Thanks to several people for the tag, including @myheartalivewrites, @piratefalls, @kiwiana-writes, and a few more included below the cut because Tumblr is an asshole and STILL won't allow more than a few tags in a single line. I wish this website a very merry fuck you.
This week, you are getting a very silly snippet of text messages from my canon divergence coffee shop run-in. Pay no attention to the fact that I haven't named the coffee shop just yet lmfao. #Priorities.
11:12 a.m.
guys
you won't fucking believe
who just walked into [name of coffee shop]
irl chaos demon 11:13 a.m.
carmen electra
BUG 11:13 a.m.
Barack Obama
irl chaos demon 11:13 a.m.
Mitch McConnell
eating a banana
BUG 11:13 a.m.
Reese Witherspoon, but specifically as Elle Woods
irl chaos demon 11:13 a.m.
the ghost of alexander hamilton
BUG 11:14 a.m.
Nicholas Cage carrying the Declaration of Independence
11:14 a.m.
are you done
irl chaos demon 11:14 a.m.
shirtless jeff goldblum
Tagging some lovelies under the cut. If you have not been tagged and you want to be, consider this your tag!
Tagged by @stellarm, @welcometololaland, @kiwiana-writes, plus a few others tagged below because apparently I still can't tag more than three people in one line. Fuck you, Tumblr. 🙄
Remember when I said I needed to start small and do a couple prompt fills to get myself in the swing of writing again before I actually try to tackle my unwieldy list of WIPs? Well.
Here are seven sentences from that effort:
"I've got an Earl Grey—"
Like Pavlov's bell, the words pierce through Alex's hyperfocus to ring loudly in his ears, but he doesn't let himself look up until:
"—for… Henry?"
But it's not going to be him.
His Royal Highness, Prince Henry of too many names (and Wales), is not ordering tea at a tiny coffee shop in Brooklyn, New York.
[...]
Sure, it's weird that whoever-this-is shares a name and tea order as Alex's whatever-they-could've-been, but Alex is sure he's just some middle-aged man with a receding hairline and a briefcase.
Alex is so sure, all the way up to the moment when—for the first time in over six years—he catches the blue-eyed gaze of the goddamn James Bond offspring that slipped Alex the tongue and ghosted him on New Year's Eve.
Tagging some lovelies under the cut. If you have not been tagged and you want to be, consider this your tag!
I was tagged by the lovely @myheartalivewrites, @kiwiana-writes, and @cha-melodius this week.
And I actually have seven+ sentences? In this economy? I know. I can't believe it either. MJ is working on A Thing and discussing that with him got me opening up my Doctor Who AU doc again... and this scene spilled onto my phone at 8AM this morning for no reason.
Here's just a few more than seven:
“You haven’t just met tonight, darlings.” Pez pauses. “Well, technically, you did—but tonight isn’t the first tonight you’ve had. Based on the time energy wafting off you, I’d venture you’ve had quite a few.”
“Quite a few…”
“Hundreds,” Pez says. “Quite a few hundreds, I’d say.”
Alex wants to argue. He wants to say that’s impossible; he met Henry less than an hour ago. Except, when he looks into those vivid blue eyes, he knows—like a word on the tip of his tongue, a memory that he can’t quite place, an itch at the base of his skull. He can see it: the peeling corner of the wallpaper. All he needs to do is pull.
Tagging some lovelies under the cut. If you have not been tagged and you want to be, consider this your tag!
I'm pretty sure I've complained publicly about this obnoxious phenomenon that's been plaguing me for almost a year: I can write a fic until I've got two or three scenes left to finish, and then my brain refuses to go any further with it. I just get stuck.
And I don't know what it is... but it's so fucking annoying and I'm about to start biting people at this point.
This one particular fic is, to quote @rmd-writes, "a conversation and a kiss away from being done," but it hasn't budged more than a handful of words in like a month. I'm hoping that, if I share some it, something in my brain will come back online.
