#I don’t know what the chances are that Hall and Butler would try to appeal again are

[kingofmyborrowedheart]

It wouldn’t surprise me if Taylor released “Shake It Off (Taylor’s Version)” and announced 1989 (Taylor’s Version) shortly after being granted the summary judgment.

[loganscanons]

visitor

summary: Nira gets an unexpected visitor

if there are typos, u didn’t see them

A sharp, echoing rap filled the apartment as someone struck their knuckles against the door, interrupting Nira and Oleander’s peaceful Sunday afternoon. Nira, lying on one of the two enormous beanbags while she listened to Oleander make up a song as he cooked, jerked upright, and glanced first at Oleander, then at the door. Oleander was in the kitchen, pulling open a drawer to retrieve a whisk, and the knock on the door made him yelp. He looked to the door, then to Nira, who was pushing herself off the beanbag and heading toward the closet. On the off chance that the person at the door was someone or something that she needed to deal with, she knew Oleander would prefer if she was clothed.

“I wonder who that could be!” he chirped. Whisk in hand, he called out to the mystery visitor, “Coming!” and crossed the apartment to answer the door.

The moment Oleander saw who stood in the doorway, his blood ran cold, and his heartbeat quickened. The figure loomed, more than a foot taller than Oleander, and the light in the hall caused his shadow to fall over Oleander’s much smaller form. Startled, Oleander yelped and tossed his hands up. The whisk he was holding clattered to the floor.

“Nira,” he said, his voice high and strained. “I th-th-think it’s for you.”

Suddenly, another large figure appeared beside Oleander, and he yelped again. He blinked twice and his fingers twitched as he took a step back.

It was only Nira.

His startled yelp when he opened the door had spurred her to move with unusual speed, bordering on superhuman. Now that she stood next to him, his fear was practically tangible. Whatever was causing that reaction in their home, their safe place away from the stresses of the outside world, needed to be eradicated immediately.

At first, she didn’t recognize the man in the doorway. He was tall and muscular, no more than an inch or two shorter than she was, and his skin was tan and ruddy. The athletic shorts and tank top he wore showed off his muscles and dozens of scars, both faded and fresh. He bore a startling resemblance to how she looked when she took her human form, hairless, with the same coal black eyes and dark glower that made strangers feel ill-at-ease.

Then, she realized who he was. Kleon. Her brother. The last time she saw him they’d been in the Ottoman Empire, and he certainly didn’t have legs at the time. In the two hundred years, give or take, that had passed since their last encounter, he must have gotten the ability to take on a human form.

There were few people she wanted to see less.

“Deianira,” he said.

“No,” she said and shut the door.

Kleon’s hand flew out, and he wedged his foot between the door and the doorframe.

“You’re not even going to say hello?” he asked, his thin lips spreading over a toothy grin. His voice was deep and hoarse and grated on her nerves.

“What the fuck are you doing here?” she hissed.

She took a step forward and put her hands on either side of the doorframe, using her body to block Oleander from Kleon’s view. The movement put her uncomfortably close to her brother, leaving less than a foot of space between them, but as long as Kleon was within a visible distance, she was going to do everything in her power to keep him from so much as looking at Oleander.  

“I heard you were living in Chicago,” he said. His dark eyes flicked briefly to the space behind her. She leaned to the side, blocking his view. “I was in the country and thought I’d drop by.”

“Why?” she demanded. Her tone was venomous, a biting accusation.

“To catch up,” he shrugged.

Behind her, she heard Oleander’s quiet voice, “I’ll j-j-j-j—” He cleared his throat and tried again, “I’ll just be in the kitchen.”

“Are you going to invite me in?” Kleon asked.

There was something about his voice that made her want to punch him in the throat. Nothing specific. His voice had just always had that effect on her.

“Fuck. No.”

“I came all the way out here to say ‘hi’ to you, and you’re going to shut me out?” he asked. The bastard was smiling, like this was some kind of game to him. It probably was. He’d always been infuriatingly amused by her and her decisions.

“I have never asked you to contact me,” she said flatly.

“Don’t be like this, Deianira,” he said. “I only want to catch up a bit. It’s been—what? Two hundred years?”

Two hundred years. He always seemed to show up every two hundred years. It wasn’t enough time between visits.

