#like. ''let's go out for a cheap dinner'' that's vampire flirting for let's go kill some people

[allsassnoclass]

hello, Hazel!

how about "let's go out for a cheap dinner" ft. mashton for the prompts?<3

hi ana! thanks for requesting!

mashton: "Let's go out for a cheap dinner"

Michael covers his face with his hands and groans, as loud as he can. It echoes slightly in the empty theater, or maybe he just thinks it does because his hands are creating an echo chamber, but either way it's equally as satisfying as it isn't.

"Mood," Luke says. Michael turns his head to look at him, sitting in the second row of the audience with his feet propped up on the chair in front of him, Sierra nodding sagely beside him. It looks like an uncomfortable position for someone of his size, but laying on his back on the hard, disgusting wooden stage isn't as comfortable for Michael as it could be, so he's not going to say anything.

"They should've done Beauty and the Beast," Calum repeats for the fiftieth time since they all began working on this production nearly two months ago.

"Or Shrek. Or Spongebob. Or Sound of Music. Or literally any other family-friendly musical besides fucking Mary Poppins," Michael agrees, just like he has every other time.

When he applied for the job to direct Mary Poppins at a community theater this summer, it had seemed like a good idea. Being partially-funded through Community Education, he was told that they would have full access to the theater, scene shop, and costume shop at the high school, as well as some additional rehearsal spaces there. The board of directors seemed really excited to dive into a family show after producing some more mature musicals in the previous years, and he got to hire the production staff, meaning he could ensure that he works with his friends this summer. He knew that Mary Poppins is a difficult show from basically every standpoint: the music is complex, the dance numbers are big, there's an inconvenient amount of settings, and Mary Poppins does magic at about 12 different points in the script, including flying across the stage. Still, Michael had been optimistic.

Michael had been a fucking idiot.

This has been, to put it plainly, the most frustrating directing experience Michael has ever had. The theater was a new build from five years ago, but apparently the blueprints have since been lost and no one at the school knows the measurements of the space. He keeps trying to negotiate with different flight companies so they can rent equipment, hire a trainer, and have Mary actually fly across the stage, but most of them are appalled at the quick turnaround and all of them need some sort of measurement of the space, not to mention that Michael has to wait for permission from Community Education before he can solidify a deal. Every time he thinks they have it, the school finds some sort of issue that takes him three days to smooth over, at which point they find another one, then later another one.

Administration doesn't seem to understand anything about urgency, because the production staff didn't get their contracts until a month after rehearsals began, so now everyone is scrambling to get things done, and they still don't know what the set will look like because they don't know if Mary will be flying or if they have to find some other way to imply that she is.

That doesn't even scratch the surface. The stage has dried gum on it but the custodians won't let them mop, let alone paint the stage so it actually looks nice and fresh instead of ugly and chipped. They don't have keys to the catwalk. They only just got keys to the booth tonight, and Matt and Roy spent all rehearsal up there trying to figure out how the sound and lights are set up, because it doesn't follow logic. The electrics aren't weighted, which could kill someone, but the weight station is a floor above and the door is padlocked. Michael has already requested a key, but he requested a key to the catwalk two months ago and still doesn't have it.

There's no dressing rooms, no backstage space, and no hallway behind the stage to cross from one side to the other unseen. Michael figures all of those are problems for tech week, but tech week is very quickly approaching, which is why Michael is currently laying on the stage having a mental breakdown two hours after rehearsal ended.

His phone buzzes. He checks it, exhaling when he sees who is texting him.

"Can someone let Ashton in?" he requests.

Someone, probably Roy, heaves a sigh and gets up. Michael stares up at the electrics and wonders if he can sue the school if one of the lights falls and lands on him.

"Well, this is pitiful," Ashton says a few moments later. Michael holds up his middle finger. Ashton probably looks lovely, even for this late at night, and looking at him will probably make Michael feel incrementally better, but he's decided to let himself wallow and therefore refuses to so much as glance at him.

"Come on, what was your win of the day?" Ashton asks. He started asking this after the second week, when Michael came home and told him that every day with this production feels like getting one win, then fifteen losses. The win is usually that the actors have learned something new. The losses are typically everything else.

"We got access to the booth," Matt offers. "Nothing in there is set up, but we have access, so Roy and I can actually start our jobs."

