( when life hands you a bag of trash and tells you it's treasure, you keep moving. you don't quit. you don't give up and curl up in a ball in the corner. if that were the case, archie would have taken one glance at the ongoing madness that is riverdale and he never would have come back ( and he got out twice ). the manor is nowhere near as haunting as thornhill. the halls have a certain warmth, namely due to bustling with life, and nothing can be said for the family that inhabits it with what he can only assume is old money. in his experience with rich people, they're probably harboring some sordid secrets: murder, illegitimate children, hopefully no ministries, or who even knows what else.

he does try to leave — once by asking nicely but after a few hours, he figures the housekeeper is shining him on ( he doesn't want to ask again, stuffy people creep him out ) and again by walking out the gate.

when the frustration and anxiety gets to be too much for him, he digs through the closet until he finds what's passing as running shorts today and cuts the sleeves off of a basic black t-shirt. he goes running around the grounds; on footpaths in the garden, around the lake, near the maze, and anywhere else to circle the property and get a lay of the land. do statues seem to shift? do fixtures seem to move when he circles them again? archie can't be sure, really, since he's not that accustomed to the place. but he swears he ran by the same fountain three times without completing a circuit.

he can be intercepted while: ( A. ) slowing in the garden as to not trample anything or shoulder anyone off the path. he'll grin at anyone like-minded that wants to fall in step with him and playfully suggest, ) Race you to the hedge maze?

( B. ) ( catching his breath lakeside, shirtless because he's dying, leaning back on his hands while the sun beats down on him with said shirt wrapped loosely over his shoulders. he squints in the bright light, then lifts a hand to shield his vision, cupped against his forehead to look up at whoever approaches. ) Don't let me stop you from a swim. I'll be out of your hair as soon as I catch my breath.

( C. ) ( slipping into the dining room, still a sweaty mess, serpent tattoo on his upper bicep visible to do a quick once-over and grab juice, a fruit cup, and there's probably toast or a bagel in his mouth. he will legitimately do some approximation of limbo/dodging when he rounds the hall, to avoid slamming into someone with his armful of food he fully intends to take either in his room or the hall. )

Sowry, ( mumbled around the bread in his mouth. )

cw: potential violence with slapkiss chess?

( the night begins on theme with archie andrews in familiar and traditional shades of dark blue and glittering gold over a white dress shirt and some slacks. his clothes seem to vanish at the night goes on — jacket over a chair or forgotten on a railing, pristine sleeves rolled up, (bow)tie loosened to the point of slipping off. the intricately floral designed vest lies somewhere near the floor of the giant chessboard. does he think the drinking game of the night is take an article off when you do something dumb? who knows? ask him.

one too many vanilla-flavored drinks into the evening and archie is outside, engaging in chess that feels more like a demented version of twister, but nobody asks him for his hot take. this also reminds him of the blossoms, cheryl specifically, because it feels like their brand of chaos. he doesn't dislike anyone enough to strike them, though he might, if they take a swing first. just as well, he might throw the game for both of them and full on body tackle anyone that wants to fight, courtesy of high school football. muscle memory doesn't die.

as it stands, he's this side of tipsy, a little flirtatious that when someone steps onto his tile, he plants his feet squarely and treats it like a game of chicken. if the person before him doesn't stop moving, he'll grab their waist more confidently than his eyes showcase ( stupid honest eyes!!! ), and he'll search their features for mirrored hesitation. sure, anyone signing up for the game probably heard the rules, had informed consent, but— )

Go ahead. Hit me. I can take it.

cw: nsfw, cannibalism, descriptions of violence? etc.

( the quickest and surest way to suppress desire? reading. the library sounds like the most boring, least sexy, lonely place to sit with his unending appetite. trust, he spent so much time snacking after breakfast to fill his hollow leg and now they're between lunch and dinner on the third day and he's sitting at the farthest table in the back, leg jumping under the table as he reads an encyclopedia. the book stands upright on the table and he has one hand on it, forcing good intentions into the universe. he's good. he's being so good. he's sitting still.

he's not flipping to pages about food, about anatomy; he's not looking around.

archie thinks he has read the same paragraph ten times over.

he swallows, adam's apple bobbing, and tries desperately not to think about why he's been fantasizing about feeling someone's pulse on his tongue, on sinking his teeth into their beating heart. worse is that he isn't unsettled by his thoughts because there's no rationality left, there's just this endless loop of more and again and i need it. he bites the inside of his cheek hard enough to taste blood but it's oddly reminiscent of cherries cooked into a pie.

when he raises his honey brown gaze, he's staring at someone that's looking back at him and it's like the last semblance of control snaps in both of them; his chair skids back on the wood floor, the stranger crosses the room, book dropped. it's like he's possessed, like he blacks out from point a to point b, to shoving or being shoved against a shelf of first editions. to kissing hard enough to scrape, to bruise. he tears at the stranger's clothes, either ripping at the collar or at the sleeve, whether that means a shred of fabric or a pitter-patter of buttons between them. toppling books, rocking the shelf, until they migrate to a desk and he's between someone's thighs — smooth or powerful — and he's got his palms over the tops of them, touching, squeezing.

god help him, he just dips his head to go for the tear in their top, to tongue and mouth at their collarbone, lower, followed by a graze of teeth. it's wrong somehow but it's the first thing that's felt right to him at all in days. )

I have to — I can't stop. ( so he bites down, tongue trailing after his teeth, to catch a wet mouthful of ganache. )

OOC: for anyone wondering, archie is 25 and coming in somewhere in S6 of Riverdale, though, I haven't decided what episode specifically yet. feel free to wildcard if none of these prompts strike your fancy, i'm pretty open. you can PM any questions or hit me up at talldarkandgay