HAIL TO THE QUEEN

writing prompts for drabbles/one shots/solos inspired by inanotheruniverse! feel free to adjust the prompts as you like!

in an another universe....

1) [ i get it right this time. ] - what happens if the right choice is made the first time?

2) [ i am unburdened. ] - what happens when the weight of their burden is lifted, or they never had to worry about it to begin with?

3) [ i got closure. ] - what if they get the answers they need to close that chapter of their life?

4) [ i am not alone. ] - what if they actually have the support they need?

5) [ i'm not your enemy. ] - what if character a wasn't at odds with character b?

6) [ i am there when you need me most. ] - what happens if character a can be there when character b needed them the most?

7) [ we're looking back on this and laughing. ] - what if the incident that changes everything between character a and character b can be sorted out instead?

8) [ i went down fighting. / you went down fighting. ] - what if they didn't give up? specify which point of view to write from. or write from both perspectives.

9) [ i didn't betray you. / you didn't betray me. ] - what if they weren't betrayed? specify which point of view to write from. or write from both perspectives.

“SORRY, SORRY—just a joke!” Hands raised, even, in a show of you caught me, with an easy enough smile as Trey makes his way around the kitchen island to stand opposite Riddle. Distance is good, forces him not to hover as every instinct tells him to track Riddle’s hands, even at the simple task of measuring a cup of flour. It’s not for lack of trying, and not for lack of confidence in Riddle’s ability to follow instructions—there’s a good chance he’ll be even more meticulous than usual, in the pursuit of mastery.

But, still. You only watch a younger sibling melt an entire cake to the racks or use salt instead of sugar once before vigilance rears its head subconsciously the moment he’s asked to just supervise.

It’s a learning experience for the both of them. (And, again, he exists comforted by the fact a flick of his wrist and a simple conjuring can suppress flames that an extinguisher can’t reach in time, both figurative and literal.)

“Well. There’s a recommended cooking time at the top, right? But it’s not always what works best for your needs. Cooking temperature changes depending on altitude, sure, but everyone’s oven is a little different—

—Not that we’re ignoring the instructions! Fifteen minutes is the starting point, but you always want to watch them. Just giving an example.”

(There’s more, but—start small.)

“HAHA, NO NEED TO FLATTER ME. Just… trust the process?” He’s probably repeated that to the point of annoyance, but Riddle hasn’t called him for it yet. Trey decides to test that goodwill as far it will stretch, at least for the purposes of actually having cookies to show for the end of this experiment. Riddle sees to wiping down the counters with the paper towel handed, and although Trey can see the side-eye (and feel the power of it all the same) it doesn’t deter him. In a professional setting, he would never. This is comparatively lower stakes, and wasted flour that could be used for other things—besides, they’re on a student budget. (There’s a rule somewhere in the depths of 810 that surely rewards not being wasteful, right? There has to be. …Trey isn’t about to test Riddle’s knowledge and bet incorrectly.) Trey reaches over for the measuring cups once his lion’s share of the flour is back in the bag, and doles out three cups before Riddle’s even finished. It seems like the kind thing to do, to spare him any more flour-based agony. “Ah, you can wash your hands and dust yourself off a little, if you’d like.” Trey’s already reaching for the wet ingredients, softened butter and vanilla extract sliding closer with a little wiggle of his fingers and a touch of magic. His concentration is elsewhere, even if he offers Riddle a sidelong smile for a brief moment. “Better spirits to tackle the best part of the dough. This will only take a sec—”

adrift, riddle takes the offer for what it is: an olive branch. there is a rule about being wasteful - rule 692: use only what is necessary, and no more - but if trey is insisting on calling riddle’s mishap a “detour”, and a “part of the process” (both thought with no small amount of skepticism), riddle isn’t going to argue. 

there is, after all, both a time and place. and it’s become abundantly clear that not only is this neither of those things, but also that riddle is out of his depth. at sea, certain people might say. 

it’s not a fun feeling. riddle hates this feeling. he’s on unsteady ground. he’s not sure what’s going to happen next, and worst of all, trey has offered no new advice since riddle took the paper towel from him and began to wipe down the kitchen countertops. 

riddle scrunches the soggy towel between his hands. there’s an unpleasant lump in his throat; breathing around it is steadily becoming a chore, but riddle - riddle has to breath. he has to wait for directions. 

what do i do? what do i do? he turns to watch trey work. the hairs on the back of riddle’s neck prickle ever-so-slightly as trey casts his spell, and riddle watches, intently, as trey begins to pick up riddle’s slack. 

