tomaspriestley

[tomaspriestley]

She has one of those faces that he feels like he's seen before, on a postage stamp, or a billboard. Classic, and easily imagined in front of an array of picturesque images; stand-out in a neo-noir —

He knows her. And he isn't sure why her face settles a little bit of dread inside him. He recalls a nice conversation in Nouveau, in heated flashes. It provokes sweat at his collar. Maybe one of the few kinder interactions, when he thinks back to November and what kind of mind infection had made jelly of his brain. Oh. Did he interview her? Tomás' memories remains a little foggy of that time, but he's pushing through the unease in favour of excitement; she walks like grace reincarnated in physical form. He knows what that could mean.

"I'm actually really big on my wines, yeah." His grandfather had a vineyard in Castellgalí, an hour from Barcelona; the Priestley's spent summers in there, hearing about the grapes and their flavour profiles. Hernàn was always very particular about the perfect time to germinate, and attend, talked about the ideal moon cycles and the angle of the sun. Çahera vineyard had been magnificent, in his abuelo's time.

He hadn't even noticed he'd stopped outside the Reserve, glazing over Tempranillo's and Rioja's like it were reminiscent. For the first time, Tomás wonders if he'd ever be like his abuelo. Perhaps Enzo had been right and he should find something else to take up his time; the vineyard, the winery. But Castellgalí is not here. He's doing important work, making waves across the city. Informing them of the world beneath the known. The juju and the nightchildren, fighting for moonshifter rights to clear their bad rep. He can't leave. What would Riven say?

"Are you taking a tour? Maybe I will, if you need some company. That's kinda cool." he beams, as though, at the later hour, it's okay. "... It's going to sound odd, but we've met right? I'm usually really great with faces, but, you have a nice one — I mean of course it's nice, I mean you've got a real familiar one..." There's an awkward rub on the back of his neck with his hand, where he tries not to make a fool of himself. "If I had my notes..." Not all his stuff survived; washed away in the camper because of the storm. "— I might even remember your name!"

For: @tomaspriestley Where: Close to Sanguine Reserve

She caught him with ease, Narcisse had always been most sensitive to smells and scents, picking up things that were always so particular to one person or the other and he was no different. She could almost catch the smell of ink from his printings, the sweat from the adrenaline brought from a new story. She could almost get the excitement even, at the prospect of something new. She wondered if he just knew how in over himself he was here.

She approached slowly, like a predator would to its prey. Something dangerous in her eyes and a charming smile in her lips. She wonders if he'd remember her, from their brief talk during the Gallery, or if he'd know it was her who he had written about so awfully in his ridiculous paper. It didn't matter, she was happy to remind him, and maybe work something else in her favor.

"Are you a wine lover, my dear?." The question leaves her as soon as she's well within hearing range, he looks just as excitable as he did that night. Adorable even, if she could push past her offense. "Or are you here just to watch? Most of the people that come here do so for the tour and tasting." Others come for more delicate palates, is he going to do the tasting, or be part of it is yet to be decided.

[tomaspriestley]

Lorenzo's words hit home a little more sourly than he'd first expected. His mention of Tomás studying (or lack of) prompts him to make a little more effort with keeping atop the workload at Tideview. He knows he shouldn't let his brother needle him about it, but it does make Tomás feel like an outlier in amongst them with a mind running in another direction. They'd been so close once, him, Enzo, Anna-Maria. Dinner's were always a full, rambunctious event.

Tomás can't even remember the last time they all gathered around a table, eating gambas al ajillo. His mom didn't cook all that often, it was more times his dad. But when she did, it was always grandmother's recipes.

He misses them.

Tomás sits himself on a quiet bench, he'd usually take more notice of what the other had been doing. But he doesn't. Just dumps his bag on the space next to him, and considers resting his head on the table in a slump. He almost spills the coffee he's holding across the table, and onto the woman's book.

He salvages it with a muttered apology. And gets his head partway there on the cool of the table in semi-defeat, when a voice has his head twisting around from where he lays it on the table. "Hm? Oh yeah!"

Good weather. It is. Considering the storm had torn apart his camper at the edge of the campus and he's staying at Riven's whilst putting down a deposit for an apartment. Not like his parents pay too much attention to the Priestley finances.

He's in a rut, and he knows it.

But his excitement rockets to the front of his chest, lighting up the sad in his eyes. Clouding it over with surprise, and enthusiasm because he recognises the other.

"Autumn!" Aria's girlfriend. He's seen her on instagram. Heard a great many things.

'life continues being strange but in the good way, i suppose. aria and i are back together. i have a cat. we have a cat. the way we have a store. us ♥ ♥ ♥ i hate that the cat is cute, and i hate that Aria knows that i think the cat is cute. have ever told you about how a cat bit me when i was a kid? like, bit-bit, latched on, rabbit kicking, scratched me up really bad. you can still see it on my arm if you look hard enough. that's kind of funny if you think about it. my life is dominated by bites and fucking scratches. I've been th-

The journal slaps shut, almost defensively, when somebody sits at the table across from them. It's not for prying; it's full of shame and blood and secrets and pride that's for her.

who: Open where: Tideview University Campus

Autumn looks up to the person across from them now, looking them up and down with a cursory smile before she makes a pass at going back to the registration papers that'd previously been resting under the little leatherbound journal she'd picked up the day she'd met Summer.

"Gorgeous day, yeah?" Talking about the weather's as good a play at being normal as she can muster - and it's topical, Port Leiry having just survived it's second unprecedented storm inside of a Hundred Years.

[tomaspriestley]

Tomás !!

Most admirable quality: He reminds me of a gumshoe from a noir movie. You know — the detective or reporter that the script tells you has gumption. He's got that in spades. I can picture him in a fedora going around town harassing people. He's going to end up in pieces at the bottom of a ditch one day, but at least he'll have paved his own path. That's more than you can say for a lot of people.

