit of money. You could find a different place next time. That might be easier.

You stay logged in and claim a new task. Hey, you can be done work earlier if you can power through. You might even make a few extra bucks.

The kettle clicks and you get up to pour the water. You leave it to steep, forgetting it for the screen before you. Your fingers tap endlessly across the keyboard, filling the silence as you zone in on the words, transcribing messy ink to Times New Roman.

Your trance is broken by a sudden buzz. You sit up, the kink in your neck pangs. You need to stop hunching. The buzz comes again. Is that... It must be a mistake. It happens now and then, someone buzzes the wrong apartment.

You get up as it sounds a third time and you shuffle down to the speaker box. You hit the button, “wrong number.”

“No--”

You let go of the number before you can hear the response. They buzz again. You sigh. You hit the button.

“I’m sorry but you have the wrong number,” you repeat.

“I don--”

You release the button again and take a step back. Buzz! You’re getting annoyed. You hit the button. “Wrong--”

“Got a delivery. 212.” The man’s voice drowns out your own, reciting your name after your apartment number. Your finger stays on the button as you frown. A delivery?

“I’m not expecting a delivery.”

“Are you...” he says your name again.

“... yes.”

Silence, filled with the low hum of the speaker, “so, can I come up or...?”

“Uh, I guess.”

You pull your finger away and hover it over the other. Maybe it’s from work? There was the one time they sent a cheap mass production travel mug with their logo on it as some incentive. A poor attempt at employee appreciation.

You press down and hold until you’re certain they have enough time to get in. You wait by the door, ringing your hands. You hear the door at the end of the hall open on its old hinges and you peek through the peephole.

You watch the fuzzy figure come into focus with each of his long steps. He doesn’t hold a box nor wear the uniform of a postal worker. No, he wears those blue leather loafers and holds a bright pink paper cup with a white lid. From the cafe.

As he comes close, you get a pigeon’s eye view of the hair on his upper lip and his bold blue eyes. It feels like he can see you too as he stands smirking on the other side of the door. This can’t be real.

He knocks and you wince as the door shifts in the frame.

“Special delivery,” he calls through, “open up, baby face.”

#lloyd hansen #dark lloyd hansen #dark!lloyd hansen #lloyd hansen x reader #fic #dark fic #the quiet ones #dark!fic #series #the gray man

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pastorpresent · 2 months ago

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Major TW for sui/sui thoughts, SH and alcoholism.

Thinking about if Logan had opted to go back to his own universe at the end of dp3.

Him and Wade had been through a lot, sure, but he still doesn't want to impose. Looks around at this family Wade's built. The girl he's in love with, their hands atop of each other, and he knows he definitely can't do all that again. Had done it for far too long with Jean and Scott, and it had irrevocably destroyed a part of his heart forever. He couldn't do that again, didn't have enough heart to risk on Wade Wilson and his kind eyes but ultimate obliviousness.

He couldn't just be a spare part in Wade's life. An intruder. So he leaves after a few days. Thanks Wade, pretends he can't tell the merc is crying under the mask as he throws him one last hug.

As if it was for Wade. No, Logan was just weak. Couldn't leave him forever without just a miniscule taste, especially because he knows when he goes 'home', he won't feel the gentle touch of another person... ever, probably.

He steps through the portal. He's back in his world. His shitty apartment. It might be objectively better than Wade's- but it's so, so much worse, because it's just him and the fucking bare walls. There's blood dried into the carpet from when lashing out at inanimate objects isn't enough. Empty bottles are piled in the trash, and everywhere else.

He thinks about the hello kitty posters plastered on the walls of Wade and Al's apartment. The fading stickers of that pony show Wade watched in the mornings stuck on the TV stand. The curse words and crude drawings carved into the coffee table with Wade's baby knife.

(Logan's initials are carved in there now. He hadn't seen Wade do it, but when he'd noticed it his vision had blurred with tears.)

He'd mocked all of those things aloud. Childish. Fucking stupid, was he five?

His wallpaper was peeling and slashed with three identical cuts here and there. His TV was settled on a cardboard box. There was nothing carved into the wood of his coffee table, and even if there had been the cluster of beer bottles would've hid it from view.