He wanted to eat a parfait.

It was a sort of strange fixation to develop all of a sudden, especially considering his usual sullen demeanor. Most outside of his guards and Lilia did not even know he had a sweet tooth. That was beside the point, however, and unimportant in the scheme of things.

Malleus Draconia was going to eat a parfait.

He had heard they contained some sort of frozen cream- meringue? He wasn’t certain, but it sounded suspiciously similar to ice cream, and that was enough of a motivation to draw him away from his usual strictly scheduled 3 p.m. gloomy wallowing while gazing out the window appointment.

Sure, he scared about half of the dorm members who were drinking peacefully in the common areas when he strode through the middle of the room like a military commander, but it was short lived and he hardly tended to understand their facial expressions regardless. Surely it was just confusion. With additional shaking. 

Standing quietly in front of Octavinelle’s own mirror, eyes narrowed, the prince seemed to be deep in thought.

(heartslabyul had not forgotten malleus’ invitation to the last inter-house tea party. riddle maintained that the invitation had gotten lost. whoever had lost it was overdue a beheading.) 

but riddle, for the life of him, couldn’t recall any sort of event that would be going on at octavinelle today. especially since it was well within the operating hours of ashengrotto’s inane parlor - which meant that hosting parties, fetes, events - what have you - was out of the question. 

curious, riddle inched a little closer. from where he was, riddle could hear malleus muttering something to himself. 

first parfait? riddle wondered. at ashengrotto’s? he could remember, briefly, hearing that the menu at ashengrotto’s parlor had been updated recently; the heartslabyul common room had more than one group of students pouring over the spellstagram announcement the other day. but riddle hadn’t realized parfaits had been one of the new menu items. 

and what did malleus mean by first parfait anyways? the fae were meant to be ancient, long-lived peoples. riddle found it a bit difficult to wrap his head around the idea that malleus hadn’t ever had a parfait before. 

well. not that riddle was one to judge. it wasn’t as if he’d ever had one before, either. 

you’ve been staring at his back for a while now, riddle thought. ugh. nothing to do but go and ask him about it. 

[TEXT] - please just call me back.

[TEXT] - i’m sorry.

[TEXT] - so this is my number, but don’t save my name as anything sketchy.

[TEXT] - i’m making dinner tonight, you should come over.

[TEXT] - WHERE ARE YOU????

[TEXT] - you’re LATE.

[TEXT] - can we talk? 

[TEXT] - how did it go?

[TEXT] - you’re gonna laugh, but can you pick me up at the police station?

[TEXT] - thinking about you…

[TEXT] - i miss you so much.

[TEXT] - i have an idea, probably gonna get us in trouble though.

[TEXT] - i know you’re awake! pick up the phone! 

[TEXT] - so you’re just gonna ignore me forever? 

[TEXT] - i’m at taco bell you want anything? 

[TEXT] - are you awake?

[TEXT] - i have good news and bad news.

[TEXT] - how are you? 

[TEXT] - new phone, who is this? 

[TEXT] - wanna come over? 

[TEXT] - what’s wrong with you?!

[TEXT] - you only call me when you’re drunk. 

[TEXT] - me, you, a bad movie. you in? 

[TEXT] - wanna bang? [TEXT] - hang* [TEXT] - whatever

[TEXT] - i’ll seduce you with cool scientific facts.

[TEXT] - are you still alive?

[TEXT] - we are sophisticated adults ok?  [TEXT] - last week i purchased a vegetable

[TEXT] - i will not hesitate to strangle you

[TEXT] - what are you doing this weekend? 