Most attractive physical feature: His eyes. They're warm. Expressive. You can actually see the gears turning when he's thinking of something. Just makes you want to take a bite out of him.

Most annoying habit: He has an aggressive lack of self preservation. It's painful to watch. I don't know how he's made it this long.

Something they would like to do with them: After that hatchet job in his stupid paper? Smash his little golden retriever face in with a tire iron.

[tomaspriestley]

[ Incoming call; Hermano → Tomás ]

Enzo: Que Pasa, T. I heard about the hurricane, didn't think you got those out there. Guess it's almost like a home away from home, huh? You okay, dad freaked a bit when he heard. Asked if anyone's called you and you know what Anna-Maria is like, useless, probably doesn't even check the news like she checks the restaurant weekly or whatever. [ ... ] Anyways, you uh, okay out there? How's the masters going? Tomás: Soy bien. Yeah, storm was magical-juju, can you believe that? Only reason we got one over here I think, you know? Neat, right? Don't know who did it yet, but I have suspicions. Enzo: Yeah, neat. right, T. Wasn't there a lot of casualties? Maldito. You can't say stuff like that, bro. You're out there to study, I thought you'd left that magic stuff... behind? [ ... ] T, you are studying, right? Tomás: Yeah [ ... ] There were a lot of people who didn't make it. It's not just magic stuff, Enz. I am still at Tideview. Esta bien, vale? I write a paper, and I have a friend. I have a boyfriend too, he's really cool. We figured stuff out, after we had a bit of a [ ... ] I don't know but I'm doing okay. I do miss you though, y Anna-Maria, Hanna, [ ... ] Madre, Padre. Enzo: Drop the juju bullshit, Tomás. Lo digo con cariño. You're out there on your own and you should focus on a career. You want to write stories, then do that. Publish something. Be a writer. But what are you, writing fanfiction? [ ... ] Bro, I think you should come back when you finish the masters, we're here. Mom's in Barca, but it works better now. We got a call the other day, Hanna stirred, she's still sleeping, but that's the first time she responded to any meds. I think that's good? [ ... ] Why did none of us become doctors? Maybe we could have [ ... ] I don't know, but I'm just glad to hear from you, after that storm. Nobody hears from you. You don't call. Ni siquiera escribes. Texting exists too, you know. Tomás: Didn't you hear what I said, Enzo? I'm okay. I like it here. I do want to come visit soon, fly back over and see everyone. [ ... ] Oh what! That's great! I'm happy to hear about Hanna, I think my boyfriend might be able to help, I'm still working on it. I don't know enough. But, nobody called me. I've just been busy. Enzo: Yeah, yo también. But between affidavit's and reviewing indictable offences, I found the time to call. [ ... ] Also, they're talking about selling abuelo's property. The vineyard is not doing well, mom doesn't have the time for it, overloaded with cases. I wanted to call and tell you that, because I know you love that place. Tomás: They're going to sell abuelo's villa? Enzo: Si. [ ... ] I don't know when, but mom talked to me about it. She muttered on about abuelo being the only one to know the land, so we'd never give it what it needs like he could. You got all your magic-juju stuff from his bedtime stories, all that Galician stuff. Maybe it's just time to leave it alone, T. Tomás: Abuelo used to say that his place was sacred. We can't just give it to someone else. Enzo: Talk to mom about it. Not me. Tomás: Yeah. Vale. Gracias, hermano. [ ... ] I'll call mom. And I'll text everyone more. I'm glad you're okay. You could always come out here, see Port Leiry, it's kinda cool, Enzo. You might actually like - Enzo: I'll think about it, T. Alright? I gotta go, clients calling. [ call ended ]

[tomaspriestley]

THE LEIRY CONSPIRACY May 2025, Vol 3, Iss 2.

[tomaspriestley]

When Mrs. Monroe extends the quiet between them, Tomás begins to believe that she might come around. Confess that she'd been making sure he is the real deal. Not there for mockery, or cruel jokes. But to get her safely back to her husband, who is worried sick on every media outlet that would take him. But she's pushing him away, and mixing those doubts and those beliefs into a big ball of confusion.

Then she speaks. I would tell Mr. Monroe —

Tomás is on the edge, waiting, eager to recite to memory exactly what she's about to say. And it fizzles out even faster than it came, all fire, and guts and usually Priestley loves to hear that they want to be quoted, but this falls short that he's not sure how good for the mystery that information is.

He tries: "I'm sure he's doing everything he can, Mrs Monroe..." Cops have access to all kinds of things. Tomás got arrested once for obstruction and he'd seen all the momentary complexities of figuring out a case. (Admittedly, he probably made it seen a lot more exciting in his head.) Less desks, more boardrooms with pins and red string.

There's no step back, when she closes in. He doesn't even think about it. Just lifts his head a little further to note how she moves; how she walks, the silence of her steps. A rush of something warm floods his veins when he realises how right he really might be, she moves unlike a normie.

There's nothing you can do for me, sweetheart.

There's always something. There's always a choice, or a decision; always another way. He looks to the hookah lounge curiosity, laid thick behind her, smoke vapor seeps out of windows cracked open. He's attempting to understand what exactly she's telling him. Are there more of you in there? The people are the story. Even if he wants to get himself killed. Mrs. Monroe hasn't killed him, she's still wearing her ring. If she thought so little of Mr. Monroe, then she'd surely take it off, hang it around her neck like a memory; a widow.

A story hangs here, and it wants to wrap around him so tightly he wants to let it. He wants to go inside, and see what she's talking about.