Here goes:
"Your country doesn't make Cornettos," Henry continues, "but the fellow at the supermarket recommended something called 'Drumsticks'?" He scrunches his nose. "They were not even remotely comparable, but… Then, I remembered another recommendation…"
With that, Henry pulls open the freezer and Alex immediately clocks the yellow box of paletas in the drawer.
"Dude, these were my entire fucking childhood," he says, immediately snatching the box and fishing out a coconut bar. "When did I…? I don't even remember talking about…"
Henry chuckles, politely taking the box and selecting one of the strawberry ones.
"Christmas," he explains. "You mentioned Helados when you rang me at Christmas. I was walking aimlessly down the freezer aisle when I first arrived in the city, and…"
"And you just happened to remember some random brand of ice cream I mentioned?"
Henry's answering smile seems sad.
"Alex," he says, achingly sincere. "I remember everything."
Tagging some lovelies under the cut. If you have not been tagged and you want to be, consider this your tag!
Hi, fam! Okay, so I'm going to be out at an appointment tomorrow morning, so I'm kicking this off a little bit early. It's technically Wednesday in several timezones and very nearly Wednesday in mine. I'm... also a bit eager to share this, ngl.
I know that I've shared a lot of angst lately, but I swear that's not all I'm doing. 😅 In fact, the actor/playwright AU decided to wallop me in the face out of nowhere after sitting in my WIP folder for months. I'm really excited about it, so I'm gonna share the first scene!
(Also, those of you who have been to New York with me will recognize my favorite brunch spot in this scene lmao.)
---
You probably didn't even know I was in the room, but I noticed you straight away. You were talking with your friends, happy and animated and fully alive—a person living in dimensions I couldn’t access—and so beautiful. Your hair was longer then. You were the center of attention, but you weren’t afraid. You had a yellow ipê-amarelo in your pocket. I thought, this is the most incredible thing I have ever seen; I'd better keep it a safe distance away from me. I thought, if someone like that ever loved me, it would set me on fire.
INT. MOM'S KITCHEN & BAR - HELL'S KITCHEN - LATE MORNING
"I'm telling y'all," Alex is saying, punctuating with dangerously large bites of his pancake burrito. "The dude's a dick."
It's been two hours since the nightmare audition, but Alex has been on this tirade since June and Nora first slid into the retro diner chairs across from him (at least forty-five minutes ago).
They're at Mom's: a restaurant-bar in midtown that can only be described as millennial nostalgia incarnate. The trio fell in love with it two years back—post-karaoke, stumbling in right before closing—when Alex saw God in their Fruity Pebble pancakes. Since then, it's been his favorite place to eat his feelings.
Mom's is just really fucking comforting in general, honestly; whether it's the televisions cycling through episodes of 'Rugrats,' 'Dexter's Laboratory,' and 'Hey, Arnold!' or the rainbow straws and Lisa-Frank-looking menus, Alex can't be sure. It doesn't hurt that they've made friends with several of the waitstaff, including an eccentric bartender, Pez, whose pink hair and painted nails fit right in with the decor.
Today, it's the combination of breakfast sausage, bacon, eggs and cheese wrapped up in a syrup-soaked pancake that's really doing something for him. It could also be the margarita the size of his face, which Pez placed in front of him before making himself uncharacteristically scarce. But it's fine. He's probably just busy.
Alex won't admit it out loud, but what really helps is having June and Nora here to talk to… even though Nora is scrolling on her phone.
"I'm sorry," June says. She pokes an ice cube with her straw, and Alex watches as it bobs around her mimosa like a buoy. "That sounds like it sucked, but if he's really that rude… maybe you didn't want to work with him anyway."
Nora doesn't look up as she pops a home fry into her mouth.
"Several sources say he's difficult to work with," she adds, evidently reading about Henry on the internet. "Though, in his defense, his dad did just die, like, three years ago… and there was that whole thing when he came out after. Remember?"
Alex does remember. Henry's grandmother, Mary Mountchristen, runs a pretty major company that used to own half the theatres on the West End. When Henry came out last year, she tried blacklisting his shows from her properties to punish him—which totally backfired when it got around. At least a dozen other queer writers and producers started talking about how they were also denied the space, and Mary was stoned on the streets of the theatre district. Like, metaphorically.