He leaves. Goes and drinks himself to death in a bar. Not the nearest bar, because that's where Wade found him, and he'd sooner gut himself on the pavement that step foot in there ever again.

He stumbled home shit faced. He doesn't know what time it is. Skips the shower, collapses into his bed with a manic chuckle, a bottle of whiskey replacing where Wade was supposed to be. He cuddles up to it pathetically. It's cold and hard against his chest. It's not Wade, as much as he wants it to be, and he clutches it too hard, as if that'll change that basic fact.

It shatters. The glass cuts open his skin as quickly as his body stitches it closed. The dredges of alcohol soak into the mattress and his shirt.

He passes out shortly after, and when he finally finds sleep he sees him.

Wade's lying next to him, smiling softly, the golden glow of the sunrise floating over his scarred skin.

"Morning peanut," he says, eyes shining.

Logan almost chokes on the sob that builds in his chest, swelling up and suffocating him, "Wade."

"I'm here."

Logan reaches out to touch, hand shaking, and Wade cries out, impaled on claws he doesn't remember unsheathing.

Bloods going everywhere, and he's panicking, because Wade isn't healing. He's going pale, and he's still bleeding, and his eyes already look dead.

He wakes up screaming his name, in a sticky patch of drying whiskey. He adds vomit into the mix for good measure, still gasping and trying to catch his breath as he throws up onto the sheets.

He decides sleeping is the issue, so he will just not do that. He drinks, and drinks, and lives in bars and on his couch. He doesn't sleep, even if his body begs for it. Goes as far as filling the bath and holding himself under for a few seconds to wake himself up.

The ptsd-esque flashback it triggers from the tank, his procedure, makes him destroy his bathroom entirely. The shower curtain is slashed into ribbons. The mirror is shattered in the sink. The tiles are literally hanging off the walls.

Somehow he'd still rather be drowning repeatedly as metal gets grafted to his skeleton through what felt like a million needles than back on that bed with Wade smiling over at him. Even before he... that scene alone had been the sickest form of torture he could conjure up. Wade, mere inches away, happy, his. A big fucking lie.

He used to have similiar dreams about Scott and Jean. Lying between them as they stroked his hair and told him they loved him, only for them to laugh at him when he tried to touch. Call him deluded and sick and all the other words Logan felt like he needed etched onto his bones as some form of repentance.

Of course, because his brain fucking hates him, he starts seeing Wade when he's awake. It's like it clicked on to his plan and tutted down at him, scolding him for avoiding a clearly deserved punishment.

Or he's just dangerously sleep deprived. Thinking your brain was conspiring against you probably also fit nicely into that narrative.

He sees Wade sat on a barstool a few feet away out the corner of his eye. Walking the streets from his window. In the line at the fucking liquor store.

He'd gotten his drunk ass beat on more than one occasion for grabbing strangers, calling them his name only to be met with a face he'd never seen before, absent of scars and that painfully soft smile.

He's losing his mind. He's going entirely insane.

An adamantium bullet to the skull doesn't sound too bad. It might not kill him, but it would rid him of the memories. He sits with the barrel of the gun pressed to his forehead sometimes, pictures it being Wade holding it there, and his finger itches for the trigger but he can't quite do it. He hears Wade's voice whispering to him when he has the cool metal against his skin, "no, peanut. Put it down please."

His thoughts of Wade hurt, but he wasn't ready to erase them entirely because he was a fucking coward. He's too fucking weak to get rid of those eyes, the memories of that touch, even as all of it tortures his brain onto the brink of fully fledged insanity.

It's three weeks into his destructive routine. The only sleep he's had is that of which he's been forced into when his body shuts down from too much alcohol. Wade's always there. On the bed. Smiling.

Sometimes they talk. Sometimes Wade asks him to come back. It always ends the same, though - screaming and begging as the man in front of him turns into a corpse.

Three weeks. The adamantium bullet is on his nightstand, ready when he is.

He's considering tonight. He's going to shower, get dressed and get dinner from his favourite take out place. He's going to think of Wade and every word he'd ever said to him, and then he was going to do it.

There's a knock on his apartment door that morning, which is bizzare. He has no one in this universe. Absolutely no one, so who would be pounding on his door at ten in the morning?

