Hi, I love these so much, I'm so excited to see what comes out of this round!
Here's an idea:
8:23 am, Haus porch, Dex (my beloved)
Song lyric: I find that happiness is an extremely uneventful subject (from Florence and the machine's No choir)
NOBODY LOOK AT HOW LONG ITS BEEN OKAY? OKAY GREAT
anyway chaos, darling, i hope you like your ficlet, it was very peaceful to write at a time when i could really use some
read the rest of the ficlets here (and eventually they'll all be on ao3 as well)
🏒🏒🏒🏒
8:23am, haus porch
The steam from Dex’s coffee comes off the mug in pleasing spirals. It’s not so early that he’s the only one awake, but Jason Street is a ghost town this morning. In a weird scheduling fluke, every other team that lives on the street was scheduled for an away game or meet, and SMH doesn’t have practice until after lunch.
While Dex was waiting for his coffee to brew, it sounded like either Tango or Ford was awake, but he hadn't lingered long enough for anyone to appear and break the easy silence.
For once, Dex doesn’t have to have his captain hat on, doesn’t have an assignment looming over his head, and all the appliances and fixtures are currently behaving themselves. It’s like somehow the universe knew Dex needed a break and provided. He doesn’t believe in God or anything, but an occasionally benevolent universe is a comforting thought.
Of course, as soon as he lets himself fully relax into his solitude, the screen door springs squeal open and startle him. At least he didn’t spill his coffee. With an internal sigh and a mental note to pick up some more WD-40, he turns to greet his teammate with a smile he doesn’t truly feel. When he catches sight of a teal sweatshirt, he exhales in relief and his lips turn up in genuine pleasure.
Chowder, for all his boundless enthusiasm, is not a morning person.
Dex hums a greeting as Chowder artlessly drops onto the top step next to him and slumps against his shoulder, eyes already closed. Dex, careful not to jostle his best friend too much, extracts his arm from between them and wraps it around Chowder’s shoulders. He lets out a pleased noise into Dex’s hoodie and then silence falls again.
The warmth of his coffee seeps through his body, warming Dex almost as much as his dozing goalie at his side. The breeze ruffles the turning leaves and does its best to sneak through the gap between his sweats and his socks. It’s an almost perfect morning, reminiscent of walking to school in Maine, back when his siblings had all entered high school, leaving him the only Poindexter attending the local middle school.
The only thing that would make it better would be if Nursey was bracketing his other side. It’s an open secret on SMH that Dex, tough-as-nails captain and defenseman, craves cuddles and human contact whenever he’s not on the ice. Any teammate will do—there was one infamous away game bus ride where he accidentally trapped Lardo in place by falling asleep on her—but Nursey and Chowder are the best at it.
As he drains the last of his coffee and sets the mug down, there’s a thump and a pained fuck from just inside the door. Dex outright grins as the springs screech again, this time the Haus disgorging a stumbling, grumbling Nursey.
“Shut up, Dexy,” Nursey mumbles as he drops down on Dex’s free side on the steps. “The chair attacked me. Hate crime.”
Dex just makes an amused noise and lets his arm slip around Nursey’s waist in silent solidarity. It’s possible the ghosts are having fun at Nursey’s expense. Unlikely—probably he was just as clumsy as usual if not more so in his half-awake state—but still possible. He’ll chirp Nursey about it later.
Silence falls again as his best friends doze on his shoulders and Dex can barely even come up with words to describe his contentment. It’s hard to explain how happy he is at this precise moment. Nothing is actually going on, not even a conversation. He’s just sitting here, crowded up with Nursey and Chowder while the world wakes up slowly. It’s so completely uneventful, no sagas will be written about it, it won’t go down in history books. But Dex knows he’ll keep this moment close as he grows old. He doesn’t need grand choirs to sing about his life.
He just wants to sit here with these two people and do absolutely nothing.
My one year anniversary for my hellcheer fics (or any fanfiction, really) is tomorrow, september 2! To date, I've created 28 works, published 368,511 words on ao3 (what. the. fuck.), and received a grand total of 46,071 hits! This is absolutely bonkers to me because one year ago I was hovering nervously over the "post" key, certain no one would ever read my fic, let alone want more. But the hellcheer community has been so welcoming, positive, and encouraging that here I am, one year later and still going strong.