But then he remembers Mr. Monroe's face on the news and how if something happens to him, what if there's nobody to tell him about his wife? It sits on Tomás' shoulders like a deadweight. He has to sacrifice the story for another day, for the one that pulls on his heartstrings. "I will quote you, you'll see." He'll write it, and Luke Monroe will see it. "I can't forget it. You're someone that matters. To him. I uh, I'm sure there's plenty others, Mrs. Monroe. So thank you, for talking to me, even if you didn't... want to, if there's maybe something in your mind that you haven't remembered yet, or will." Tomás reaches in his pocket and pulls out a little card with his name and number on it, also his social media handles. Offers it out to her, "You can write it to me, if that's easier, if there's listening ears. Just take it, most people never uh, even bother, so that's okay too..."

With persistence like this he could've been a door-to-door bible salesman, she thinks to herself. Shit, I'd buy a few just to get him to leave. He falters, seems to doubt himself, but the recovery is quick. She sees it happen — a shutter's flung open behind those brown eyes and they're back to picking her apart like she's a jigsaw puzzle and he's a seven year old with sticky fingers. It isn't charming anymore. He's worn out his welcome.

So he knows about vampires. So what? He doesn't know he's standing right outside a hot bed of them, a whole clan that'd rip him to shreds and dress up the lounge with his entrails if they caught whiff of him playing detective on their doorstep. What exactly does he think he can do for her? She's beyond his help. The days when she'd hoped for rescue are long behind her. When she thinks of Luke now it's with a certain level of irritation, like he's a fly that's wandered inside her brain and won't stop buzzing. All those traits of his she'd once lauded as virtues she now recalls as weaknesses. What use had he been after everything? Why would she go back to a man too weak to help either of them? For the memories? She has her fill of those. About as useful as stuffing herself with filthy animal blood had been.

This is life now; a doomed, Count of Monte Cristo knock-off, maybe, but she'll see it through to its inevitable conclusion. She has no other choice. Maybe if she'd met Tomas sooner —

Eleanor flicks away the thought before it can take root. The smile's gone, overtaken by shadows. "I would tell Mr. Monroe," she says quietly, eyes boring into his. "That maybe if he wasn't such a shitty fucking cop, I wouldn't be talking to a two-bit Hardy Boy right now trying to solve this week's mystery. Feel free to quote me on that."

She takes a threatening step toward him, then notices the band on his wrist — smells it rather. Verbena. He came prepared. How sweet. She stills, eyes flashing. Fine. Might as well make use of him. "Forget about me, Tomas. Forget about Mr. Monroe. You want a story? You're standing right outside of it. The people in there are the story, I'm just a footnote. If you want to get yourself killed, that's your business. But that's your headline. There's nothing you can do for me, sweetheart."

[tomaspriestley]

That endless silence is deafening. He feels silly for asking when Riven can craft a whole story of his own. Tomás wouldn't even know the difference. He's faced much less beautiful people, who are misunderstood and are called so many horrible names. Creatures of juju and the like have threatened him plenty, tried to dismiss him and he's never been afraid. Not even when he woke up, the first time he remembers his mind being tampered with, following a masquerade of memories he'd had to put back together. Riv had told him, ghosting fingers against his throat, that he'd been bitten by a nightchild. But Tomás had never seen the mark.

Was that real? How many times had the man playfully told him lies behind smiles, and frowns? He doesn't want to think the other man is like that. Feels sick, as shaky hands fumble with the soup again, to even believe that Riven would try to hurt him like that. You're so stupid, Tomás. Not everyone wants to be good. Not everyone has best interests at heart, or to see a peace and a comfort shared between souls.

His grandfather's words come to him; another bright smile in Tomás' memories, he sits beside Hanna, who he wants to see smile again. But it's in amongst the vineyard an hour out of Barcelona in Castellgalí, when Hernàn tells him: confía en ti mismo.

Trust yourself. Tomás had said he'd seen something in amongst the grapes, and Enzo had told him he's losing his mind, shoved him back to the villa. Trust yourself. And he had. He'd saved the vineyard a loss following a dry spell that had a brush catching fire in the Spanish heat. Tomás had seen the spark, in the distance. Not a ghost like he'd claimed it was, but —

He can trust himself when he puts his hands on the bed, feels out the mattress, and the sheet. It's real. It feels so, so very real. What is he, here? What does Riven see in the flailing man, losing his mind and the trust he thought they had? His head hurts.

This has to be real, because Riven doesn't know all the stories in his head, right?

You're the only place I've ever felt safe.

Tomás' breath hitches, watches Riv stumble over the words that usually bow to his whim. He wants to reach out, beg to ask if they're living in paranoia — if Tomás is living there and this is how it will be, now. Safe. He makes someone feel like that?

"— I uhm," Swallows, because he doesn't know how to respond, eyes search the beauty in Riven's; different hues, in every light, in every spark, "Not just fun? I'm not that — the fun, you aren't just playing with me—?"

What am I to you, Riv? Riven wasn’t usually at a loss for words, but now his mouth was drier than a desert, and no clever lines came to save him. His heart was still and quiet, even while invisible hands squeezed tight, demanding something real, something honest. Squeezed and squeezed, but nothing came out.

What am I to you, Riv? Tomás was pressed against his chest, where ink spilled in honor of his mom, and against his back, where a constellation of scars marked every fucked up thing ever done to him. When Riven looked at him, Tomás was pretty poetry, and he wanted to recite him, over and over again. Like that might be enough.

Still no sound escaped, but the silence wasn't empty anymore, and it wasn't just the spoon hitting the glass bowl, but words rising up, slow and fragile and aching, and not quite spoken, but there. Taking shape and weight.

What am I to you, Riv? Tomás was the first body that fit against him correctly.

Still no sound escaped him, by his eyes were no longer vacant things. And his arms, once stiff and useless at his sides, moved. He reached out, gently prying Tomás’s hands from their distractions— the spoon, the bowl, things they did not need. Riven set them aside. What mattered now was the warmth of his touch, returned and deliberate. Riven remembered a time when he had given up his voice entirely. When words felt worthless—shallow, weightless things, tossed into the world like paper planes bound to burn, and sag in the rain, and fall apart midair. He hadn’t wanted to speak to anyone. Not a whisper, not a sound. He’d wanted to disappear from the verbal world altogether. But Tomás deserved every word he’d ever held back, every thought he’d only ever penned into silence. He deserved poetry, even if it came folded into fragile shapes, even if it had to be carried carefully, even if it could break.

