From the hazy lazy days of summer to the start of school (whatever that looks like this year), we’re ready for cooler temperatures and a return to routine. In time, of course.
From September 6-12 (and during the week-long makeup period from September 13-19), come celebrate the beginning of a new school year with us.
(Don’t forget about the Artificial Queens Black Girl Magic challenge, which ends July 30!)
We also have a new Discord Server which is semi-public, open to readers and writers/artists, and exists as a space in which new ideas can be discussed. Just click here to join!
Here is the prompt list:
Sunday, September 6: Notebook
Monday, September 7: Desk
Tuesday, September 8: Pens
Wednesday, September 9: Lesson
Thursday, September 10: Student
Friday, September 11: Quiz
Saturday, September 12: Memorize
The Rules, Huntie
Submissions open immediately after the prompt reveal and close at 10:59 p.m. CST the day the prompt posts. If you’re super close to finishing, send me a message and we’ll work something out.
During the makeup period, any prompts are accepted on any day.
Stories/art will be posted in the order in which they are received.
Feel free to share your work on Ao3 or AQ, but please link back to the blog when you do so, and if you don’t plan to submit your work to the blog, at least drop a link to let me know were you’ve posted it so I can provide a link for archival reasons.
How does it work?
Use the submit page to submit your post. Format your post using the AQ Guidelines. (It makes it easy on me and Veronica when we’re reblogging things, and everyone’s pretty familiar with them by now.)
One submission per person per prompt per medium per day.
Feel free to complete all of the prompts, pick a few of your favorites, or just do one that really speaks to you. There is absolutely no pressure. I want this to be a fun, relaxed environment that celebrates the RPDR fan culture and some of the incredible talent we have in the fandom.
Remember that all ships, all genres, and all ratings are accepted (with the exception of Aquaria, who has expressed her discomfort with fanfiction, and Sharon Needles due to the accusations recently brought to light). If you write it, we want to read it!
Please feel free to message me here or at my main blog @janssports if you have any other questions.
Like, reblog, and share this post to spread the word. Let me know if you’re planning on participating. And mostly, happy writing!
Local clown here. May i request some sort of royal/noble au with cracker. I don’t really care what ship hehe ✡️👄✡️✌️.
ask and you shall receive 😌 crameron for your nerves xo
***
“Bri, are you paying me any attention?” Blair’s voice snaps her back into the real world, and Brianna almost reluctantly tears her gaze away from the window.
“I’m sorry, I zoned out a little. Go on, please,” she says, resting her head in the heel of her hand. Brianna blinks owlishly, as Blair skeptically resumes her story, and Brianna hears something about Blair’s suitors back in her kingdom, but there’s only so many words Blair can say before Brianna is back to daydreaming with one of the soldiers training in the field below them.
The decision to accept female soldiers had been quite radical, especially coming from her father. Brianna guessed it had to do with the imminent war they’d get into if Blair decided to not marry Brianna’s brother, thus not uniting their kingdoms and leaving the Hellers to battle alone.
There’s a soldier that guards the entrance the royal chambers of the princesses; she greets her with a toothy smile and doesn’t say anything when she sees the princesses wandering around the hallways late at night, and acts as if she can’t hear the choked screams when they’re climbing back to their rooms by the windows.
She’s also gorgeous. Like, “I’d Hate If We Go To War, Because I Can Stare At You For Days” kind of gorgeous, and Brianna is pretty sure that she’s never seen someone - let alone a woman - be so muscly.
Brianna once heard the other guard call her Michaels, and every so often she asks the General about Soldier Michaels. She’s pretty sure she’s annoyed the general already, but he doesn’t say anything because Brianna can just say he’s been mean to her and get his ass kicked out of the Royal Military.
She steals a quick glance out the window and sees Soldier Michaels tackling someone to the ground. Brianna chastises herself when she thinks that she wouldn’t mind Soldier Michaels tackling her into the ground too.
lmao hi guys i’m alive. college is fun but a lot of work. i haven’t been on here in a bit but i finally tried writing again! it’s not my best work, but kinks aren’t my strong suit. there’s some extremely mild smut near the end. hope everyone is doing well!
144: “ Stop being such a baby. ”
191: “ Behave.”
“Come on. Stop being such a baby.” Kameron wiped away the excess ink on Brianna’s upper arm, about halfway through her tattoo. At most it had been two hours, but Bri’s whining made it feel like twelve.
The needle grazed against Bri’s porcelain skin and she jerked away, almost causing a jagged line in her smooth floral arrangement. Kameron’s patience was wearing thin- nostrils flaring and a deep sigh.
“Do you want to be done?”
“No- please no. I’d rather do this in one session.”
“Then behave.”