In celebration of this, today and tomorrow (sept. 1 and 2) my inbox is open and welcoming for any hellcheer prompts (SFW or NSFW) you'd like to send. And over the next few days I'll try to answer as many of them as possible in ficlet form!
Thanks again, you guys, your comments and interactions have been such a bright spot in a really tough year. I treasure each and every word 💛
GUYS. HOW WOULD YOU FEEL ABOUT ME PICKING A WEEKDAY TO BE MY WEEKLY FICLET FEST? LIKE PICK A SPECIFIC DAY TO POST LITTLE FICLETS OF CHARACTERS OF YOUR CHOICE?
I’m so excited ab this idea!!! What are your thoughts?? Each week I’ll post something a few days in advance to remind you guys of it and maybe get your guys’s person of the week? (Like who you wanna see me write about)
Okay. Here’s what I was thinking.
The day I’ll post my reminder will be ~Monday~, Tuesday if my day is hectic and it doesn’t get up. This gives me plenty of time to write the ficlet, as well as time for you guys to send in some requests/people.
The day I will post my ficlets will be ~Friday~, Saturday (again) if my day is hectic and it doesn’t get up.
I feel like focusing on ficlets will be much easier right now because of how crazy my life is, and it will be more likely that you will actually get a fic during the week lol.
KEEP IN MIND that I am not abandoning requests already sent in and am still taking them, but full-length fics will take longer to get posted just because I am so so busy.
Let me know your thoughts and suggestions! I can’t wait to get this started. Ficlet Fest will start next Friday, since I uploaded a ficlet tonight.
Okay, thank you for listening! 💓💓💓
I can’t wait to get started!!
Join us on Valentine's Day and post a 500-word shippiest-of-shippy ficlet as tribute to our OTP!
Rules: No death! That's it! Valentine's is the sappiest day ever, but we shall have no tears on this day!
This thread will be open on February 14th to host all Valentine's ficlets and any other fun things you might want to post. (Find the thread here http://w11.zetaboards.com/Jaime_x_Brienne/topic/30131171/1/)
This fest is also in preparation for the next big thing...Meet-Cute March! See the dedicated March thread for info.
Say you don’t write? How about a Valentine’s Day drawing, (stick figures welcome), funny cards, candy hearts, whatever you like!
Hi hi hi! I'm such a fan of your writing, and actually had an idea for the ficlet prompts! If it sparks joy for RWRB
Time: midnight or around there, sometime between Christmas and New years
Location: Henry's bedroom at Kensington
POV: Henry Fox Montchristian Windsor
Song: Guilty as Sin by T-Swift
I was listening to the song and was given a vision of Henry wrestling with his feelings for Alex especially after they start chatting regularly and becoming friends, and his guilt over the expectations of the monarchy etc
If you've already done it or if the prompt doesn't inspire you no pressure! I just know I'll be excited to read all of the new ficlets you do for this!
i haven't done this prompt yet but i love the idea of diving into the mess henry's brain must be post thanksgiving call but pre-new years. this was super fun, i hope you enjoy!
read the rest of this fest's ficlets here
❤️🤍💙❤️🤍💙
12:02am, henry's bedroom
Most people wouldn’t be going through their bookshelves just after midnight. Most people, Henry imagines, set aside time during normal hours—perhaps a weekend afternoon while the laundry runs—and page through their books, trying to decide if they want to keep them on their shelves or set them free so another reader may find delight between their covers.
Henry is not, and never will be, most people.
Leaving aside the royalty of it all, Henry’s got the worst case of insomnia of anyone he knows, and a few people he’s only ever heard of. He’s become begrudgingly fond of the liminal time between evening and early morning. He’d rather be sleeping of course, but if he is going to lie awake counting non-existent cracks in the ceiling, he may as well lean into it and get something done. He’s finished whole books, gotten his inbox to zero, done enough research to consider fighting Gram for a PhD, gone down porn rabbit holes that even Pez would blush at, and a whole host of other tasks both fantastic and mundane.
But tonight, like a thousand nights before, Henry can’t sleep. And tonight, the siren song of overfilled bookshelves calls to him. He sorts through the titles methodically, discarding those he knows he won’t read again, occasionally pausing to read the inscriptions of those he was gifted. In between weeding out a handful of narrative non-fiction and deciding that yes, he does actually need all eight copies of Pride and Prejudice, his phone buzzes on the nightstand. It heralds the other reason he’s been up past normal bedtimes more often than not the past few months.