Michael gives a thumbs up.

"Hey, that's great! Is there anything else that you need to solve here tonight, or can I take your fearless leader home?"

Michael holds up his middle finger again. There's a beat of silence, then Calum's voice, holding all of the authority he needs as a stage manager.

"There's nothing else we can do tonight. Let's all go home."

Michael listens to everyone gather their things and put the theater back to some semblance of order. Something blocks the lights overhead, and Michael squints until the silhouette solidifies into Ashton, looking down at him. He really looks good, even when Michael is looking at him from the most unfortunate angle. He's wearing a bandana to keep his curls contained, something which he started doing again this summer, and his shirt is sleeveless, giving Michael a fantastic view of his arms. Michael really likes those arms.

Ashton holds out a hand. Michael drags a sigh up from the depths of his soul and takes it.

"What do you want to eat?" Ashton asks as he's hauling him up and Michael is doing his best imitation of a rag doll.

"We have no food at home. I do not want peanut butter and jelly."

"Let's go out for a cheap dinner," Ashton suggests. Michael rolls his eyes and slumps against him.

"I do not want McDonald's for the third time this week, and there's no where else near us open this late."

"I was researching and found a 24/7 diner about half an hour away. That'll give you enough time to vent and relax, and you'll probably get to sleep just as early as you would if we went home and you watched Netflix."

Michael considers, enjoying the feeling of Ashton's arm around him, supporting his weight. Ashton is always a fantastic combination of solid and soft, which makes him the perfect person to hug.

"I have a playlist ready," Ashton says. "No Mary Poppins on it at all."

"Twist my arm, why don't you," Michael concedes. Ashton ushers him off the stage to gather his backpack, script, and numerous writing utensils that have escaped their case. Calum has already stolen his keys to lock up, and by the time he turns out the lights and the group heads to the parking lot, Michael is feeling marginally more like a functional person.

"Come on, in you go," Ashton says after they call goodbyes to the rest of the staff, holding Michael's door open for him. The show must be taking a noticeable toll on him tonight if Ashton is babying him this much, but Michael is pretty lazy and isn't going to look a gift horse in the mouth right now.

Michael doesn't know what he'd do without Ashton, honestly. Between juggling his day job, rehearsals, production meetings, and all of the administrative bullshit that has unexpectedly come with this show, Michael barely finds time to exist, let alone eat and sleep and drink water. Ashton is the one who ensures that those needs are met, picking him up from production meetings once he deems that they've gone on long enough if Michael doesn't call before then, making meals that will be good reheated when he has time and scoping out places for them to get food when everything else is closed. He offers a patient ear when Michael needs to rant and practical solutions when he can, and Michael is man enough to admit that he would have fallen apart by now without the knowledge that there is someone who is in his corner and who will still love him if the production goes to shit.

"Hey," he says once Ashton starts the engine, his phone already hooked up to the car and an acoustic pop punk song beginning to play over the speakers. "I love you."

Ashton smiles at him, reaching out and tucking a lock of Michael's hair back, letting his fingers trail down Michael's cheek after. Michael closes his eyes, savoring the sensation.

"I love you, too," Ashton says warmly. "Now let's get some food in you. You can tell me all about the school's latest bullshit on the way there."

Michael sighs and presses back against his seat, looking out the window at the dark. quiet town around them. He starts talking, and Ashton listens attentively the entire time, even when Michael can tell from his clenched jaw and furrowed brow that he's angry on his behalf. Once Michael has gotten it all out of his system, he lets Ashton distract him with talk about his own day over a plate of pancakes and some bacon.

With Ashton's ankle hooked around his under the table, it's the most relaxed Michael has felt all day.

"Thank you," Michael says before they pay the bill. He means it for more than just the food, Ashton understands. He always does.

"I love you," Ashton says in reply, like it's an explanation.

Michael takes the last bite of his pancakes from the tiny diner that Ashton found to ensure that Michael eats well, and knows with certainty that he can make it through anything with Ashton by his side.

[brideofcthulhu10]

Okie doke so I have a lot of asks piled up but I’m gonna need to take my time with them. So in the meantime I’m gonna give you guys a few of my own personal writings while i weed through my writers block. I hope you can understand, I have fourteen prompts to get to but I am a little muddied on getting through each one. 