He pushes his breakfast (vodka) aside and goes to the door, pulling it open and.

And... he needs that bullet in his skull right now, because this is just fucking cruel.

"Hey, peanut."

And Logan can't take this. He can't fucking do this anymore! It's not fucking fair, why is his own head trying to kill him?

He remembers unsheathing the claws this time, but he immediately buries them in his own torso, blood dripping all over the carpet. He's mumbling, incohesive even to his own ears as he drags the claws down, feeling them pop his lungs like balloons and slice through organs.

"Logan! Logan, what the fuck? Stop!" Wade yells, his voice reaching a panicked pitch, his eyes wide in absolute horror.

"You stop! I can't- I know I've done horrible, horrible things but stop fucking showing me this! Stop letting me fucking see him!"

He's screaming at himself, at his own goddamn psyche, and that's probably how you know you've lost it entirely, right? Screaming at thin air? Yelling at yourself?

Solid hands reach out and snap onto his wrists, pulling his claws out. Wade pushes him to the ground, landing atop of him with a thud and pinning his wrists above his head.

Logan doesn't struggle. He can't. He's too busy staring at Wade with wide eyes.

"How- you're touching me. I can feel you," he says, voice raw. He can feel Wade's fingertips pressing into his skin like burns.

Wade's staring back at him, his face twisted up in confusion, "yeah? Because I'm a person with a body and I'm touching you with it? Not like that, this is not that kind of fic-"

He wrapped his arms around the merc and pulls him in, even though he's getting blood all over him. He can smell Wade. Feel his body heat. Feel the lines of him pressed against his own body and... it had never felt this real before. Was he dead? Had his body finally given up on regenerating his stupid ass? He supposed there might be a limit on liver damage even for him.

"Logan? What's going on? Not that I'm not enjoying this, because trust me I really am, but I expected a bit more.. hostility? Because you said you wanted to go home, and I get it because I'm annoying as fuck, but I sort of really missed you and I had to bribe the TVA just to get an hour visit and then wasted ten minutes of that figuring out which apartment was yours and-"

An hour. Wade was here for an hour. He was actually here. It wasn't in his head. He was here.

"Don't... please. Please. Don't leave me here I- I can't do it anymore," he begged, clinging onto Wade ridiculously, his nails digging into his back.

"Logan..."

"I'm sorry. Shouldn't- shouldn't of left, 'm sorry. I don't want to ruin your life, wanted to stay away so you wouldn't be stuck with me, but I can't do it."

He was crying. Couldn't feel the tears but could feel the tightness in his chest. He should be pushing Wade off. He needs to push him off and let him go home, but he can't. He wants to go home, and he knows that this place, this hell, isn't home.

Wade's apartment is. Wade is.

He'd be the intruder. Be the spare part. Watch Wade fall deeper in love with Vanessa and be good, watching from the sidelines and taking whatever Wade would give him. Would never ask for more than that, because that's what brought his thing with Jean and Scott crashing to the ground.

He'd do all of it, because at least then he'd get to see Wade and hear the idiots ramblings and feel fucking alive again. He can't stay here, not when he feels like some sort of ghost, doomed to living out the same depressing day over and over until he finally feels the blissful release of death.

Wade sat them up, pulling Logan up with him, holding both his hands in his own, "is that really what you think? That's why you left?"

"It's true. You have Vanessa, and a life to start. Last thing you need is me hanging around. But just- please, Wade. I'll find my own place and- and I'll leave you alone, with her- I really will. I just... I can't breathe here. I'm fucking dying. I can't sleep, or eat, or function and I- I just can't. I need you," he was being too honest, probably. Would likely just scare Wade off and send him running back to his own universe sighing with relief at dodging that paricularly unstable bullet.

But he couldn't help it. He needed to plead his case, and it didn't help that he hadn't really had anyone to talk to about this stuff. Fuck, his human interactions since he returned were limited to the transactional ones in order to purchase more alcohol, and the ones entirely in his own head.

Wade grabs his face, "Logan Howlett, you are the biggest fucking idiot on earth. Scratch that, the whole universe, probably."

"What?"