Alex: one day they’ll serve actual food at one of these things instead of just like
Alex: trays of gross looking ‘bites’
Alex: actually maybe you’d like this stuff
Alex: nice and bland like other british food
Alex: related:
Alex: i am BORED
Perhaps the best thing about him and Alex becoming friends—if that’s what they are—is that there’s someone else who gets it. Gets the tedium and the banality of public events, of constantly having to hobnob with people who only care about furthering their own agenda, of having to bow to society’s expectations. Henry used to drift through his own life, accepting a life full of fine and then Alex had knocked him into a cake and out of his fog. The transparent cage Henry had resigned himself to living in is no longer fine, no longer acceptable. He yearns to break the locks, to pull apart the bars, to step out of his routines and live. And it’s all thanks to Alex.
Alex, whose brash confidence and easy smiles have awoken Henry—have shone a light on his life and shown him how dusty it is. Alex, who texts like he talks, who can spit out the most absurd insults then turn around and reveal a part of his soul in the next line. Alex, who couldn’t possibly know how obsessed with the idea of him Henry has been since they met. Alex, who would be shocked at how much the reality of his person surpasses Henry’s daydreams with ease.
Henry, when he does sleep, dreams of Alex. His unconscious mind presents scenarios that have never happened—and never will—but in such a way that they feel like memories. He has to be careful when talking with Alex not to reference these things they never did, not to fall into wishful thinking whenever Alex sends him another shirtless photo as casually as he talks about the weather. Henry keeps those locked deep inside himself, and when he can’t hold anymore, he imagines pressing them into tree leaves, reciting them to the Waterloo Vase—there are too many desires to fit into any room, real or imagined.
Always, Henry is aware of the cage, of the heavy cape of his grandmother’s expectations, of how he can see out, but no one will ever find the key to let him leave. No matter how many times he dreams of him and Alex—holding hands in a cafe, kissing over a plate of pasta, curled up on a soft couch, tumbling half-dressed into bed—the Crown demands a stiff upper lip, a certain image, propriety. The Crown demands—
Well. The Crown demands. Full stop.
It’ll take and leech and drain and steal and order without compunction or consideration for anything but the perfect royal facade. Uncaring who or what it tramples in its unceasing stride. It would leave Henry flat, if he was foolish enough to leave his heart in its path. The Crown may know he’s gay, but they don’t have any idea just who his heart belongs to.
Not that Alex has any idea either.
It’s not quite the consolation Henry would like it to be. How he’s going to manage at Alex’s New Year’s party, he doesn’t know.
For tonight, he has his books to go through. He has a cup of chamomile to try and trick his brain into letting him rest. And he has Alex texting him live updates about his night, a bedtime story anyone would be jealous of.
cricket!! for once i've actually seen one of your prompt fest posts in time so yay i have one for ya:
Time stamp: t-minus 1 minute before the large meteor is set to strike the planet
Location: wrapped in Henry's arms
POV character: Alex
(avoiding death would be preferable lolz or open-ended, i guess lolz)
HI I'M STILL ALIVE AND WRITING THESE I SWEAR
your prompt threw me for a loop but i'm pretty pleased with where it ended up! enjoy i guess? idk
❤️🤍💙❤️🤍💙
12:59pm, henry’s arms
Fifty-nine seconds.
Less than a minute, that’s all that separates billions of people from their normal lives and complete annihilation. Even if he could reach out to anyone else, there’s no more time to warn, to evacuate. All that’s left is the utter empty terror and dull fury clawing at Alex's stomach. He tried everything, got all the way here, only to be denied at every turn. He and Henry overcame or outsmarted every obstacle—except the last, most important one. He’s never felt so worthless in his whole miserable life. The only bright spot—and right now it feels like a hollow victory—is that he and Henry are together right now, and Alex sinks further into Henry’s arms, hoping that he’s got enough strength to keep them upright since Alex’s legs are doing fuck all to contribute in that department.
Forty-seven seconds.
Alex wishes he could pause time, could turn away from the harsh reality ticking away in front of him. He wants more time, more chances, more plans. But there’s nothing else to do, no more tricks to pull out. All he can do is force himself to watch what’s coming. And he does have to force himself. There’s nothing he wants more than to turn into Henry’s chest and sob, to close his eyes and pretend this isn’t happening. But he takes support of Henry’s arms, and watches the clock count down. All those people on the planet have no idea what’s about to happen. They deserve the dignity of Alex and Henry bearing witness. They have failed these people in every other way, the very least they can do is stand vigil.