She knew if she tried to make him leave, he’d get more persistent and try to force his way into the apartment. Which would mean Kleon being in an enclosed space with Oleander. She couldn’t have that.

Through gritted teeth, she said, “Fine. Let’s go for a walk.” She grabbed the slip-on shoes that laid by the entrance and pulled them over her heels. Turning to face the apartment she told Oleander, “O, I’ll be back later.”

“Okay!” he squeaked from behind one of the pillars that separated the kitchen from the rest of the apartment.

Nira pushed Kleon back with her forearm and closed the door behind her. They said nothing as Nira led them out of the apartment and onto the street. The air outside was turning cold, but winter hadn’t quite set in yet.

“Who was that?” Kleon asked, matching her brisk pace.

He spoke in Ancient Greek. She hadn’t had anyone, besides The Hidden One, speak to her in Ancient Greek since the last time she’d seen Kleon, and The Hidden One’s accent had always been a little bit off. She took a moment to process what he said.

“Hmm?”

“The scared, chubby man,” he said. “Is he your butler?”

“My bu—why the fuck would I have a butler?” she asked in English, looking at him like he had suddenly started speaking gibberish.

“I don’t know,” Kleon said, still in Ancient Greek. “I heard you got your freedom. Thought maybe you wanted to turn things around and be the boss of someone. You did get your freedom, didn’t you?”

“Yes,” she said.

Kleon grinned, showing off sharp fangs, and switched to English after realizing she was going to keep responding in English, “Well, didn’t take you very long did it? Only, oooh, let’s see, almost 2,200 years? But, really, who’s counting?”

Nira said nothing. She wasn’t going to respond to his mocking. It would only encourage him.

“Is he your cook?” he asked.

“Why would I have a fucking cook?” she asked. “We don’t need to cook our food.”

“He was holding a what-do-you-call-it,” he said, moving his hand in a stirring motion. “If he’s not your butler or your cook, what is he? Don’t tell me he’s your fucking roommate. Even you wouldn’t live with someone like that, right?”

“Someone like what?” she asked, lowering her voice threateningly. A warning to tread lightly.

Kleon did not tread lightly.

“Small. Weak. Pathetic. Afraid of his own shadow. Would probably lose a fight to a—what do you call those again? σκῐ́ουρος?” he asked, pointing at a squirrel that perched on the rim of a trash can.

“You don’t know what you’re talking about,” she snapped. She knew he was deliberately trying to provoke her, but she couldn’t prevent the anger bubbling up inside her.

“Damn, Deianira, calm down. I know you have a weird soft spot for humans, but even you have to admit, that man is a little bitch.”

“Watch your tongue or I’ll remove it,” she hissed, turning on him.

Kleon raised his non-existent brows, surprised by her malice. Then, his eyes widened, and a look of glee spread over his features.

“Oh my gods. Are you—? You’re not…are you dating him?”

“Yes,” she said, giving him a dark look.

She wasn’t ashamed of Oleander by any means. She would proudly announce to nearly anyone that he was her boyfriend. But she didn’t like Kleon knowing her business, and she didn’t like giving him another reason to mock her.

Kleon laughed sharply, tossing his head back. Nira had to stop walking and wait for him as he bent over, his hands on his knees. Her relationship with Oleander didn’t warrant this much laughter.

“Him? You’re dating him?” Kleon asked, incredulous. “How the fuck did you find someone worse than the last one? What was his name? Janus?”

“Judas,” Nira corrected thoughtlessly.

“Yeah, him,” he said. “Holy fuck, Deianira. I can’t believe you found someone worse. At least the last one could throw a punch. Seems like if you mentioned violence to this one, he might keel over. Where did you find him? What’s the appeal? He must be incredible at fucking. That’s the only explanation.”

“Ew,” she said. “Don’t talk to me about sex.”

“So, that’s not it? What else could he possibly have to offer?”

“Are you going to shut up, or do I have to force you to?” Nira growled, clenching her hands into fists.

She wasn’t going to get into the endless list of reasons she loved Oleander. It wouldn’t change Kleon’s opinion, and she really didn’t want Kleon knowing her business.

“Okay, okay, fine,” Kleon said, stifling his laughter.