What am I to you, Riv? A home, that wasn't scary, where the woodfloors didn't creak, where hands did not reach out of shadows to hurt him.

"You're the only place I've ever felt safe." a beat, "I—I don’t know how else to… I don’t know what else to say, how to—I don’t—"

[tomaspriestley]

"You left it in the camper, I don't think that's stealing," Tomás defends with a quiet laugh, but there's no fire behind it, just a bit of heart as he pictures the combined mess the camper is often subject to. He opens his mouth, to suddenly make some remark about Riv wearing his shirts, but the gentle tip back of Priestley's head says that there's a stark difference here. Riv's not getting into old graphic tees, or floral, eccentric shirts. They're great, and he's missing out. Tomás would like to knock a few inches off, just one time, but he does like all of Riven's inches.

He's so busy caught in the man's smile that he's lost his train of thought.

Tomás adores that smile. Makes that warmth in his cheeks spread south. Wants to ask so many questions, interview the man with the smile, because there's so much yet that he doesn't know about Riven. And their promises in that camper that night, had given him hope that maybe he'd would let him in a little more. To the other parts he locks away, like what's on his mind when his brow creases over that book he's editing, or those subtle movements of his lips that Tomás doesn't think Riv notices he does. A silent, out loud thinker that's so very quiet in the shadows of an evening light. Legs crossed over, red penning those manuscripts. Tomás would roll onto his side in his bed, watching, falling asleep and when he'd wake up, sometimes Riv's still there, other times he's gone, only made known by the heavy arm curled around him.

Riv's warm against him as he's dragged through the bodies, and the noise. It's the quietest Tomás might have ever been, transfixed in this moment. Savouring it, because his mind whirls so quickly so often, that the stillness is like a dream.

Don't think about that. Riven's not — he promised...

Tomás hand squeezes the other's, grounding and terrifying. "Of course," he answers, by default, keeping the ease in his tone before he crumbles. "I always bring it, you know there's a story in everyone. Look at this place. You said your friend was juju, I'm gonna learn so much!"

"Stealing my cologne now," he said, voice laced with playful accusation. "Next thing I know, you’ll be wearing my shirts."

Now that wouldn't even be such a horrible thing, would it? The image blossomed in his mind, like a red rose — Tomás, rushing out the bed (as always), drowning in one of his button-ups; the hem brushing bare thighs, and the collar loose, buttons half done wrong, if done at all. He blinked, once, twice, as if to shake the image away.

Earth to Riven. Stop it. You're a creep.

But that was the most he’d smiled in — God, maybe ever. And it was hard to hide. He, the master of deception, unable to conceal a grin so painfully readable it might as well have been a billboard. Utterly infatuated, and with a human, no less. Tomás wasn’t just any mortal. He was his kind of strange and unique. Not just because Riven was wrapped around him like a snake, but because Tomás had let him.

Fingers looped lazily through his, tugging him through the writhing circus of bodies toward his holy grail the bar where, he'd be inevitably abandoned the moment his boyfriend wandered off to interview the next glittering freak show. "Did you bring your pen and paper, T? Half the guys in here are just dying to have their tragic backstories immortalized in print."

[tomaspriestley]

It's humbling as much as it's assuring to hear one of the greats admit that sometimes spark isn't always there. Sometimes, the darkness is just taking a night off. Being quiet and hopeless. Tomás doesn't like to think of it that way, he always enjoys the knowledge that there's something lingering in the shadows, waiting for inspiration, or for the right person to pat them on the shoulder and tell them it's okay.

He's filing away that Aria Boughton has a confirmed muse; he feels like he's just gotten the inside scoop right from the source. It's exhilarating. And he likes to think he notices something in Boughton's eyes when she stares at the photo with him. Like she and Tomás share little pieces of each other's mind. He's giddy with reality, that he really gets to talk photography, and art, and nightchildren with her. Priestley thinks that if it weren't something entirely untoward, and psychotic. He'd kiss her, just to someone streamline all the admiration he has for her. It wouldn't be for any other reason than to display that this is awesome, and you are awesome.

Tomás peers down at her instruction. "No, no, I see it." He thinks he does, but he's no Aria Boughton. "You describe it like there's something living in there, inside," he doesn't touch her, but he motions towards her chest, "You feel a shadow, like this person, centre of it?" He likes this, figuring it out, translating the words to something he can write himself. "Ms. Boughton, this sounds only epic, not certifiable, you're not crazy, you're seeing the whole world through a lens that us mere mortal men wishes we could!"

He could go on for hours, actually. Calling out over the sounds of engines to deliver high praise, back to back, endlessly. He still remembers her self portrait practice, last year, bathed in black and white, with those tousles of hair, and the depths of how the ruffles of her dress lingered on her chest. Maybe this is something he hadn't known then, but does now — Aria has given him a glance into her mind, and he'll never squander it. Is that symbolic of this shadowy feeling she claims in her chest? Is that human, or is that something implicit of the nightchildren?

If they do get cameras in their eyeballs, like contact lenses or something, he'd like to hope maybe, in his old age, he'd get to see at least one photograph that she takes on the savvy futuristic tech. "Yeah, don't know about the generated stuff... uh, spooks me sometimes, but contacts, heck yeah, be like, click, click, blink, blink — " he makes exaggerated blinking movements, and trusts she gets the point. There's a laugh, and it's jovial, because this feels unlike the Ms. Boughton that took his flyer one time, just... a different air about her, lighter, maybe? But, Tomás isn't the same either.