Normally, Kameron wasn’t very assertive, in fact it was the first time she’d given Bri any form of command. She could barely tell a barista when her order was wrong. This was a whole new side that Brianna hadn’t seen in her since they started dating about six months ago. And it was...kind of hot? As angry as she wanted to be with Kam’s attitude, she was more turned on than anything.
In under an hour, Kameron finished the tattoo. Bri stayed silent the entire time, allowing Kam to focus while daydreaming about this discovery: Kameron whispering praises in her ear as fingers traveled down her stomach and circled her clit, bruising her neck as she pumped in and out of her until Brianna convulsed and stuck fingers in her mouth, soaking up every drop rolling down her palm. It caused the hairs on Bri’s arms to stand as her eyes slowly closed and she rolled in her seat as Kam wrapped the finished product after cleaning. She wasn’t going to question it until a slight groan came out of Bri’s mouth.
“Um, you okay babe?”
Brianna didn’t even answer and leeched onto her. She straddled Kam’s lap and kissed her deeply, almost knocking the chair over before Kam grabbed the table. She leaned into Brianna’s hungry affection and squeezed her ass before grabbing underneath and picking her up.
Let’s just say Brianna forgot about the pain in her arm for a couple of hours.
A/N: She’s really into Crameron it would appear. This is my Rare Pairs challenge! The tropes I chose were: A and B are forced to share a bed; and A confesses their feelings to B while drunk. I also set it on a tour bus because I love a challenge. If you want to get really technical, you can fit this piece into the same universe as purple as both take place during the Season 10 tour. Think of them as puzzle pieces that overlap.
Thank you, Veronica, for the challenge! It was a ton of fun. Here’s to many more!
Summary: It’s three days into the season 10 tour and Cracker is aching for human interaction. This lack wears on him, has formed a hollow in his chest and he’s… well he’s lonely, for lack of a better term. And maybe a little horny. Also that.
Cracker isn’t a touchy kind of person.
A hug here, a kiss there? That’s fine. He can handle that. But outward displays of affection have never been his thing, have always seemed a little too contrived and shallow, made up for whomever is watching in the background. If the attraction is there, why force it for people who are observing?
Instead, he prefers to show his affection in different ways, in private ways—rich, romantic dinners out that end in long, languid kisses against walls and slow, steady fucks in the privacy of a bedroom.
Which is why his current predicament makes absolutely no sense.
It’s three days into the season 10 tour and Cracker is aching for human interaction. There’s banter, of course, hugs with Monet and Eureka and Asia on stage, plenty of hugs from fans at the meet and greets, but it isn’t the same. He couldn’t tell you how long it’s been since he’s found himself wrapped in someone else’s arms, felt the embrace of another man hold him tightly against his chest all night in bed just because. This lack wears on him, has formed a hollow in his chest and he’s… well he’s lonely, for lack of a better term. And maybe a little horny. Also that.
They’re in Florida (he thinks) because the air was heavy and sticky sweet when they’d stopped at that Olive Garden for dinner. The top six are sitting around the tour bus playing their hundredth round of Cards Against Humanity (at which Asia is frighteningly good) and drinking lukewarm wine coolers, which have Aquaria sent. (She’s been giggling for the past fifteen minutes. It’s a new look for her, one that Cracker doesn’t hate, if he’s being completely honest. She’s dropped that frigid bitch persona she’s adopted since Winner was tacked on to her name. It will be back in the morning. Best to enjoy the softer side while it lasts.)
She keeps insisting she isn’t drunk though, and that’s getting a bit wearing.
“Child, who told you that you could hold your liquor?” Monet says to Aquaria, who launches into a diatribe about Italians and alcohol levels and something else that makes Cracker roll his eyes and turn over to face Kameron.
Kameron lies next to him on the floor of the bus, long limbs stretched out against Cracker’s body under a thin blanket, fingers lightly scratching his back, initiating the contact he so desperately needs. He leans into it, soaks it in. They’re all sisters, right? All of them close beyond measure. It’s not weird. It’s not sexual. It’s not.
Kameron’s hand finds Cracker’s hipbone, rests there, squeezes gently, and—oh, this is new. Sparks down his spine, electricity to his fingertips. But there’s nothing between him and Kameron, never has been—
“Hand check!” Asia calls (as she has been all night, mostly for shits and giggles, but this time Cracker feels guilty), and Kameron’s hand leaves his hip, but the flicker it leaves tingles long into the night.
*****
Cracker has this thing with waking up early to write in his journal. It’s usually nothing; sketches sometimes, lines of poetry at others. He doesn’t sleep that well on the bus and he relishes the moments of quiet he gets in the early morning hours before the rest of the girls wake up and begin their day. Today he’s sketching, working his pencil over a dress design that isn’t bending to his will, no matter how many times he’s erased the curve of the skirt or the line of the bust. It’s frustrating, how he can see perfection in his head but can’t execute it on paper.