They walked in silence, heading no where in particular. She wanted to put distance between them and the apartment, get Kleon as far away from Oleander as she could. And she didn’t want to talk to him. She’d been having a perfectly pleasant afternoon with Oleander, and Kleon showed up and ruined it.

Kleon snorted, unable to contain a burst of laughter. Nira glared at him.

“Keep your fucking mouth shut,” she warned. Whatever he had to say, she knew it would piss her off.

He didn’t heed her warning.

“You going to sign away your freedom for this one too?” he asked, shooting her a malicious grin.

That was the last straw.

His nose made a satisfying cra-ack as her hand collided with his face.

Fighting always gave her a thrill. There was nothing like the power of breaking another’s bones, the smell and heat of freshly spilt blood, the adrenaline of taking a blow. But fighting with her siblings added an additional level of excitement.

Kleon staggered back, his hand cupped over his bleeding nose. Nira had her hands up in loose fists, ready to block whatever swing he took at her. She ignored the people tittering around them. Fighting in the middle of the sidewalk was ill-advised, but she wasn’t worried about anyone interrupting them. Who would want to get in the middle of a fight between the likes of them?

His nose pouring streams of dark crimson, Kleon matched Nira’s stance, bringing his hands up. She blocked the first punch easily, and grabbed the second, using his momentum to knock him to the side. She was disappointed. The least he could do after mocking her was give her a fun fight.

He jabbed, a quick, rapid fake-out, then punched again, and this time his knuckles hit her jaw. She moved back fast enough that she didn’t feel the full force of the punch, but the contact was encouraging. Maybe this would be worth her time.

In an ideal world, Nira would be kicking Kleon’s ass with them both in their true gorgon forms. But the streets of Chicago were a poor fighting ground, and the SBI was liable to imprison or fine them for the amount of clean-up that exposing humans to the existence of gorgons would require, so she had to settle for this. A fight as humans. It almost seemed unfair for Kleon. Nira had over a millennium of practice and experience fighting as a human. Kleon had at most two centuries.

She would’ve won either way. She always did. He always got in a few good hits, making sure to leave her with bruises and wounds that would ache for at least a week, but she would always come out on top. She worked hard to be the best fighter among her siblings, and it showed whenever one of them provoked her.

When police sirens began to draw near, Nira put an abrupt end to the fight, throwing Kleon to the sidewalk and digging her knee into his back. She had no idea if the sirens were for them, but that wasn’t something she wanted to deal with. Police would take all the joy out of the impromptu brawl. Nira pulled Kleon’s arm back at an awkward angle until he tapped out, the blood from his nose staining the concrete.

She helped him to his feet and pleased to see that a look of unhappy acceptance had replaced his infuriating, provoking grin. He pulled his tank top off and held it to his bleeding nose as he followed Nira to the nearest convenience store. He waited outside while she bought him an ice pack.

“Here,” she said, tossing him a t-shirt as she exited the small store.

“What’s this?” he asked, catching it with ease.

“A shirt.”

“I have a shirt,” he said and pulled the bunched-up tank top away from his face.

“That shirt is covered in blood.”

“So?”

“Just put on the fucking shirt,” she said.

He handed her the blood-soaked tank top, then carefully pulled the t-shirt over his swollen face. A logo for a sports team she didn’t care about covered the chest. She handed his tank-top back to him, along with the ice pack.

“You eaten recently?” he asked, slipping into Ancient Greek out of habit.

“A couple days ago,” she said. The fight had cleared her mind, and she found it easier to respond in her native tongue.

“Want to go get something?”

“Sure.”

Nira led them to a small diner with dim yellow lights. The upholstery of the booth seats was faded and torn and smelled of cigarettes and old coffee. The waitress didn’t react to Kleon’s bruised face or the bloody shirt he held to his nose. With a deadened look in her eyes, she cheerfully took their orders.

“You heard from the family at all?” Kleon asked, again in Ancient Greek. He brought his cup of tea to his mouth and tried not to wince as the mug touched his swollen lip.

“No,” she said.

“Kleitos said you were back in Greece for a bit.”

“I was,” she said. “To give The Hidden One the Telmoros Tablet.”

“Yeah, about that,” he said. “Apparently a small plague has broken out in the area since you returned the tablet. Doesn’t seem like a coincidence.”