Sometimes, that dark they like so much can get a little suffocating. It's knowing how to breathe again, when immersed it in, that's the kicker that he is still figuring out.

His smile fades when she says there's a rough patch though. (He understands that, too.) Relationships are easy on paper, but oh so darn mind fluffy when in the middle of them. It makes him feel even more seen, knowing that even artists who see so much more than the average, have moments that made their eyes sad.

No, that's wrong. He knows artists live for sad. It's not that. It's... something else.

"You're gonna figure it out, nobody lingers in a photo like that, seen by you, the vision and doesn't turn around, spot you and go... Wow." Dream sequence worthy. Maybe he's projecting; it's often what he thinks when he gets to believe he might actually get to befriend The Aria Boughton. "It's swell. I can't wait for the next series you do, I feel it in my bones, it's gonna be a big'un."

The smile is back. She's asking about him. Damn. The honour. "East coast." He starts with, because there's an inevitability here; he's going to be called a Florida man and it might inject a dark spot in his sternum if Boughton thinks he's that. He's learned the PNW sees his coast a little differently. But that's okay, because so does he. "I came over here for study, and... well," he steps just half a notch closer, "There's so many stories out here, juju and the like, you know?" Of course she does. She's one of the magnificent ones. "I saw your work online," Tomás, for research purposes is chronically online. "Then, I found your insta. It hit. Like, well, I don't know, the folks around here aren't like back home, you seemed to paint people in a light that was sort of, homely? But, reminded me that there's always a little something special in the eyes. In the teeth, in the hands. You're the reason, by the way, that I'm so good at spotting you folks. There's tells."

Maybe he's the certifiable one. They do say never meet your heroes.

"Yeah." She can't help but laugh - we lose our spark sometimes - it's so close to home that she almost wonders if he knows more than he's letting on. If he knows about her or the memory loss - Either way, he's.. well, he's kind of fun to be around. Lately things have been so doom and gloom all over the place that Tomas seems like a bright light compared to the rest of them. She'll take that. Easily.

Aria opens her mouth to answer - to correct - him about Autumn, but she just smiles. "Yeah." A repeated answer is the easiest here, but she can elaborate some. "She's my muse." He continues, though, and she feels - Fuck, she feels fucking seen in a way that hasn't happened yet. She looks down at the photo one last time and sighs, softly. Yeah. Yeah. She sees it. She sees what he sees.

The shadows, the lights, the soft blur at the forefront. It looks almost exactly like what she'd found on her other cameras at home. "I like.. I really like this." She points to where the shadows encapsulate a person, shrouding them over the horror section, "The way it almost seems solid - That's what I was trying to capture, this person just.. They're just standing in the middle of this shadow, and it felt so much like this feeling I've had right my sternum. Wading through the dark, making a home in it. That sounds... That sounds certifiable." Another laugh, before the phone is put away.

More rambles, and her smile shifts from amused to affectionate. Yeah. She likes this guy. He's good, he makes her feel good. A good person. Not just some.. monstrous thing. "Thanks, I.. well. God, if people keep going the way it's going, everything will be generated on a computer." She'd seen enough on Instagram to know that that was a thing now. Gag. "Awful. But I like your idea better. Photography contacts."

Autumn again --

"Uh." How does she even.. "Kind of. We're figuring things out after the.. whatever it was happened to my head. It's a rough patch." That sounds vague enough, okay enough. Maybe he won't dig. She decides to shift it back towards him, "Wait, so, you just found me on Instagram? Are you a PL native?"

[tomaspriestley]

"Perfect, perfect." He scribbles down that she's of sound mind (as much as she can remember). He adds a notation: Scouts honor. It continues like that, Tomás glancing up at Ms. Moss and then back to his page where he jots down detail after detail.

1988. Marsh Street CoinLand. Back. In. Day. (Presumeably, no longer CoinLand; note to investigate !! ) Put out in 1981, Portland. Here. Not Retrocity? Opened 2012, yet odd connections to strange behaviour. Ref. previous news incidents, follow up. Strange happenings, still not explained ??

Ms. Moss doesn't seem to feed the narrative about her unusual happenings. And he adds a note to look into the stationery store, just to cover his bases.

Tomás continues to eye her, face stretched into something faux thoughtful with an edge of suspicion because he knows what Ms. Yearwood said, and he's to keep his eyes peeled right on the arcade owner. He thinks that coincidence doesn't exist on this kind of level. Not with all the incidents so close, so direct, and so isolated to Retrocity. He knows so much, too much, maybe to think that it's just hooligans.

There are a slew of notes surrounding the odd happenings and damage done to the venue. But Priestley is careful not to let them loose too early.

"Hm. You believe Polybius is a cabinet, then, for sure?" A tangible, physical game. "No cassette, or some pre-loaded virus, you ever seen Wreck-It-Ralph? Like the zoomy guy, Turbo? Impersonating other games," Maybe complex AI before AI, Tomás doesn't yet know, but that's why he's here. And he's still beaming, vibrating with excitement to dig a little deeper. "There's a theory about it being a cursed object, that's real by the way. Curses. Hexes. Juju stuff. But, anyway — worth investigating in your place, isn't it? Because a string of bad luck is rife energy for the arcane."

He surprises himself with that line.

Writes that down too. "You checked and triple-checked your cabinets?"

Morgan is charmed, as well as slightly intimidated, by the presence of the paper and pen. It feels very serious for a matter that is more unserious. Well, assuming it's just an urban legend, which she does have her doubts about, considering how long Port Leiry has clearly been home to vampires and werewolves and presumably other creatures.

The remark about her mental clarity elicits a laugh (with only a pang of nervousness). She trusts that Laure has left her intact -- as for the other vampire woman, she's not sure. But what she doesn't know, she simply doesn't know. "I've never knowingly played the game, so I'm of as much sound body and mind as I can humanly muster," Morgan pledges, holding up three fingers. "Scout's honor." She clears her throat and then tries to think earnestly.