The sun is just breaking over the mountains of North Carolina when Kameron slides into the breakfast nook next to Cracker and rests his chin on his shoulder.
“Hi,” Cracker says.
“You’re up early,” Kameron responds, wrapping his arms around Cracker’s waist, pulling him close. He smells like stale cologne and old cigarette smoke and cinnamon toothpaste, and Cracker doesn’t know when they started acting like this (snuggly and close), but he certainly isn’t complaining. Because Kameron’s arms are strong and broad, and he likes the way they feel when they’re wrapped around him.
But Kameron cuddles with everyone, has been known to slide into bed with Monet for a nap, pecks Aquaria on the cheek as they pass in the corridor, pinches Eureka’s ass in the wings before she goes on stage just for the hell of it.
Cracker knows he isn’t special, knows it’s just the way Kameron is. So. He doesn’t take it too seriously. Not even the way Kameron’s thumbs rub circles on his abdomen just over his belly button as he sketches in his journal (even though it feels amazing and different and could stir something deep in him if he’d let it. So he won’t let it).
“That’s pretty,” Kameron says softly, lips brushing against his shoulder blade, stubble rough on the back of his neck.
Cracker shrugs. “It’s just an idea, but I don’t… I can’t… Get it to…”
“What if you… just…” Then Kameron’s hand snakes up around Cracker’s own, takes the pencil from between his fingers, sketches a few experimental lines on the paper. Cracker nods his approval, so Kameron’s strokes become darker, more self-assured.
The only sounds are the scratch of the pencil on paper and Kameron’s soft breath in Cracker’s ear, and after a few moments, Kameron hands the pencil off and surveys his work.
It’s exactly what Cracker wanted. Not what he had in mind, but better. Something he never would have thought of and yet…
He laughs. “It’s perfect. Thank you.”
Kameron shrugs. “It’s what I’d put you in. If I could dress you for a show. Just something a little… Different. Sexier.”
Blood immediately rushes to Cracker’s cheeks and he hopes Kameron’s face is far enough away to where he can’t feel the heat he knows radiates from him.
Kameron rests his forehead on Cracker’s neck, right over his pulse point, and tightens his arms around his waist.
And the air is thick, even more so than it was at that Olive Garden in Florida a few nights ago, and Cracker’s afraid to move because the moment might end and he isn’t sure he wants it to.
Then Monet yawns and someone’s feet hit the floor and Kameron pulls away with a sigh.
“I’ll start some coffee.”
*****
Kameron always starts painting hours before the rest of them. It’s a laugh now, an inside joke between the group that while the rest of them sightsee and spend exorbitant amounts of money on souvenirs they don’t need, Kameron locks himself in the theatre dressing room and methodically paints his face.
In Chicago, Cracker joins him.
Kameron raises an eyebrow when he asks if it’s all right. “You’d rather stay in with me instead of hanging out in the city?”
Cracker shrugs. “I’ve seen Chicago.”
So they sit together in the dressing room, music playing softly from Kameron’s phone and Cracker relaxes on the couch and just… watches.
Kameron is methodical. He always starts with his eyes. He’s trying out a deep maroon eye today and it’s interesting to watch his process. Fascinating, actually.
Cracker finds himself transfixed by Kameron’s reflection in the mirror; brushes blending powders into his eyelid, liquid eyeliner drawn on in thick slashes, mascara painted on in heavy strokes.
When Kameron’s eyes are finished (crimson with pinks in the corners, gold on the edges, glitter in the creases), he turns around in his seat and bats his eyes at Cracker. “What do you think?”
“You’re beautiful,” Cracker says without thinking, without taking his hand off his face, without breaking the trance he’s been locked in since Kameron started putting on his makeup.
Kameron smiles softly and straightens a brush on his workstation. “I thought you came with me so you could start early too.”
Cracker shrugs. “Maybe I came early because I’d rather hang out with you instead of with everybody else.”
“You can’t…” Kameron sighs. “Don’t say stuff like that.”
“It’s true.”
“Maybe. But I can’t…” Kameron shakes his head, lowers his eyes, turns back around. “Look, just forget it.”
Cracker pushes himself off the couch and slides into the chair at the station next to Kameron. His hand finds Kameron’s knee, smooth and soft, and they’re leaning towards each other to close the gap between them.
He feels Kameron’s eyelashes on his cheeks first, then his breath, then his lips as they touch his, gently at first, but then stronger, harder, needier.
Kameron’s hands are on the back of Cracker’s neck, pulling them as close together as he can, and it’s impossible. It’s everything.
Cracker can’t remember how to breathe because this… this is all he needs. Kameron’s tongue on his, his teeth worrying his bottom lip gently, the little vibrations from the hum one of them is making (right now he can’t tell who because he doesn’t know where he ends and Kameron begins and it’s delicious).