Thirty-eight seconds.
He can feel Henry’s breath stutter, can feel his chest heave. He knows that pattern as well as his own heartbeat, knows that if he turned around right now, silent tears would be sliding down Henry’s cheeks. He feels wetness gather in his own eyes and clings to Henry as tightly as he can. Alex may not have any words and less than one idea what he would even say, but he can remind Henry he’s here. That they’re still together. He doesn’t know where Pez or Liam are being held on this ship, but he’s fairly sure they’re still alive. If they’d been killed, the Empire would have gloated about it, proclaiming it far and wide by now. Would certainly have tried to use their deaths to break Alex and Henry. So while Alex’s hope is rapidly draining away, a small nugget stubbornly remains.
Twenty-three seconds.
There’s a slim chance they can live to fight another day. As long as his ship is still in one piece. As long as he and Henry don’t get separated. As long as they find their crew. As long as they evade recapture. As long as they get the plans they came for to the Alliance. There’s a chance. A chance to take down the Empire for good.
Sixteen seconds.
Alex’s heart is breaking, his soul is screaming. It seems impossible that the very universe isn’t crying out with despair for what’s about to happen to all the people on the planet. It’s not even an Alliance planet. It’s not strategically important for the Rebellion. If Alex remembers his school days, the planet is populated mostly by farmers and artisans. They still use a barter system, never having integrated into the Republic, choosing to remain independent all those years ago. And now they’re going to be wiped out with the flip of a switch, with the push of a button. The Empire just picked a planet at random. One big enough and close enough to show what their weapon can do. An entire planet is about to be killed to show the rest of the galaxy what it means to defy the Empire.
Nine seconds.
It infuriates Alex. Senseless, careless, ruthless. That’s the Empire in a nutshell—lacking in humanity by any metric. The rest of the galaxy may think they know what it means to be under the Empire’s control, but they have no idea what this weapon can do. It’ll make everything the Alliance is trying to do harder by an unimaginable magnitude.
Five seconds.
But he’s going to keep trying. Going to keep fighting to overthrow the Empire. Going to keep working for a brighter future. A free future. As long as there is breath in his body and Henry next to him he’ll keep trying.
Two seconds.
But first, he’ll watch. He’ll stand at the mouth of hell and hope that somehow, all the souls about to be erased will know he and Henry are here, seeing them, and be comforted that they aren’t completely alone in the universe. That someone was there.
One second.
Alex feels Henry’s tears drip onto his head as the laser powers up, making a noise like a hurricane. With the last beat of time before everything explodes, Alex prays. And promises. And cries as he and Henry hold each other as tightly as they can.
It's that time again friends, it's Ficlet Fest season. I finished Break Out, and I'm super proud of it but holy cow do I need to reset and write some short stuff again!
SO
Previous fests are on AO3 here, here, here, and here or tagged with "ficlet fest" or "cricket writes" tags if you want to brave the nonsense of the tumblr search function. Either way, there be examples or to check what you've prompted in previous years out there for y'all. Read on for instructions/rules to get your very own ficlet!
Come into my ask box and drop the following:
a time stamp (ex: 3:46pm or 18:21)
a location (ex: haus kitchen, the linden tree, New Hope, The Spotted Custard…)
a POV character (ex: Lardo, Bea Fox-Mountchristen-Windsor, Keladry of Mindelan, Alexia Tarabotti…) ((more characters may appear at my own whim but not guaranteed))
a song title/lyric for vibes [OPTIONAL]
a rating (G, T, M, E) [OPTIONAL] aka, 1, 2, and 3 are required, 4 and 5 are not
and ye shall receive:
500-1000 shiny canon/canon-compliant custom Cricket words! just for you! because you're great! and I love you!
some rules:
You have to be following me. On here or on AO3. Seriously. It's a fest of ficlets for followers. Yes, I will check.
Don't submit on anon. No name, no ficlet. So, submit as yourself or sign your anons. Easy peasy.
Only one prompt per person.
If you have an AO3 handle, let me know what it is so I can gift your ficlet to you properly on there as well.