"Gosh, I must have heard about Polybius for the first time in... what, 1988? My friend Josie's older brother told me all about it one time when I was over at her house. I used to go to a video arcade called Marsh Street CoinLand back in the day, everyone would talk about it," she recalls with fondness. "If the cabinet was real, it was put out in 1981 in Portland or somewhere Portland-adjacent. So it totally could have been here. I mean, not here-here. Retrocity didn't open until 2012."

Her eyebrows raise when Tomas mentions the 'eerie streak.' Unfortunately, that's not as much of a mystery to her as she'd like it to be. Homewrecking a lesbian vampire couple, being a wolf's safe space, and the unfinished business of her husband's untimely murder were all pretty cut and dry. And they all feel like her fault, in some fashion. So, is the arcade cursed? She doesn't think so (though she might look into the lease paperwork again to make sure she didn't sign anything eternally binding...). But for now, she'll play into the lie.

"As far as I know, this particular building used to be stationery store before we moved in. I don't know before that, but I don't think it was ever used as a video arcade until we opened up. And I'm determined to prove that our bad streak of luck was just that -- and we're moving past it."

[tomaspriestley]

Tomás hasn't been to Moonlight Skate for a while; it's an overdue visit. He's not put on blades in even longer, actually. It's not the same kind of beachfront that Florida offers; the Pacific Northwest doesn't always have the weather for rollerblading or skating outdoors. But he's asked Riv to meet him for something to eat, and to maybe do something fun that'll end with them either on their asses, or laughing. Or both.

He's a bit early. And there's a flyer in his face as he's looking for a table.

He loves a flyer.

Stopping, he smiles, holds it up like it'll support his question. "It's open to anyone?"

It could be fun if he's allowed to skate. Though he's heard it can get violent, and that has him doubting any potential to participate. "This sounds neat, I really hope you get the numbers." It's a busy place, at times. There must be a bunch of people who'd love to get involved. Tomás pockets the flyer for later, "Hey, can I write a publicity thing on this, if that's cool? Because I think this'd be awesome."

open starter: open until I close it when/where: outside moonlight skate, any time

She'd gotten Jude's permission to post some fliers inside Moonlight Skate and she'd already been talking to Rafa about it too. Starting a roller derby league in Port Leiry could be a total fail, but she wants to at least try. It'd be such a pain in the ass to have to drive to Portland to try out for Rose City.

Theo has thought about it -- there's a very real possibility that the team ends up having werewolves and vampires on it. Or that she's the odd one out on a team full of humans. And while the fairness of physicality needs to be considered, it doesn't mean a wolf crap if there isn't a team to begin with. So here she is, trying to catch people on their way too and from the roller rink.

"Hey! Let's bring roller derby to Port Leiry," she says, holding up her roughly printed pamphlet to the next person to pass by. "I'm trying to gauge interest, see if we can get some practices going here at Moonlight. It'll be open to anyone of marginalized genders, and you don't have to have any skating experience! Do you, or maybe someone you know, think you'd be interested?"

[tomaspriestley]

She's so quick to want to shut him down. And it soaks doubt into him, a sponge for it. It's... her? He can't be wrong. His mind is on the up and up; his memories less foggy, at least, the newer ones aren't so misty. He's wearing Ms. Yearwood's gift on his wrist, and it's done him good so far.

"No. Yes, well...I'm a writer..." But his confidence wavers, failing to clarify exactly what he does, when she's nipping at him. Did she hear him? Your husband's worried about you. And she's saying she's not Eleanor Monroe. "I don't think you've got a body double, Mrs. Monroe." He thinks something's happened to her, and the darkness is not coincidental. Tomás has to withhold his instant act where he wants to reach out, put his palm on her chest, and listen for what he suspects isn't there. This could be a spooks case. Something beyond missing persons; his suspicions from the beginning, proven right.

If she'd just listen —

"I think maybe you're misremembering, or... something," he begins, racking his mind over what he knows and what he suspects. "I don't know of too many reports where uh, memories are shaky when you wake up, but there's loads written about lots of memories previously erased coming back —"

Tomás blinks, like he's just thought of something himself. Expression frozen, mid-thought. If he's right, then maybe he's solved another puzzle. But it's got nothing to do with Luke or Eleanor Monroe.

He snaps back to the present. Tries to get his train of thought back, all jovial and eager, in amongst the insecurity that he might be wrong this time.

"— There's no need to lie. I know, you know." About the shadows. And the gleam on her finger being some habit she's not entirely addressing. Because she can't be cruel enough to think this is innocent gaslighting? "I want to know what's... happened — and your answers only make me more curious, why are you hiding from Mr. Monroe? Or — why won't you admit who you are, is there something... are you in danger? Because we can speak to people. I know people who can help with that stuff. You've been missing, and now you're here." Urgency, frustration creep back in. "There's bigger things at play, like I said — Port Leiry's got that going on, a lot..." Sheepish then, in his rambling justifications. A hand rubs the back of his neck, trying to straighten out all the questions in some kind of priority order. "What would you tell Mr. Monroe... Mrs. Monroe? If he were here, and not me?"

He's committing. A funny enough decision on its face, though she'd find this more entertaining if he weren't blindly jabbing at old wounds. Mrs. Monroe, this. Your husband, that. Ugh. Media bias being what it is she's not surprised to learn he's apparently heard of her through the news. Missing white woman. Six weeks pregnant. Policeman husband. Cat nip for the true crime crowd. She could see the tik tok videos now: some asinine bitch doing her full face routine on camera while she dredges through the gruesome details of her family history, stopping in between curling her lashes to rake Luke through the coals, accusing him of all sorts of misdeeds.

Poor Luke. So kind, so used to being loved. Someone should put a bullet in him; it'd be a kindness.