[TEXT] - can i come over? [TEXT] - because i’m in your driveway.

“SORRY, SORRY—just a joke!” Hands raised, even, in a show of you caught me, with an easy enough smile as Trey makes his way around the kitchen island to stand opposite Riddle. Distance is good, forces him not to hover as every instinct tells him to track Riddle’s hands, even at the simple task of measuring a cup of flour. It’s not for lack of trying, and not for lack of confidence in Riddle’s ability to follow instructions—there’s a good chance he’ll be even more meticulous than usual, in the pursuit of mastery.

But, still. You only watch a younger sibling melt an entire cake to the racks or use salt instead of sugar once before vigilance rears its head subconsciously the moment he’s asked to just supervise.

It’s a learning experience for the both of them. (And, again, he exists comforted by the fact a flick of his wrist and a simple conjuring can suppress flames that an extinguisher can’t reach in time, both figurative and literal.)

“Well. There’s a recommended cooking time at the top, right? But it’s not always what works best for your needs. Cooking temperature changes depending on altitude, sure, but everyone’s oven is a little different—

—Not that we’re ignoring the instructions! Fifteen minutes is the starting point, but you always want to watch them. Just giving an example.”

(There’s more, but—start small.)

RIDDLE’S SILENCE—well, it doesn’t feel great. It’s puzzling, even, because even if there’s now a literal mess between them and the kitchen, it’s all a part of the process for him. He has two younger siblings with various degrees of skill in the kitchen; flour gets spilled everywhere, by his own hand or by various degrees of eager children underfoot. It doesn’t really bother Trey, insofar as he’s already going to be the one cleaning the kitchen after the fact. Won’t be the last time he’ll end up covered in flour and triaging a kitchen gone awry.

“Hey,” Trey starts, just to break the tension.

Not much else to do but take a detour to clean, just a little. Trey wipes his hands on his own apron—thanking his own foresight, even if he was supposed to be the teacher, not getting his own hands dirty—and reaches for their paper towel stash. Magic can be used to expedite some things, but is of greater use when they need to do a clean sweep of the entire place. Which they will, eventually. But first, cookies.

And putting out smaller fires than that.

A wet paper towel isn’t exactly the most elegant band-aid, but Trey still offers it to Riddle with a smile nonetheless. “Good thing we have a pretty healthy supply of the stuff, right?”

His laughter is a touch forced, but he can see the shadow of tension contained in the quiet, and the bite of Riddle’s bottom lip.

“A detour like this is—part of the process, sometimes.” Trey’s not quite sure how reassuring that is, but the words feel better than simply leaving Riddle to stew on his own. He washes his hands, peace offering given, and goes to cross the kitchen, a detour to one of the drawers as he pulls out a silicon spatula and starts rooting for an empty container. “We don’t have to let the flour go to waste, either. We can scoop it back and keep going.”

(He can’t speak to why it gives Riddle such pause, but. It’s not the time to ask.)

a detour. part of the process. riddle turns the words over in his head. part of the process is reassuring. detour, less so - detours are deviations from a plan, and therefore are...not really meant to be part of the process. 

“that feels...contradictory,” riddle says, quietly. too timid. don’t get so upset! you’re getting upset. stop - getting - upset. he bites down, harder, on his bottom lip. “but who am i to argue? i’m not the, um, the master baker between the both of us.” he claps his hands together. “so. a small detour.” 

shamedly, riddle takes the proffered paper towel. it’s cool to the touch, and just a tad bit slimey. like a slug. or a potions ingredient. riddle begins to swipe it over the light dusting of flour scattered across the kitchen countertops. the heartslabyul kitchens are quiet, sans the sound of trey, scooping flour back into the container. riddle doesn’t quite...like the idea of it; the flour’s been contaminated, hasn’t it? and if potions are any metric, well - there’s no such thing as the five second rule in potions. that way lies many a melted cauldron. riddle’s seen the results firsthand, thanks to heartslabyul’s newest freshman members.