“That’s not my problem,” she said.

He shrugged, “Guess not. You didn’t visit anyone while you were in Greece?”

“Just Kleitos. I expected him to be dead.”

“He’s fucking old,” Kleon said. There was a beat of silence, then he said, “Mom had another clutch.”

“When?” Nira asked. She hadn’t thought much about her mother since she left Greece in BCE. She’d expected her to be dead, too.

“A couple centuries ago,” he said. “I traveled around with Admeta for a bit. She’s nearly as good at fighting as you.”

“Admeta? Admeta is dead. I would know,” she said, ignoring the compliment. She didn’t need anyone to tell her she was a good fighter. She knew that. She was more caught up on the traveling around with a gorgon she knew to be long dead. After all, she was the reason she was dead. Admeta had died with Nira crushing her windpipe.

“No, Admeta is from the most recent clutch,” Kleon explained.

“What? That’s fucking confusing. There are millions of names to choose from; why is Mom reusing names?” Nira asked.

“She’s always done this,” he rolled his eyes. “She’s waiting for you to die so she can reuse yours. Maybe the next Deianira won’t be such a disappointment.”

“Fuck off,” Nira said. She kicked him under the table, hitting a bruise she’d given him earlier. He winced.

For a few moments, they ate their eggs in silence.

“You think you’ll ever go back?” he asked.

“To Greece?”

“Yeah.”

Nira shrugged, “Maybe. I’m…fine in Chicago.”

She was fine in Chicago, because Oleander lived in Chicago, but if she was being honest with herself, she much preferred the weather of Greece. She didn’t miss the company she’d kept there, though.

“You’re not staying here for that human, are you?” he asked, narrowing his eyes.

“So, what if I am?” she hissed.

“Pathetic,” he said, shaking his head. He took a bite of his eggs, then said, “There aren’t many gorgons left there. Not like when we were young. Most have moved to Saventhia.”

“To where?” she asked.

“Saventhia.”

“The fuck is Saventhia?”

“You know, the other realm where all those centaur herds moved to when we were in our two-hundreds and three-hundreds,” he said.

Nira stared at him blankly for a moment, searching for a memory of centaurs leaving en masse. She didn’t think about her youth often, and many of her memories had been lost to time. She could vaguely recall the dwindling herds of centaur.

“Nicodemus moved there with his wife. He got married. Like a legitimate wedding. A fae wedding, but still a wedding,” Kleon said. “I think he wants to have children.”

Nira balked. She tried to imagine any of her siblings getting married. She supposed if anyone was going to get married, it made sense that it was Nicodemus. He’d always been drawn toward stability and family.

For longer than Nira wanted to stay in the small diner with its subpar food and old booths, Kleon rambled on, telling her about their various siblings, updating her on which siblings were definitely dead, and telling her about the lives of siblings she’d never met. She didn’t care. She tried to make note of the siblings that she’d grown up with, because she knew it was information Oleander would be interested in, but for the most part, Kleon’s gossip went in one ear and out the other.

Outside the diner, Kleon and Nira exchanged a curt handshake and a nod, a silent agreement that it would be a good two centuries before they’d willingly see each other again. Limping slightly, Nira headed back to her apartment, feeling light and clear-headed. She had missed fighting with people who could come close to her skill level. There weren’t many good things she could say about Kleon, but at least he was fun to fight. The endorphins from the brawl would keep her in high spirits for at least a week.

[awaylaughing]

Third Time’s The Charm - Camellia of Jiyel/Lyon (ish)

@ravenclawnerd hello! I was very taken with your ‘childhood “Friend”’ AU as a set up - so I think I dabbled in a minorly AU-of-that-AU. It’s not a huge story, but I hope you enjoy it all the same. If you don’t mind, I’ll upload it to AO3 with you as a recipient later - my wifi’s been acting up and can’t handle the posting atm. Anyway, without further ado:

Third Time’s the Charm

Lyon was not the last person into the hall by any metric, nor even the last of the Jiyeli contingent, though, based on the General’s reaction someone might have assumed otherwise. He did his best to ignore the heavy-browed frown pointed in his direction. His timing was, after all, neither a mistake nor a mark of negligent uncaring. Appearing first would have simply prolonged the agony, appearing last would call far too much attention. It gave him time to watch, to see where people moved. More saliently, it gave him time to see which parts of the room they did not move toward.