There’s a crash in the hall that startles them apart, followed by a loud exclamation of “Fuck!” and for once Cracker’s never been so grateful that Eureka is incapable of being quiet.
He risks a glance at Kameron, who sits with his head in his hands, but looks up with a smile immediately when the door opens and the rest of the girls enter the room. Kameron greets the group with a quiet, “Hey!” as Cracker licks strawberry chapstick from his lips.
Cracker paints next to Kameron that night.
Neither one of them speaks.
*****
Aquaria’s liquor tolerance is getting lower and lower the further in they go, which seems counterintuitive to Cracker, but he can only go based on what he sees.
So they’re 10 days in by the time she pukes in her bed. (She says it’s motion sickness. Monet says it’s the half-bottle of Fireball she shotgunned. Cracker keeps his mouth shut.) And it’s… Well, it’s so unlike polished, put-together Aquaria that no one’s really sure how to process it.
Asia snaps into Tour Bus Mom Mode instantly (impressive, considering how utterly wasted they all are), but it’s four in the morning and they have a full day of travel ahead of them. So she diplomatically decides that there’s no point in doing the laundry immediately and she sends everyone back to bed with a sigh. It’s late, they’re drunk. This can wait until morning. Late morning. Afternoon, even, if necessary.
Aquaria, however, has taken up residence in Cracker’s bed. And she’s face-down and very unconscious. Which is… Well, it’s typical when Cracker really stops to think about it. But probably for the best. At least she won’t choke on her own vomit and die. That’s all they need—a dead champion less than a month after crowning her.
So he resigns himself to curling up in the breakfast nook with a throw pillow and paper thin blanket, and he’s headed that direction when Kameron’s hand finds his wrist as he passes his bunk. Cracker stops.
“Plenty of room for one tiny Jewish woman,” Kameron says softly. “If you want…”
Cracker pauses. Hesitates. Considers the situation.
They haven’t discussed their kiss from the night before, have barely spoken. They’ve been friendly, but Kameron’s been noticeably less hands-on and Cracker’s missed it, missed him.
“Beats Naugahyde and Formica.” Kameron laughs. “Come on. I don’t even snore that loud.”
Maybe it’s because he’s drunk. Maybe it’s because he really doesn’t want to sleep in the breakfast nook. Maybe it’s because Kameron’s arms are outstretched, open to him, waiting for him to fill them. Maybe it’s because he’s just tired.
“What the hell,” he mutters.
So Cracker tosses the blanket and pillow to the floor and slides into the bunk with Kameron.
He sinks into the thin mattress and into Kameron’s smell—cigarettes, cologne, cinnamon—and Kameron’s arms find him in the dark.
“We’ll have to snuggle a little,” he says quietly. “That okay?”
“Fine,” Cracker chokes out. “That’s… Fine.”
And it is. With the liquor flowing through his veins, Cracker’s world is soft and hazy at the edges, and his brain is moving slowly. So he almost doesn’t notice when Kameron’s bare feet tangle with his, and it’s almost indistinguishable when Kameron’s hands settle on his hips. Almost. Because the tingle, the electricity, is still there between them. It never really faded. It’s been there, buzzing just under Cracker’s skin, waiting for reignition.
“Okay?” Kameron asks sleepily, syllables low and soft against the back of Cracker’s neck.
“‘S’nice,” Cracker responds lazily.
They lie in silence, listening to Eureka snore for a few moments, until Kameron clears his throat. “Cracks?”
“Hmm?”
“What are we doing?”
Cracker sighs. “We’re sleeping.”
“No, I mean…” Kameron takes in a deep breath. “I liked kissing you the other night. That was… I liked it. I like… you. So I just… I didn’t know if you also liked… it.”
Kameron rambles when he’s drunk, and Cracker finds it adorable because he’s normally so measured and so deliberate. He had liked kissing Kameron, he won’t lie. But this admission feels like more it feels like a promise, like it changes things.
Sometimes, though, Cracker thinks change can be a good thing.
“I liked it,” Cracker says quietly, then he turns over carefully, cautiously, silently. Slides his hands up the strong arms that have enveloped him. “I like you.”
“So what are we doing?” Kameron asks again, voice barely audible in the night.
“This.” Cracker presses his lips to Kameron’s in a chaste kiss. “We’re doing this.”
Kameron smiles against his mouth. “Fucking finally.”
And their lips meet again with warmth and fervor as Kameron rolls on top of Cracker, slots their bodies together like jigsaw pieces finally reunited. His body is singing: arias, operas, symphonies. He feels everything in the world and nothing at all and somehow perfect all at the same time.
Cracker sighs, breathes, relaxes into the feeling of Kameron’s body covering his, Kameron’s mouth working against his, Kameron’s heart beating in time with his.
We’re doing this, he’d said, with confidence that had come from somewhere unknown to him.