(deuce and ace...well...neither have claimed to be the sharpest tool in the gardening shed. and for good reason at that.) 

“SORRY, SORRY—just a joke!” Hands raised, even, in a show of you caught me, with an easy enough smile as Trey makes his way around the kitchen island to stand opposite Riddle. Distance is good, forces him not to hover as every instinct tells him to track Riddle’s hands, even at the simple task of measuring a cup of flour. It’s not for lack of trying, and not for lack of confidence in Riddle’s ability to follow instructions—there’s a good chance he’ll be even more meticulous than usual, in the pursuit of mastery.

But, still. You only watch a younger sibling melt an entire cake to the racks or use salt instead of sugar once before vigilance rears its head subconsciously the moment he’s asked to just supervise.

It’s a learning experience for the both of them. (And, again, he exists comforted by the fact a flick of his wrist and a simple conjuring can suppress flames that an extinguisher can’t reach in time, both figurative and literal.)

“Well. There’s a recommended cooking time at the top, right? But it’s not always what works best for your needs. Cooking temperature changes depending on altitude, sure, but everyone’s oven is a little different—

—Not that we’re ignoring the instructions! Fifteen minutes is the starting point, but you always want to watch them. Just giving an example.”

(There’s more, but—start small.)

THE FUNNY THING IS: Trey’s just stopped holding his breath that some grand disaster was going to happen.

For one, he’d done extensive prep so that beginner’s frustration wouldn’t set in. Even if it’s just following a recipe, something can overtake even the most dedicated students learning a skill for the first time. Trey wasn’t immune; he’d burnt more cookies and cakes in the course of getting comfortable around a kitchen. It clicked once he’d broken it down to the simplest elements, worked through his own frustrations, and, as rote as the advice always is, practiced again and again until the measurements came to him naturally.

Even if the precautions may have been, admittedly, a bit much, Trey hopes the extra effort is appreciated. So far, it’s going well. Riddle has a cool head when it counts, and Trey’d like to believe something close enough to alchemy can circumvent the learning curve.

“Okay, this one’s pretty easy. It’s about the gluten content,” Trey starts, with the same enthusiasm that would normally be reserved for discussing a beloved pet.

“So, flour is measured by that gluten content, right? There’s a sliding scale of it, which determines what sort of thing it’s best used for. All-Purpose is—“

The finer details of gluten content and flour don’t really matter. Trey’s smile at the question and funny twinkle of his eye is tempered.

He has a passing thought, in slow motion: huh, maybe Riddle shouldn’t need to tug that bag open so much. Trey was even poised to offer, after his explanation of the versatility of all-purpose flour, to just—open it for him. The last thing they want is cleaning a bunch of flour left to float in the air and make a right mess of things. Trey still hasn’t quite perfected the art of leaving a trail of flour somewhere in his wake. His expression changes and there’s a flash of recognition of the approaching disaster a second before it happens, and spills over into the air in an explosion of white.

Trey is, quite literally, blinded with the stuff. A few seconds’ pause, and he slowly pulls his glasses off, wordlessly cleaning the lens on the corner of his shirt—not that it helps much. The front of it all is floured just as much as the lens. Hm.

He blows on them instead, wipes excess with his thumb and takes the smudged penalty of his thumbprints to blink and access the damage.

Lightly, with a little humor in his voice: “—Well. Not the first time that’s happened to me, either.” (What follows is a sneeze, into the crook of his arm. Now there’s definitely flour in his lungs. Must be a day ending in Y.) “So, next time. We can use scissors.

riddle blinks. once, then twice, and then twice more in quick succession. the feeling of flour, settling in his hair, on his face, in his hair -! is not a pleasant sensation. 

it feels a bit like sand; if sand were softer, and somehow even drier. riddle finds that he dislikes the senseation just as much as he dislikes sand. some of it is in his mouth. 

it is, riddle finds, hard to look dignified while spitting a mouthful of flour out. nevermind dignified, it’s hard to be discreet about spitting a mouthful of flour out. nevertheless, riddle tries his best. 