It became readily apparent that the answer to that was in the vicinity of the Arlish chaperone. Lyon only very briefly considered the implications of using an elderly woman in a wheelchair as cover, before he took up a spot a polite distance away, as close to the wall as he could manage.

“Good evening your grace,” she turned to him.

If he was to waste time on politesse, the Dowager Countess seemed the woman to do it on, so he managed a wood smile.

“As you say, my lady,” Lyon said, reluctantly relieved that Fallon had at the very least beaten the ranks of the chaperones into his head. He could guess a good number – the various princes rather stuck out in that way royalty, or the equivalent thereof, generally did. Largely by imposing on everyone around them. In truth the only other name he had cared to take note of was Lady Camellia's, both because it was surprising to see a last minute change in the roster, even for someone as disinterested as himself, and because of the name.

He had not been certain it was the same Lady Camellia at first. It had after all, been some time since he last had seen her, let alone had a genuine conversation with her. Flower names were far from rare, even if they weren’t, according to one of his pregnant relatives, overheard while walking past the parlour when she visited, in fashion currently. It had been said as a criticism of the delegate in question, which was by any metric illogical. Neither the lady Camellia who was his – not his but the one he knew, nor this delegate was an infant.

Though, perhaps he would get lucky. His little experience told him small children, though impressed by his height, generally found him dreadfully dull, and were far less dogged about interacting with him than young women. Even better, were a small child to toddle into the ballroom, Lyon would go so far as to postulate that no one would pay him any mind.

He abandoned the thought as quickly as it crossed his mind. Flights of fancy had their uses, but not this one – impossible and pointless and frivolous as it was. So instead he paid mind to the more immediate manner of the pale woman approaching him. Faintly recognizing her as the Revairan princess, he summoned the wherewithal to bow – an act which made her smile deep ever so slightly.

“Your highness,” he said, praying this was simply a cordial exchange and she would pass on quickly.

“Good evening, your grace,” the tone of her voice did not encourage any hope about this being brief. “What a pleasure to find you alone, at such a bustling event.” Again her smile grew, showing straight, white teeth, and she crossed her hands demurely in front of her as she looked up at him, expectant.

He could see she was, by the current subjective standards of either of their respective nations, very beautiful. But her tone was coy, smile fixed into something carefully pleasant, and there was a glint in her eye Lyon had seen among some of the more competitive students at the Academy.

He disliked her both immediately, and immensely.

When he didn’t respond, she shifted just slightly. “Are you enjoying your stay, so far your grace?” she asked, apparently not above forcing him to respond.

“No,” he said. Though it was foolish, predicated on no evidence of her behaviour, he hoped the blunt answer would encourage her to seek whatever it was she wanted elsewhere.

“That’s such a shame to hear, are the accommodations in Jiyel truly so opulent? I suppose for a man of your stature, the best might be nothing new to you.” Her tone put his teeth on edge, as did the way her pale lashes fluttered just slightly.

“It is rather the quality of the people,” Lyon said. Though not in the habit, for any number of reasons, he pointedly met her eyes as he spoke. Her smile just grew, teeth glinting in the lamplight.

“My, no one said you were so cutting,” she said.

“Discerning would be the more appropriate word,” only paying her half a mind now. Someone else had entered – a blur of white and gold on his periphery which promptly disappeared.

“Oh?” she said, dragging his unwilling attention back. The Princess didn’t seem bothered, as far as he cared to tell, neither by his inattention nor words. “Maybe you should give people a chance? You never know when something unexpected may...appeal to you.”

“No, thank you,” he said. She sighed, a small sound warped by her ever present smile.

“Very well your grace,” she said, “I do so hope you enjoy your evening.” There was another pause, this one clearly where Lyon should speak, and he was half tempted not to respond at all – but she seemed prime to wait him out.

“Goodbye,” he said. The glint in her eyes now had changed. Good – if she too immensely disliked him, she was invited to leave him alone, as he would be doing with her. He was not going to play whatever sort of game the Revairin royals were up to. He had neither the intellectual nor moral inclination.