And then Wade is kissing him, hard. Hard enough that Logan finds himself having to use his arms to brace himself on the stained carpet just to keep upright as Wade uses a hand on the back of his head to pull him ever closer.

They part. Logan is panting, pupils blown, unable to form a cohesive word nevermind a sentence or two.

"Me and Ness agreed to just be friends. She broke up with her boyfriend and asked me for another try, but it's not fair on her to do that when I'm in love with somebody else."

Logan still can't speak. His brain is short circuiting, unable to fathom what Wade is saying to him.

"Truth is, I've been miserable without you Peanut. Turns out even after just a couple of nights with you in my bed, I can't sleep without you either," he shrugged, his own eyes shining with tears, "I wasn't going to ask you to come home with me, because I really was trying to respect your decision here but... fuck. I had to see you, even if those assholes would only give me an hour. I needed to see you, peanut, or I was going to lose my shit and probably go massacre an entire town or something equally as drastic."

"Wade," Logan finally managed, the word coming out all strained and choked up, "take me home, please."

Wade beamed despite his own tears, grabbing him and pulling him in, and Logan held onto him tightly.

"Of course, baby. Never letting you out of my sight again."

#deadpool and wolverine #deadclaws #poolverine #deadclaws fic #poolverine fic #logan howlett #wade wilson #wolverine #deadpool #mywriting

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beansprean · 1 year ago

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I forgot to put these on tumblr lol! These romcom posters were made as an 'anonymous' gift for returnofthelu for the 2023 Halloween Exchangeapalooza! Check out all the entries on AO3 here!

These are also avail as posters, prints and stickers on my RedBubble!

Support me on Patreon or send a tip on Kofi!

(ID in alt and under cut)

1. Movie poster based on Practical Magic, with the title in the top center and the names Guillermo de la Cruz and Nandor the Relentless along the top. Nandor is close up in the center, face worried and thrown into harsh shadows by candlelight. Guillermo is just behind him, staring determinedly at the viewer with a stake raised. Nandor's left hand is held out behind him, the back of it pressed to Guillermo's chest as if to hold him back. In the foreground in front of them is a cluster of lit candles and the silhouettes of dozens of bats flying past. A tagline reads 'for a vampire with a lifetime of heartbreak, falling out of love is the trickiest spell of all.' Text at the bottom says 'a beansprean production.'

2. Movie poster based on While You Were Sleeping, with the names Guillermo de la Cruz and Nandor the Relentless along the top. Close up of Nandor in his super slumber robes, eyes half open, drooling and looking barely awake, head surrounded by question marks. Guillermo, a vampire, is beaming and hugging him around the neck from behind, a smear of blood on his cheek. The title 'While You Were In Super Slumber' lays across them in white with the tagline 'a story about love at second sight.' Text at the bottom says 'a beansprean production.'

3. Movie poster based on The Wedding Planner, with the names Guillermo de la Cruz and Nandor the Relentless along the top with the tagline 'a romantic horror comedy about love, wishes, and other events you just can't plan for.' Waist up of Guillermo and Nandor on a background of white roses dripping with blood, pooling and staining at the bottom. Guillermo is leaning heavily against the bottom of the poster with both elbows, one hand holding up his face as he stares blankly into the middle distance, tired beyond belief with dark circles beneath his eyes. Nandor is leaning into him from behind, one arm propped on his shoulders and holding a pen while he gestures vaguely. The other hand is holding up a notebook. Nandor, also with dark circles beneath his eyes but with a more manic expression, is looking upward and appears in the middle of reciting some new list of demands. The title 'The Wedding Planner' is scrawled over the top of them in fancy font. Text at the bottom says 'a beansprean production.'

4. Movie poster based on Pretty Woman, with the names Guillermo de la Cruz and Laszlo Cravensworth along the top. The title 'Pretty Vampire' is printed vertically on the right side with the tagline 'he flew into their lives, off the balcony, and needed medical attention.' In the center, Laszlo floats midair, facing left with one hand in his pocket. He is wearing a black suit with a patterned purple waistcoat and embroidered loafers. He is wrenched backward with a shocked and angry expression, bent almost in half, as Guillermo grabs onto his tie from behind. Guillermo, wearing a pink and red patterned sweater, black chinos, and black boots, is flailing midair, held up only by his death grip on Laszlo's tie as he pumps his legs back and forth in an effort to regain flight. His eyes are wide and panicked, teeth clenched together, and there are shadows of bat wings at his back. Text at the bottom says 'a beansprean production.'