“...right,” riddle said, quietly. his face felt warm. was it warm? was he flushing? riddle hoped he wasn’t. blushing was unseemly. but perhaps the boat for seemly behavior had passed, with that handful of flour he’d spat out, mere moments before. “well, i’ll be sure to remember the scissors. next time.” 

there’s not going to be a next time, riddle thinks. not after this disaster. 

he tries to collect himself. trey had put out a recipe - instructions, clear-cut as anything, easy to follow. riddle is good at following directions. orders. rules. the world is disorderly at heart, but a rosehearts is good at making order. 

what’s your next step? riddle asks himself. the flour is - well, it’s all over the kitchen. no getting around that. but what comes after the flour? what is riddle supposed to do, after spilling half of it across the kitchen and the other half across himself and trey? 

“SORRY, SORRY—just a joke!” Hands raised, even, in a show of you caught me, with an easy enough smile as Trey makes his way around the kitchen island to stand opposite Riddle. Distance is good, forces him not to hover as every instinct tells him to track Riddle’s hands, even at the simple task of measuring a cup of flour. It’s not for lack of trying, and not for lack of confidence in Riddle’s ability to follow instructions—there’s a good chance he’ll be even more meticulous than usual, in the pursuit of mastery.

But, still. You only watch a younger sibling melt an entire cake to the racks or use salt instead of sugar once before vigilance rears its head subconsciously the moment he’s asked to just supervise.

It’s a learning experience for the both of them. (And, again, he exists comforted by the fact a flick of his wrist and a simple conjuring can suppress flames that an extinguisher can’t reach in time, both figurative and literal.)

“Well. There’s a recommended cooking time at the top, right? But it’s not always what works best for your needs. Cooking temperature changes depending on altitude, sure, but everyone’s oven is a little different—

—Not that we’re ignoring the instructions! Fifteen minutes is the starting point, but you always want to watch them. Just giving an example.”

(There’s more, but—start small.)

—IT’S A FAIR QUESTION. Trey bites the inside of his cheek to keep from laughing anyway.

Nostalgic is the word—splitting hairs is one too many, and it’s a little concession in the process of learning that will have larger returns later. “Well, the sugar dissolves when it heats up, and becomes a liquid like the rest of the wet ingredients. Like caramel. I know that sounds counter-intuitive—it’s all going in the same cake, why does it matter how they’re separated, right? But the sugar dissolving with the wet ingredients actually keeps it moist.

“I know it’s a bit cliché, but cooking’s basically a science. Edible chemistry, if you will.” (Well, if you’re particularly brave, there’s no need for the distinction of edible, but Trey prefers not to go into great detail about the things he’s volunteered to chug and test in the late afternoon commotion of Science Club.) “It’s why we try to follow the recipe exactly while it’s still new; any little deviation can change the chemical reaction that makes everything come together. It can be daunting, sure, but I’ve always thought it takes some of the pressure off.”

Trey nudges measuring cups Riddle’s way across the counter, eyes falling to the recipe and focusing on the lines. The text, read upside down, is barely legible and only ceases to ache behind his eyeballs, but a long blink and a shake of his head disrupts the feeling before it builds. “There’s not some super-secret trick to cooking or baking. It’s something that can be solved, and learned.”

It makes the whole thing sound sterile, Trey’s sure, but he doesn’t pay it much mind. He’s never been an artistic sort; even his own pastry flourishes are technique. It made sense to him years ago, when it all clicked together, and it only stands to reason it might ease Riddle into the groove of things, too.

“Keep asking questions, though. You’re really the only student of… hm, three? I’ve ever had ask me about the sugar thing. Extra credit!”

Not content with simply idling on the counter, Trey finally abandons the notion of encouraging relaxation by feigning it to walk over to the silverware drawer. “Here, since we’re on dry ingredients.” Momentary rooting for a knife that’s plucked out without a second thought. “Skim the top as you measure with this, if you really want to keep the measurements exact.”