David Headcanons

Italian food used to be his favorite when he was alive. Santa Carla was flooded with immigrants from all over, especially a high concentration of Europeans so he had experienced real Italian cuisine from the few family owned joints that would come and go. When he was turned he tried to defy his vampire roots after learning that garlic didn’t hurt him- only to find out it didn’t hurt him EXTERNALLY. The tragic tango of pasta primavera in his stomach had him sick as a dog for days! Since he’s opted for other cuisines, but secretly he misses when he could freely ingest copious amounts of garlic

Outside of rock, David really loves classical music. Particularly foreign opera. Why? Because it is some of the most intense sounds you will ever hear. The melancholic arias of tortured souls left on the brink of tragedy soothe his untamed internal rage. However, he often doesn’t get to because as soon as he does Paul pitches a fit. 

“Aw whaaat? Classical? Who invited the old lady to the party?! “

“Will you shut up and let me listen to my music, asshole?”

“Ooooh excuse me! Yes of course, Lord Snooty von Dickweed. Would you care for your pet poodle and a plate of caviar? Hey! Maybe we can find your balls, dude”

Of course he could just kick him out but it’s far too much of a hassle. He’s genuinely pleased, albeit subtly so, when he managed to snatch up a walkman off a victim so he can listen to his music in peace. 

We’ve seen him smoke, but no one really gathers just what a chimney this guy is. David smokes practically every hour, when one burns out he just snags another. Any reason is a good reason to pull out a cigarette. Stressed? Smoke. Hungry? Smoke. Tired? Smoke. Happy? Smoke. But worst of all are his nicotine withdrawals. Seriously, do not approach him when he’s run out of cigarettes. It doesn’t matter who you are. Last time Paul tried to tease him while he was waiting for nightfall, David nearly threw him out into the sun. Withdrawal is far worse as a vampire than it was for him as a human.  His restless legs get far more jittery, his back can cramp, it’ll give him an agonizing headache, and his hunger is somehow amplified. 

Surprisingly, he can’t stand the 1931 film of Dracula with Bela Lugosi. Not that Lugosi doesn’t do a good job. In fact, it’s far too good. While not appearing visually the same as Vlad Dracul, the bastard who just so happened to be responsible for turning him and his friends back in 1906, his personality is extremely close. Just watching him slink in the shadows, waltzing about in that chilling Hungarian-Romanian accent boils David’s undead blood. If he’s going on the Universal monsters, he prefers Boris Karloff in Frankenstein. 

Over the years David has picked up Russian and French. When you’ve been unchanged in an abandoned wreckage of a hotel  for over eighty-one years, you learn to pick up a few things. Currently he’s learning German which he finds rather easy so far although he finds himself speaking a tad choppy at times. Sometimes he’ll use the wrong language and end up asking Paul to bring him the wine bottle of blood in Russian. Needless to say he was utterly confused and had to be retold in English.

Despite what one might assume, David does not enjoy having sex with multiple partners. Not polyamory, just sex in general. He finds that hollow humping up against some seasoned tart behind a bar before bidding adieu does nothing for him. If there’s no intense intimacy there’s less really keeping him invested. Now love isn’t exactly what is required, but there has to be some sort of connection to give him the desire to pursue a lover. Quality over quantity. Getting to know his partner is an exciting endeavor that allows him to take control, dominating him or her until they are utterly helpless to his will. A quick fuck is nothing but a way to kill time, which frankly he can find so many more productive things to do when he’s bored that require much more brain power and a lot less sticking himself in something, sorry, someone that he honestly doesn’t know where they’ve been. 