"My eyes aren't different --what are you, a podcaster? True crime junkie? Conspiracy theorist?" she utters that last one under her breath, lips twitching in amusement, like it's a dirty word. "Think I took a page out of Avril Lavigne's book, wrangled myself up a body double?" He's such a cute thing she almost wishes she could tell him the truth, just to see what he'd do with it. He seems to have some awareness of the supernatural world, but not enough to know whose territory he's landed in. He's treading some interesting waters, that's for sure. But magically binding contracts being what they are, there's not much she could say, even if she wanted to. Fucking witches.

"I think I'd remember having a husband," she says flippantly, while very blatantly twirling the wedding ring on her finger. "Shame to hear there's one out there fretting over his wife. Tell me this, though, Tomas: what are you looking for exactly? Feels to me like you're beating around the bush. What kind of web are you weaving here? I'd love to hear more about your line of work."

[tomaspriestley]

Tomás doesn't know where his laughter started, ended or whether the ache in his stomach is to humour, or the bubbles catching up to him. She's definitely got a backlog of jokes that Tomás wish he'd started writing down. He thinks he'd like to remember this conversation. Plus, she's overselling him; he isn't this smart, nor wise, in all his whatever wisdoms.

"Mi abuelo used to have a vineyard," A throwaway, and he knows that's not what she asked — nor did she need to know, but he'd thought about it, and it's out there now. Whilst balancing his drink between his arm and the crook of his shoulder, he's patting his pockets and bag to find something: "I should make notes, for our case."

Priestley might need her to repeat everything, but it's okay.

"You're very funny," he confesses, and he still wonders if there's some degree of acting burrowed away there, because she's convincing in all her dramatics. He's not nearly so capable of being faux-invested; he is all genuine in his excitement. He'll write this defence case with her until dawn comes, champagne and all. "We'll watch for Jameson and his old money scent; is he wearing Givenchy?" He thinks he's seen Riv with one of those bottles, and he often mirrors that kind of scent. "Okay." New assertion, as they weigh together all their plans. Tomás has forgotten all about his notepad and pen. "Here's the plan — acquire bubbles, breadsticks — if the bar's run out, like we suspect. We'll wage war."

Oh. He's glad he supplied his name. It's slipped his mind. And he smiles when an accent comes — like it's natural for her. "Romy. Got it." Locked away in the files that he doesn't want to misplace. "Isn't it only a crime if we're caught, we're merely pariahs or — oh, oh — vigilantes! Justice bringers. What's so criminal about that?"

Breadsticks are their choice of weapon.

They squeeze their way into a gap at the bar and toast empty glasses as they wait to be served. Tomás' cheers would have been, to new friends, but he likes hers a little more.

They clink glasses. "To Romy, and her genius."

Romy gave him a long, faux-serious look, the kind reserved for dramatic courtroom dramas and absolutely no real legal proceedings. “You help me draft it, and I’ll loop you in as co-counsel. We’ll subpoena the bubbles. Cross-examine the carbonation. Make the bartender swear on a wine-stained napkin. We’ll bring justice to every emotionally negligent beverage in this godforsaken city.”

She didn’t clarify whether she was joking, mostly because even she wasn’t sure. This was her... second, no, third drink?

His talk of bad seeds and soil made her hum thoughtfully, like he’d just pitched a metaphor she could crawl into and live inside for a week. “Oof. That’s poetic. Toxic terroir. Tragic, but makes a killer vintage,” she mused, swirling the last of her champagne in her glass before polishing it off like she was honoring fallen crops. “And look at you, pulling vineyard wisdom out like you’ve got ancestral vines in your back pocket.”

Her expression lit up at his declaration of genius, eyes wide and mock-modest. “Flattery will absolutely get you everywhere,” she said brightly, already falling into step beside him as they made their way toward the bar. “Though, yes, not the whiskey. Jameson the person. Capital J. Usually accompanied by a knowing smirk and the ambient scent of wealth misused.”

She arched a brow when he offered the breadstick box, clearly weighing the options like a general reviewing her artillery. “See, this is the kind of support system I’ve been missing. A man with principles and provisions. We are absolutely waging war if he’s mid-lean and being suspiciously well lit.”

The music shifted just as they reached the bar, something with bass and bite threading through the speakers. Romy leaned an elbow on the counter, watching him from the corner of her eye with a small, knowing smile. “You did say Tomás,” she confirmed, pronouncing it with the tiniest lilt of an accent like it was a name you slow down for, just to get it right. “But I didn’t say mine. Romy. Short for probably nothing. But I do like the symmetry of Romy and Tomás. Sounds like a European crime duo. Elegant fraud, charming getaway.”

She raised her now-empty glass again in toast-like salute. “To aliases, effervescent vengeance, and our extremely glamorous manhunt.”

[tomaspriestley]

He's not like Riven. He doesn't have this magical juju ability to hide behind wards. He just has distance and space. And he knows it stings, because Riv's not a guy easily cowed. And the soup is a distraction for both of them; an action that quakes their very obvious inaction. For all Tomás knows, this is a fabrication of Riven's creation, and now he must see it to its bitter end.

Is he asleep, so they might do this with an opportunity to have a do-over? Riven can practice his speech.

Are you lying to me, Riv? It's probably paranoia, made more vicious in the quiet. Whose head are they in, for this to be trialled and errored?

He'd told him not to come, but he had, bearing soup and warmth. And even when he'd broached the idea of leaving, Tomás couldn't bear the thought of letting him walk out the door. They just need this space, just a while longer. He needs to know what this is.

"What am I to you, Riv?"

A heavier question, ripped from the depths of insecurity. And he knows that the other man likes to weave his words carefully; sell Tomás nicely crafted sentences made of pretty things, and flirtations. Take their clothes off and wrestle for whatever role they want that night. But he can't let that happen right now. He's sick. Tomás has been in his mind for too long, and he's shivering with an illness he's struggling to shake off.