5. Movie poster based on The Vow, with the names Guillermo de la Cruz and Nandor the Relentless along the top. Nandor and Guillermo are facing each other in profile, intimately close and with their foreheads pressed together, smiling gently and staring into each other's eyes. Nandor has his hands on Guillermo's hips and Guillermo has one hand on Nandor's waist and the other tucked around the back of his neck. Several top buttons of Guillermo's shirt is open, and there is blood staining the collar and dripping sluggishly from two holes on his throat. Blood is also smeared around Nandor's mouth and chin. The title 'The Vow' is overlaid with the tagline 'his word is their bond'. Text at the bottom says 'a beansprean production.'

6. Movie poster based on The Breakup, with the names Guillermo de la Cruz and Nandor the Relentless along the top. Nandor and vampire Guillermo are both sitting up on either side of a massive king-sized coffin with a double lid. A line of duct tape runs down the adjacent wall and divides the coffin down the middle. On the left, Guillermo, hair a mess and wearing a blue striped pajama set, sits with his knees to his chest, hugging his balled-up corner of their shared comforter to his chest and glaring off to the side, away from Nandor. On the right, Nandor, wearing a loose cream blouse, sits pouting with his arms crossed, glaring over at the side of Guillermo's head. The title over their heads says 'the break-up' with the tagline '…pick a side.' Text at the bottom says 'a beansprean production. coming on a sheet near you November 2023.'

7. Movie poster based on Failure to Launch, with the names Guillermo de la Cruz and Laszlo Cravensworth along the top. Full body of Laszlo and Guillermo as Laszlo, wearing a burgundy and pink suit, cheerfully pushes Guillermo across the screen from behind, grinning at the viewer. Guillermo, wearing a teal and brown patterned cardigan, beige chinos, and boots, is leaning back into Laszlo, body fully straight and rigid, digging his heels in as they scrape along the ground. He looks anxious and terrified, hands up in front of him as if to protect him from whatever he's headed toward. The title above their heads reads 'failure to launch' with the tagline 'to leave the nest, some fledglings just need a little push.' Falling down from the title is a little black and orange bat, a dotted line following it down as it fails to fly upward. Text at the bottom says 'a beansprean production.'

8. Movie poster based on 10 Things I Hate About You, with the title '10 Things I Ate Instead of You' large in the right center of frame with the names Nandor the Relentless and Guillermo de la Cruz above and below it, respectively. A tagline along the top reads 'how do I resent thee? let me count the ways'. In the center is Nandor from knees up, curled in an armchair with his knees tucked to one side, his left arm resting on the chair arm and his right elbow braced on the other to play idly with his hair. His expression is a practice in aloofness, looking off to the side. Behind him stands Guillermo, left arm leaning against the back of the chair and right elbow braced to lean his head against his hand. He stares longingly at the side of Nandor's head, face flushed and lips pressed together nervously. Text at the bottom says 'a beansprean production.'

9. Movie poster based on You've Got Mail, with Guillermo and Nandor. Their names are listed at the top. They are walking casually toward the viewer on far sides of the image, looking off to the side away from each other with dreamy smiles, ignorant of the other's presence. Nandor is wearing a brown and gold belted tunic and boots, twiddling his fingers together. Guillermo is wearing black boots, gray chinos and vest, and his trenchcoat, a stake loose in his hand as it swings at his side. The background is blurry green and white, shadows stretching out in front of them. Between them, a tagline reads 'Someone you pass on the street may already be the love of your afterlife.' and then the title 'You've Got Mail' beneath. 'Text at the bottom says 'a beansprean production.' /end ID

#wwdits #nandermo #laszlermo #romcom #exchangeapalooza #mlm #guillermo de la cruz #nandor the relentless #laszlo cravensworth #what we do in the shadows #what we do in the shadows fx #my art #fanart #image described #the super slumber one is not avail in rb right now bc its under copyright review lmao #but im sure it will pop back up in a few days

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