Halloween, of course, is his favorite time of year. However he also has a soft spot for Christmas. Frankly the whole peace on Earth and goodwill towards men crap makes him sick simply because no one had ever given a crap about him, but the entire feeling of it all did give him a sense of calm. The lights are a stunning sight for sure, and he'd even have a few less shitty humans mistaking him for one of the teen runaways living on the Santa Carla streets. Well, he wasn't , but he wasn't about to tell that to some sweet old lady handing out rusty tins of fresh brownies. Who the hell could waste brownies? Not him. His favorite memory goes back to 1904 when he and the boys managed to scrape up enough dough between pick pocketing gigs to share a room at a decent hotel. The managers wife even brought them up the leftovers from their own Christmas dinner, half a roast bird, a plate of rolls, a fat bowl of mashed potatoes and some gravy. They of course were grateful, and Paul couldn't help but flirt just to kiss ass. Dwayne got Paul a new knife, Marko got David this pretty swanky looking cigarette case he snatched off some rich dick who mistook him for a shoe shiner, David found some old iron ring they couldn't sell and gave it to Dwayne, and Paul got a few bottles of rum for them to get Yuletide hammered. Sure it didn’t sound like much of a big deal, but sitting on a real bed for once by a fireplace slamming back booze and roast chicken while whooping Marko’s ass in black jack was the first time in a long time he had genuinely laughed. Since then its been particularly blase, but Marko and Paul will often make a tradition out of a few bottles of booze, throwing some cheap decorations around the hotel, and they all spend the night playing card games over some take out roast chicken and a few quick sides. 

[lolcat76]

This is definitely not Mia and definitely not a request for a Bill/Laura vampire au. But you should write one anyway. NOT THAT YOU HEARD IT FROM HER.

Ok, anon who is definitely not @okaynextcrisis, have some vampire fic.

The worst part about being undead in Los Angeles was thefood. Oh God, the food. It had been centuries since Laura first claimed a homein the dusty settlement of Los Angeles, and in that time, she’d seen an entire,sprawling city of immigrants sprout up around her. Each neighborhood rich withhistory and flavor and culture, and the spices…they perfumed the air, anise andchipotle and basil, and a hundred other spices she’d never had a chance totaste.

She walked through the streets of Koreatown, Little Tokyoand Echo Park in the early evening, stopping before nondescript storefrontswhere people stood in lines for local favorites. She could have gone to BeverlyHills to catch a whiff of the latest celebrity chef’s newest vanity project,but it was the local haunts that drew her in. Sometimes she wandered for hours upand down Highland, waiting for the Hollywood Bowl to let out and the hot dogvendors to fire up their makeshift shopping cart cooktops, the scent of grilledonions rich and heavy in the air.

If she tried hard enough to remember, she could almost taste it.

That’s the part they always left out about becoming avampire – eternal youth and beauty were all well and good, but blood tastedlike blood, thick and salty and metallic, no matter who it was from or whatthey’d eaten for dinner. If she knew then what she knew now, she’d have justdied of smallpox like the rest of her family and taken her chances in theafterlife. She bet Heaven had hot sauce, at least.

***

She left the Cinerama Dome after the late showing of thelatest girl power movie. Sunset Boulevard, this late at night and this fareast, was sketchy at best. The only people on the streets were the homeless,trying desperately to get comfortable for the night in the doorways of closedsouvenir shops, and the creeps drifting from one strip club to another.

She was hungry – the lingering scent of buttered popcornclinging to her hair was almost enough to drive her mad – but she wasn’t monsterenough to kill someone who society had already done its best to destroy, andshe just didn’t have the stomach to get close enough to the overly cologned,greasy assholes with a wad of dollar bills in their pockets that were stumblingout of the Seventh Veil.

She’d just have to skip dinner and head home. Laura strolledup Cahuenga, sharing the sidewalks with the other poor, unfortunate souls whowere forced to walk, rather than drive. Most of the people she passed didn’t botherto make eye contact. LA was, even in broad daylight, a cordially unfriendlytown, and her ivory skin – far too pale and cold for Southern California –marked her as enough of an outsider that people gave her a wide berth withouteven giving much thought to what exactly it was about her that made them shiver.

Funny that they consider her the stranger, since she’d livedin Los Angeles before California even gained statehood, but it had been decadessince she let that bother her.

She made her way up Cahuenga, past the fancy hotels andhipster bars that were still going strong. Past the CVS and the 7-Eleven (she’dalways wondered what a Slurpee tasted like), past the few people she’d knownfor generations who were just looking for their next meal. She nodded at them,and they nodded in return. They had an unspoken agreement – she stayed out oftheir way, and they stayed out of hers, and the bodies they racked up were foundfar from their neighborhood.

Of course, the vampires who took up residence in the Valleyprobably had a problem with that, but that’s what they got for settling in the armpitof Los Angeles.

She was just coming up to Franklin, just a block from therent-controlled walkup where she’d lived for decades (and thank heavens forslumlords who never bothered to knock on her door when it came time to renewher lease), when she caught a whiff of cumin in the air.