Alex, Nora, and June had just moved to New York, but between June's position at Newsday and both Alex and Nora on the audition circuit, it was all anyone in their new circles could talk about. They were some of the first to know when the Mountchristens were bought out of their properties and Henry moved to the States.
This show is the first of Henry's being produced here—and it's autobiographical, which Alex has to admit is pretty fucking baller. So, yeah, Nora's not wrong. He has reason to be standoffish. Still, it doesn't explain why Alex was only halfway through his audition monologue when Henry abruptly stood up and exited stage left as if pursued by a bear.
He shoves another forkful into his mouth. "It's just, like, they're the only people who let me into the room," he says, barely finishing chewing. "Nobody wants to take me seriously, and I really thought this was my shot, you know?"
June and Nora both know Alex is having a hard time landing serious roles after growing up on a sitcom—Nora more than most, as his former co-star. What they don't know is that losing this role, specifically, feels like a kick to the stomach. From the moment Alex saw the script, he wanted to be a part of it. He can't even explain why, and now he'll never figure it out. Henry wouldn't give him a chance.
"It wasn't your only shot, and you know it." Nora fixes him with a look. "Seriously, I get it—I do—but it's just one play, buddy."
June nods. "Something will happen for you, baby brother."
At that, Alex finally groans. "Okay, calling me baby brother doesn't help me feel better about the entertainment industry infantili—"
"—itty bitty, teeny weeny—"
Alex throws a home fry at her face.
It bounces off her forehead and into the giant gauntlet holding her mimosa with a very unappetizing splash. Just as Alex throws his hands into the air with a victorious whoop, his phone buzzes on the table.
A glance is all it takes for him to see that it's his agent, Zahra.
"Damn," he says, deflating. There goes that upswing. "You answer it."
June balks. "Me?"
"I don't need to hear how fucking badly it went. Trust me, I got the message." Alex blinks innocently, like he's six years old again, asking her to lie to their mom about that broken vase. "Please, Bug? Besides, Zahra actually likes you."
"Everyone likes me." June rolls her eyes, but she caves—answering the phone with a haughty, "Alex Claremont-Diaz's office," before breaking into a smile. "Yeah, Z. It's me… No, Alex is feeling a little sensitive today."
(He throws another home fry at her. This one misses.)
To her credit, June's face remains totally blank as Zahra no doubt tells her how Alex insulted Henry Fox's name and all of his inbred ancestors just by showing up, or whatever—which is extremely annoying and unhelpful—but, once she says goodbye and sets the phone back down on the table, her face breaks out into a grin.
"Guess you didn't suck too bad," she says. "They want you for the part."
He doesn't know if it's Nora throwing herself at him or the shock that knocks him onto the floor.
Tagging some lovelies. If you haven't been tagged and you want to be, consider this your tag!
Tagged by @kiwiana-writes and @hippolotamus this week. ❤️
I haven't done a ton of writing between my freelance work ramping up and my mental health taking a spin in the garbage disposal. However, to quote one of my most beloveds this week: "writing is not coming easily but unfortunately it is also the only way I know how to feel good about myself so here we are persevering etc."
In that spirit, I am back with the same WIP from the last two weeks. My strategy is to spend my limited writing energy on one, smaller project in hopes that will be more conducive to finishing something.
It's just a couple more than seven sentences, lol.
"Alright," [Henry] says, reaching across the table to take Alex's notebook and the pen lying across it. "I am writing down an address to a brownstone here in Brooklyn. It's mine. If you type this code, it will buzz you in and Shaan will escort you up."
He's given Alex so much to unpack, and yet…
"You live in Brooklyn?" is what his brain shakes out through his mouth. "Is that even… legal?"
Henry's lips twitch. "I haven't been banned from the States, insofar as I am aware."
"Not yet," Alex mumbles, and Henry fixes him with a meaningful look.
It says, 'Not here.'
Tagging some lovelies under the cut. If you have not been tagged and you want to be, consider this your tag!