I am most familiar with the following fandoms: Check, Please!, RWRB, One Last Stop, Tortall/Emelan, Parasol Protectorate, Heartstopper, Murderbot. If you submit for a different fandom you might get lucky that I've seen/read it, but be prepared with a backup prompt from something in the list.
Prompts will be accepted through June 15, 2025.
I can't wait to see what y'all come up with this round! 💜🦗
May I please request 10:46 in the Brownstone kitchen, ACD pov (and Angel Baby by Troye Sivan for vibes, but only if you wanna)
Can't wait to read what you come up with and see what everyone else asked for :)))
!!!! oh boy here we go, another ficlet fest begins!
fun facts: i've never listened to troye sivan on purpose before this prompt 😅🤣 i took some vague inspo from the lyrics and let the spirit move me or whatever. thanks for your prompt and i hope you like your ficlet! :) 💜🦗
see how to get your own ficlet here
❤️🤍💙❤️🤍💙
10:46pm, brownstone kitchen
“What’s all this then?”
Alex almost misses Henry’s softly amused question over the music and the whirring of the mixer. “H!” he says, looking over at the kitchen doorway with a bright smile. “Welcome home, baby.”
“Thanks, love.”
Henry sheds his cardigan and dumps his armful of shelter stuff on the corner of the island and then drifts close enough to kiss Alex hello. Henry tries to keep it quick, but Alex pulls him back in for a longer kiss. Henry’s been gone all day, Alex’s classes were exhausting, and sue him or whatever, but he’s always happy to see Henry. Alex can’t possibly make do with just a peck. Stars, can’t do it, not today, etc, etc.
Gratifyingly, Henry looks a little dazed when Alex finally releases him and goes back to his dough.
“Mmmm, delightful. What are you making?”
“Sometimes a boy just needs cookies, y’know?”
“If you mean biscuits, then yes,” Henry says, but he’s just arguing for tradition’s sake and is more focused on wrapping himself around Alex, tucking his chin over Alex’s shoulder. Alex settles himself to take his boyfriend’s weight and revels in the warmth and closeness as the dough continues to come together in the bowl.
“Glad you’re home, finally.”
“Me too,” Henry mumbles. “I love all the kids, of course, but today was a mite exhausting.”
“I’ll bet.” He slows the beater and scrapes down the sides of the bowl. Perfection. “Moving,” he warns before shuffling down the counter to the waiting cookie sheet—Henry clings the whole way. He’s sure they look like a particularly good-looking and sentient hermit crab, not that Alex is complaining.
Alex could live in this moment forever, actually.
The smells of chocolate and cinnamon and vanilla hang in the air, somehow not clashing with Henry’s inexplicable linen and fresh grass scent coming from behind him. He’s got Nora’s nostalgia bitches playlist on—it has everything from stuff his parents had on in the car growing up to songs he hasn’t heard since middle school dances—harmonizing perfectly with Henry’s contented hums against his ear. The view of a neat-ish grid of dough balls slowly filling the baking sheet is satisfying, but the sight of Henry’s arms wrapped firmly around Alex’s waist is a fucking delight. The squishy-ness of the dough against his palms as he rolls them is weirdly soothing, but the feeling of Henry draped across his back like a cape is pulling most of Alex’s focus. The taste of the dough is a guilty pleasure as he finishes filling the cookie sheet, but even the whole cookie he shoves in his mouth can’t compete with the lingering taste of Henry’s lips on his tongue.
It's a perfect moment: like having exactly enough page protectors for his binder, like a curl falling just right over his forehead, like the sunlight reflecting off the lake with nowhere to go. Alex never thought he’d get something like this. He’d secretly hoped for it, but the reality is so much more than he could have ever dreamed up.
“Sorry, baby, gotta let go for a sec.”
“Don’ wanna,” Henry protests into Alex’s neck, making Alex shiver with the sensation.
“I need to put the cookies in the oven, H.”
There’s a pause, then the heaviest, most put-upon sigh in the whole world—even David would be put to shame by Henry’s dramatics—and Henry finally lets his arms drop and takes a step back. Alex slides the tray in and sets a timer.
“Okay, ten minutes until I have to take them out again. Want to get into comfy clothes or anything, sweetheart?”
Henry’s shaking his head before Alex even finishes speaking. “Just want to hold you.”
Alex couldn’t stop the besotted look on his face if he tried; somewhere June is feeling nauseous and doesn’t know why. He leans against the counter and opens his arms.