If the Princess’ mannerisms had not been off-putting enough, she’d opened the proverbial damn. Young women of all stripes came up to him. Lyon tried, at first, to put his best foot forward but the topics were dull and demands on his attention exhausting. He was almost relieved when he accidentally offended one young lady, who promptly returned to her fellows to warn them off.

The relief was short lived however – the person he’d noted earlier had finally circled around to him. Bracing himself, he took a breath and turned fully toward the lady – and paused.

It was Lady Camellia.

Ludicrously, nearly as quickly as he noticed that, he found himself thinking she looked odd. Not bad – no she was quite pretty, still – but it took him a moment to notice what it was.

“You’re not wearing blue,” were the first words out of his mouth.

Lady Camellia, who was mid polite bow, stood with a surprised look on her face, dark eyes wide and lips parted.

“It’s very nice,” he rushed to add, realizing far too late how such a thing might be construed.

“You...don’t like blue, your grace?” Lady Camellia asked.

“Blue does not offend me more than any colour,” Lyon said. “I am not an artist.” Her gaze remained curious, and Lyon felt something vaguely like panic. He had gone thoroughly off script, and now he found himself quite unsure of how to proceed. He wasn’t even certain how he was meant to interact with her – their last brief meeting, at the Academy, had not left him confident that the lady remembered him. Nor did the hesitant look on her face now.

“Nor am I,” she said after a beat even he knew was too long. She smiled though, “but I think my lady’s maids may well be.”

“Yes,” Lyon said, “forgive me Lady Camellia – I am not at my best in these settings. Nor when at this topic of conversation.”

Lady Camellia’s hesitant smile dipped slightly, before she mustered it back into action. “Well then, we should discuss something more agreeable. Perhaps you prefer philosophy? Or,” her dark eyes searched his face just  a moment, before she looked away, at some point around his right shoulder. “Or perhaps onvu tactics?”

He would expect the question to be teasing, but it was cautious. Lyon spent a brief moment trying to analyze why, before giving up. His insight into anyone else’s mind did not extend as far as he’d like, and historically, blind guessing wasn’t in his favour.

“It would certainly be worthy, to exchange information after so many years,” he said, equally as uncertain. “Though, more so if we were at a board.”

This time her smile was genuine, even she didn’t look him exactly in the face. “I agree wholly, your grace,” she said. “I don’t think the servants would be that obliging, tonight.”

Lyon had not found his butler nor his valet obliging exactly – indeed, it was as if they had been coached by Fallon – but he supposed hers were more tractable. “Indeed not,” he said.

“Perhaps then, we could follow up this conversation at a later date? I really should be making the rounds,” she said.

“Of course your lady, I would appreciate a sensible conversation partner,” he said.

“As would I,” she agreed, and then, “it is very nice to see you again, your grace.”

“And you, Lady Camellia,” he said.

She remembered him. Lyon was not entirely sure why this was vital information – his and lady Camellia’s previous relationship was little more than a juvenile acquaintance. It was though.

Indeed, nothing about this evening seemed important at all except that fact.

[alienspawnwrites]

Laying Hands: Chapter 5

Read on AO3

Shared Trama

It was two weeks before the Avengers were called back out into the field. Althea had been fixing herself a snack when J.A.R.V.I.S. got her attention.

"Miss Thea, Mr. Stark requests your presence in conference room B."

She didn't utilize the A.I. butler often, but she had grown used to the disembodied voice. She no longer found it weird to carry on a conversation with the thin air. "Should I go right now, or can I finish my sandwich?"

"Mr. Stark conveyed urgency, though I'm sure you can take your food with you if you prefer."

In the end, Althea chose to leave her half-finished snack behind, taking one last hurried bite.

When she exited the elevator into the lounge, she was surprised to find the rest of the Avengers congregated in the room, already deep in conversation. Even Loki was there, half-hidden in the shadows, looking bored as per usual.

"..so straight forward, then: go in, get the weapons, get out?", Clint asked.

"And as always, find out anything we can about their next moves," Steve nodded.

"Fury says this place is locked up pretty tight. That means we're going to need your friend along for the ride, Bruce." Tony looked pointedly at the scientist, who merely sighed in acquiescence.

"Suit up and meet back here. Wheels up in fifteen." Steve dismissed them before heading out to change into his own crime-fighting costume. He nodded to Althea as he passed.