A beat, butter knife offered across the counter next: “And it feels cool.”

riddle picked the proffered knife up, turning it over in his hands. if cooking was a science - and according to trey, it very much was - then what was the potions equivalent to a kitchen knife? a scalpel? or was a knife simply that - a knife? 

riddle frowned, setting the knife back down. stupid questions, he thought, and pursed his lips as he surveyed the countertop. trey had done him a favor, setting everything out beforehand. riddle could admit that he was at a loss when it came to locating things in the kitchen. he wasn’t the most familiar with how trey liked to keep heartslabyul’s kitchens, and if riddle were to be honest, there was little motivating him to interfere with the way trey wanted to keep it. 

there was some sort of saying, about not coming between cooks and their kitchens. riddle had always resolved to do his best to adhere to it. 

“right, then. flour and baking powder.” locating the bag of flour was easy enough. it did, after all, say ALL PURPOSE FLOUR in large, colorful letters, and riddle could read. all purpose, he thought, as he pulled the bag closer to him. 

as opposed to what? were there specialized flours? was he supposed to be using a cookie flour for cookies? what made a flour all purpose to begin with? 

in potion-making, it was important to know the exact properties each ingredient contributed to the brew. after all, knowing one’s ingredients was key in innovating and improving upon one’s potion formulas. the older you got, riddle knew, the more the professors would ask you to improvise. knowing the difference between the effect of eye of newt and newt liver could make the difference between a farsight potion and a firebreath potion. 

so if baking was a science, then it stood to reason...

“what makes a flour all-purpose?” riddle asked, as he began to open the bag. “are there different flours for different purposes?” riddle frowned, tugging a little harder at the sealed bag. why won’t this thing open!? ”should we be using a differe-” 

another hard tug at the sealed bag, and it burst open - letting out a flume of flour, which settled in a foot-wide radius, around riddle, who found himself promptly covered it in. 

spitting a mouthful of the powder out, riddle gaped at the bag - which was now completely torn open - at a loss for words. 

another random assortment for your enjoyment!

do they enjoy silence or find it too loud?

how many hours of sleep do they average per night?

would they ever skydive/paraglide/etc?

describe their dream home.  looks, location, decorations, etc.

can they roller skate/skateboard?  would they like to learn?

what’s their favorite dish to cook?  favorite dish to order out?

describe their dream vacation.  would they take anyone or go alone?

are they close to any of their family members?  

what is their idea of the afterlife?  does it scare them?

what’s their love language?  

would they describe themselves as beautiful/handsome/etc?  

did their childhood have a negative or positive impact on them?  

what they wanted to be when they grew up vs what they do now.

what type of neighborhood did they grow up in?  do they still live there?

does their family/friends have any traditions they take part of?

who is their best friend?  how long have they known them?

do they have anyone they consider their enemy?  what did they do to gain that title?

did they have a rebellious stage as a teenager?  what did it involve?

what’s currently in their pockets/purse/etc?

how much cash do they generally carry with them?

do they celebrate any holidays?  what are the celebrations like?  do they have a favorite?

have they ever traveled outside their country?

are they an affectionate person?  how do they feel about pda?

if they were choosing an adventure to go on what would it consist of?

have they ever been in a physical fight?  what happened?

are they more likely to take the leader role or let someone else call the shots?

has anyone ever betrayed their trust?  do they still speak to them?

do they believe in magic?  why do they have this belief?

do they wake up on the first alarm, hit snooze, or have multiple alarms set? 

what’s the first major event they remember in their life?

what would their three wishes be if they found a genie?  

have they ever ended a relationship to pursue their career/education further?  what happened?

what do they consider their worst habit? 

are they good at explaining things to others?

how do they handle being upset/angry?  do they yell, cry, go silent, etc?

do they have any habits they believe are odd?

if they could hit redo on a single past event in their life what would it be?  would they do it if it meant changing the present?

what does their future look like when they picture it?  who’s there with them?

have they ever been to court?  what was the outcome?