He rests the soup on his leg and fumbles for a spoon like he can use this as an instrument of distraction between them. It's lukewarm and smells rich in flavour. Focus on that. Not the way Riven's eyes don't meet his, or that there must be lies readily being woven in his mind.

This could all be a lie. Tomás won't believe it, because Riven wouldn't do that to him. But — Is any of this real? He'd felt so real, nestled against him, before he'd said those stupid things. His hands had been familiar, and they'd been tangible. Tomás tries not to be afraid, because if he were asleep, and this was an elaborate, mean joke from the Riv's juju — he might have been able to find Hanna here, and he hasn't. So he has to trust that they can both clear the air and close the distance.

Tomás doesn't know another way.

Distances scared him. It felt too much like goodbye. And all he wanted was to pull Tomás in, to wrap him in whatever lie might ease his mind—to steady his heartbeat, to quiet the tremble in his limbs.

He knew how to do it. He knew the exact cadence his voice needed, how to cradle Tomás’s face like it was something sacred. He knew where to kiss—his forehead, the scar above his brow, that soft spot beneath his jaw—to make the world disappear, if only for a little while.

Yet all he did was stand there, useless, arms limp at his sides, eyes barely lifting to catch the pain flickering behind that beautiful, dark gaze. And somewhere beneath it all, that same voice still lingered—the one that had urged him to hurt, to kill for this man. It scratched at the inside of his skull, whispering darker things. No, no, no — Don't think about that. Think about him. Just him. He needed to focus on anything else. Anything but the ache of knowing how far he'd go for him. The lenghts he'd reach just to save him.

Would Tomás look at him the same way if he knew the truth?

You’d never. But of course he would. He already had. And whatever promise Riven could make about never doing it again would mean nothing—

Leave and never come back. That was the plan. A stupid, pathetic plan. Because the longer he looked at him, the more the ground turned to tar and swallowed his feet. He wasn’t going anywhere. How could he leave? What if someone hurt him? Frozen, throat tight, he answered: "I'm listening." That fake deadline could burn. The world could stop turning. He’d wait.

[tomaspriestley]

— Memes; Tomás [1/?]

RIDICULOUS MAN. 🧍‍♂️

[tomaspriestley]

AUTO FORWARDING: [ tpriestly@leiryweekly.com; tpriestley@leiryweekly.com; tpleiry@gmail.com; tpliery@outlook.com; tomasp@leiryweekly.com; priest@tlcweekly.com; tomas.priestly@leiryweekly.com; tomas.priestly@lwnews.net; tomaspriestley@tlcnews.net; tptptp@tlc.com; t.priestly@gmail.com ]

FORWARD TO: [ c0nspirator@gmail.com ]

REPLY: happytails.jasper@gmail.com

SUBJECT: RE: A MATCH MADE IN PRINT!!! 💘🐺 (aka THANK YOU!!) TIME: 04:24

Jasper!

Awesome to hear from you! Yeah, your email got redirected, lots of people misspell the name, and I stick to my @ c0nspirator handle. Makes things wayyyy easier!

I think with Happy Tails you got a really neat idea, and I def think that the city could use a little spice and a lot more kindness, you know? it needs you! I know it's sometimes such a gut punch when people don't wanna listen to the things you're selling. But you're helping people, and that's worth everything. I didn't think the article would get such a positive response from you, and I'm glad you saw it!

As for the haunted sandwich shop, I can totally send you through all my notes, if you'd like? Bun Intended has got something going on, and I've covered a piece there a while back about the ghoulie in the bread tin. A bunch of stuff doesn't always hit print, but I got all the backups at my place.

HEY! None of that! You are cool! Cool as a moonshifter, cucumber and an ice pop!

If there is an insurance guy in Delaware with my name, maybe I should add to my redirection list. Good to know.

And I didn't launch anything, you got your rockets off the ground before I came along. I just know a neat-o idea when I see one, and you're great, Jasper. Keep me posted, I'd love to keep hearing about your matches and the latest! You have my deets now!

Kind regards, Tomás Priestley Publisher The Leiry Conspiracy

P.S. I meant Ice Pop, like, friendly! Not, the other thing.

TO: tpriestly@leiryweekly.com, tomas.priestly@lwnews.net, t.priestlywrites@gmail.com (pls forgive the wild email roulette i guessed 🙏)

FROM: happytails.jasper@gmail.com

SUBJECT: A MATCH MADE IN PRINT!!! 💘🐺 (aka THANK YOU!!)

TIME: 1:42AM

Hi Tomas (…I hope this reaches you??),

Okay. WHOA. This article? It’s like someone cast Charm Person on the entire town and then rolled a nat 20. I don’t even know what to say except THANK YOU - this was the nicest surprise, and it means the absolute world to me.

I’ve been a huge fan of the The Leiry Conspiracy ever since that one feature about the haunted sandwich shop, and getting a write-up in it? Me?! My imposter syndrome had to go lie down.

You made me sound so cool I had to reread it twice just to make sure you weren’t secretly describing someone else. “Stats”? “Friendly and approachable”? Sir. That’s Pokémon trainer bio-level praise and I am FLATTERED.

Anyway, I hope this email reaches the real Tomas Priestley and not, like, an insurance adjuster in Delaware. If it does reach you: thank you again. You’ve officially helped launch Port Leiry’s most earnest matchmaking service. (Now taking applicants. And snacks.)

May your inbox be full of fan mail and only mild spam, Jasper Felix Founder, Happy Tails Matchmaking Amateur Love Wizard | Full-Time Dweeb 📍Currently loitering around Balliol Street, ethically 📚 Soon-to-be bestselling author??? (Manifesting!!!)

[tomaspriestley]

THE LEIRY CONSPIRACY APRIL 2025, VOL 2, ISS 4.