A heady, fragrant aroma, cutting through the reek of cookingoil. Mmmm, Mexican food. There was no shortage of Mexican in LA, but somethingabout the little shop on the corner drew her in. Why where they still open at2am?

Unlike the cheap pizza places on Hollywood Boulevard, theshop didn’t have a line. She was far enough into residential territory that shewas fairly certain that the bulk of tonight’s menu was being prepared fortomorrow’s breakfast rush. Still, it smelled almost heavenly, and she hadnothing else to do with her night, so she went in.

The seating area was bare bones at best – cheap plastictables and chairs, but the floor plan was open enough that she could stand atthe counter and watch the cook flip meat on the grill and pull fryer basketsout of the hot oil. His face was heavily scarred – could have been from acne,could have been from spending years standing in front of a deep fryer. She usedto have scars too, once upon a time, but now her skin was perfect, a completelyblank canvas.

She wanted to know what stories those scars would tell.

“Menu’s on the counter,” he said.

Food, right. She could order something, take it home, andbreathe it in until the smell of rot overpowered the cumin and cilantro. Or,when she got home, she could give it to Gina, the woman who lived in a tentjust outside her building and babbled about the end of days.

Or, she could forget about the menu altogether and sample adifferent kind of food. He wasn’t young, but he looked healthy enough. He wasclearly strong, but he didn’t have the wiry build that got stuck in her teeth.He was solid. Comfortable, shethought, before she brushed the word away.

Comfortable was her sheets and the mattress she’d stolenfrom a producer that was too drunk to notice that she didn’t want to screw himbefore she drained him of blood. Comfortable was things, not people.

“if you see something you like, let me know.” He flipped thechicken on the grill. “We’re closing soon, but I could be persuaded.” He tosseda grin at her.

So many men had used variations of the same line, so manytimes, and so many of them had ended exactly the same way. She made a show ofpatting her pockets. “I can’t find my glasses, and I can’t read the menuwithout them. Can you help, Mr….?”

“Adama. Bill Adama. Sure,” he said. The part of her thatused to be alive envied how easily he came to the counter, leaning into her ashe pointed out the house specials. He had no fear of her. Didn’t even noticethat her mouth was watering as he talked.

Oh, to be a man.

He was just launching in to his description of his family’srecipe for menudo when she struck, lightning fast. She sank her teeth into thethick cords of his neck.

Just as quickly, she pulled back and wiped at the stingingon her lips. Garlic. Good God, did the man bathein the stuff?

He brushed at the side of his neck as though he was swattinga fly. Didn’t even notice the two tiny droplets of blood forming.

“Garlic,” he said pleasantly. “Good for the immune system.Keeps you alive, or so my abuela told me.”

“Smart woman,” Laura conceded with a huff. She crossed herarms and glared at him, and he mimicked her pose.

“So, I guess you’re not here for the food?”

“Well, not anymore.”

His lips twitched.

She was over three hundred years old, had killed countlessstronger, younger men, and he was laughing at her. She was half tempted tobreak his neck out of spite, or to drain him anyway and let the garlic knockher out for as long as it took to work its way out of her system. She lickedher lips again. Garlic, yes, but underneath that, a hint of cumin and…was that…cinnamon?

“God, you’re delicious,” she whispered before she could stopherself.

His grin became a full-on belly laugh, and because Laurastill had a sense of humor after all these years, she laughed with him. Helaughed until he couldn’t breathe, and Laura, who hadn’t drawn a breath since thedays of Junipero Serra, patted him on the back until color finally came back tohis face.

“Been a long time since a woman told me that,” he said.

“I’m sure,” she said demurely. It had been a long time sinceher dinner had flirted with her, but he was most definitely trying to charmher. She hated to admit it, but it was working. “Garlic, huh? Your abuela musthave had some interesting stories.”

“Not nearly as many as my abuelo. Came back from the GreatWar a changed man, to hear him tell it.”

The bell over the door rang, and Laura glanced over hershoulder to see a very familiar, if unwelcome, face. She was still on the fenceabout killing Bill, but she wasn’t going to let this smooth-talking upstarthone in on her territory. Again.  “Lee.”

“Laura.”

“Abuelo.”

Laura’s head snapped back. What?

Bill shrugged and grinned at her again. “LA. What can I tellyou? It’s a strange town.”