#archeyevl

“ Pfft. Simp. ”

“I could kill you if I really wanted to.”

// just domestic husband things :)

Answered! || @archeyevl

Peter simply hummed in response: affirmative, yet unbothered. A casual acknowledgement of what they both knew to be true.

Elias could kill him—right now, without breaking a sweat. Could reach into his mind and destroy him from the inside. Could drag out every thought he shouldn't entertain, every feeling he shouldn't be capable of, and lay it so bare that his patron turned on him and devoured him whole.

Just like Peter could cast Elias into the Lonely if he really wanted to. Could banish him to that endless place that would welcome this man-out-of-time so readily, inescapable even for one so powerful, so hellbent on living.

It would be all too easy.

But Elias didn't. And Peter didn't.

❝ Oh— No, no, I wouldn't say that. It was very kind of you to let me borrow one. ❞

He is, of course, avoiding the question. Leon's gotten rather good at that over the years. There's a subtle art to it, dancing around a topic without shutting it down abruptly, and he's found it a remarkably effective technique when trying to buy himself some time. Sort his thoughts out, as it were, and figure out the most professional way to word the thoughts bouncing around like ping pong balls in his brain.

Stupid as it sounds, he always feels a little nervous whenever he comes in here. Or— Well. Perhaps nervous isn't quite the right word. It's more... pressured, put under scrutiny, spotlighted. Leon tries not to dwell on it too much, even as he straightens his posture and silently longs to retreat into the safety of his cheerful, well-rehearsed camera persona. After all, he's already made an intrusion of himself, and it wouldn't do to let this senseless worrying dampen the mood.

❝ It's a little embarrassing to admit, but I'm not the best at orienting maps. Something to do with spatial awareness, or so I've been told. ❞ Not that anyone's ever been able to diagnose him with anything. Pediatricians, psychologists and neurologists alike have all been forced to conclude that, in their highly-qualified medical opinions, he's just like that. ❝ To be honest, I've been having some real difficulty lining up its landmarks with what's actually in front of me. ❞

With a quirked brow of intrigue, Rire would merely take another sip of his tea. While his attention would momentarily appear more focused on appreciating the dark beverage's aroma, it wasn't long before his concealed gaze would lift itself back up to meet the gentleman's from across him. A small, unreadable smirk slowly stretching across his lips, as he finally acknowledged him then.

"Why Mister Bouchard, is something the matter?"

// hueeeeeee (๑˘︶˘๑)

. . .

Those words don't compute in her brain. Of all the people, Melinoë is the most organized and maniacally tidying obsessed person he'd ever meet if he saw her office, or the way she manages all her stuff around -if it's out to the public, of course. So, this woman doesn't really understand what he truly means.

There's a mixture of confusion, embarrassment, shyness and fluster in her face, knitted eyebrows as she looks with concern at the man.

Until she catches it.

And until then, no one else has seen her face as red as it is now. Her mouth agape, soon is covered with both hands, and then quickly move to hide her cheeks. Stuttering, Melinoë tries to find something to say in return, but no words seem to come out at first.

In her mind, quick images appear as examples of what he'd imply. With her knowledge coming from fictional sources, Mel finds it quite hard to put herself in that situation, but oh how delightful is the mental sight of Elias himself doing what he meant by that. If only he knew that just his mere touch would make her melt...

"What else would you call it?" Jon fired back immediately, playfulness softened around the edges by the warm sunlight peeking through the curtains and the even warmer line of body heat against his back. Counterproductive to halfhearted efforts to extricate from bed, Jon tucked himself further into Martin's body, wiggling backwards so they were even more flush, perfect as if they were made to slot together.

A contented sigh ruffled a few tendrils of his own hair splayed across the pillow. Slow and deep, unhurried and unburdened, reveling in the beautifully steady rise and fall of Martin's breaths expanding against his back. Yes, this was exactly the definition. He didn't need to be the Archivist to know that.

"I may not be as familiar with the term as of late, but I still know it when I see it." He made his own halfhearted effort to nudge Martin with his shoulder, but couldn't effectively do so considering the arms encircling him completely. "I'm not adorable," he huffed instead, and would argue to his final breath that he didn't pout as he said it. If he was relieved that Martin hopefully couldn't see his definitely-not-a-pout given their positions? That was neither here nor there.

// 🏳️‍🌈🌈✨happy pride! and RIP to peter's taste in men! (◕ᴗ◕✿)

Answered! || @archeyevl

"You're going to divorce me during pride month? Really?" Peter shook his head lightly. "Remaining married for the month would be a much simpler celebration, you know. I see no reason to go through so many extra steps."