Natasha, Clint, and Bruce followed him out, the later muttering something about 'brand new pants' under his breath. Tony, Thor, and Loki remained behind. Althea looked at Tony in confusion.

"What's going on? What did I miss?"

"We got a mission, kid. The guys upstairs have new information about a stronghold out in Eastern Europe. Looks like your friends Hydra."

"They're not my friends," she countered under her breath.

"Yeah, well, hopefully, they don't have any more sheepish "assets" hidden in this one. I'm running out of spare rooms."

"Am I coming with you?" She tried to imagine riding into battle alongside the likes of Iron Man, Captain America, and the others. The idea petrified her.

"You? Or no, you're not going anywhere," Tony replied, shaking his head at the ridiculousness of her idea. "I just wanted to let you know we were popping out for a bit. Didn't want you to worry."

"Fret not. We will return shortly, no doubt victorious," Thor exclaimed in a booming voice, swinging his hammer for emphasis, clearly excited for the opportunity to do some fighting outside of the training room.

"Actually, Raiden, you're sitting this one out." Thor looked at Tony in disbelief. "Cap doesn't want her left alone with this one." Tony jabbed a thumb in Loki's direction, eliciting a scoff from the dark prince. "Not until we know she can handle herself."

For a moment it looked like Thor would argue, but after an exasperated look at Tony, he dropped his hammer to his side dejectedly.

A few minutes later the team reassembled and made their way out to the helipad. Althea watched with wonderment as they boarded the Quinjet. After a fortnight playing roommate to the team of superheroes, she had almost forgotten what an intimidating force they were. From the window she watched the jet as it flew off into the distance, following it until it disappeared over the horizon.

Thor turned to Loki. "Well brother, what say we take advantage of the empty training grounds?"

"You know I still can't believe you two are related," Thea said, looking away from the window to take her remaining companions. Again she was struck by the differences between the two men.

"Adopted," they muttered in unison. The corners of Loki's mouth turned up slightly in a rueful smirk, but Thor looked unphased by their accidental harmony.

"Fine," Loki sighed, turning to leave the lounge, "there isn't anything better to do anyway." He shot Thea a pointed look before disappearing down the hall. Thor ignored the taunt entirely.

"Would you care to join us, Lady Thea?" Thor had apparently taken to Tony's nickname for her, though he still insisted on calling her "lady".

"I'd rather stay here if it's all the same," she responded. She still hadn't gotten over her last time watching Thor spar. The wide window seat and full bookshelves of the lounge seemed far more appealing than watching the two brothers try their hardest to injure one another.

"Very well. We shall be back soon," he smiled. He leaned in to whisper gruffly, "I do not expect it will take long to best my brother. Loki is a capable fighter, but I believe I have learned to see through his tricks." With a good-humored wink, he followed Loki down the hall.

Althea scanned the spines of the largest bookcase, eventually settling on a worn copy of The Count of Monte Cristo. She was soon thoroughly absorbed in the tragic tale of Edmund Dantès, oblivious to the fading light as the day wore on. When it had grown too dim to read, she set the book down and turned her attention out the window, watching as dusk approached the glittering skyline as she pondered the similarities between Dumas's tragic hero and her own life.

The sun had all but set when Loki returned to the lounge, collapsing onto one of the couches in the sunken living area. He had yet to voluntarily occupy the same room as Althea, and she reasoned he hadn't noticed her sitting in the now darkened corner of the room. She took advantage of the chance to observe him with his guard down, careful not to move suddenly lest she scare him off.

He sat sprawled across the seat, long limbs thrown wide in every direction. His eyes were closed and his head tilted back, revealing the pale length of his neck. Sweat gleamed on his forehead and his chest rose and fell rapidly with each breath. His bout with Thor had clearly left him exhausted. Wearily he wiped the perspiration from his face with the sleeve of his green tunic, a satisfied smile playing across his thin lips. The grin disappeared the moment he opened his eyes and noticed Althea studying him.

To her surprise, he didn't immediately get up to leave, instead matching her watchful gaze with one of aggravation.

"How long have you been there, mortal?" He sounded as worn out as he looked, barely managing to inject his usual venom into the question.

"Long enough," Althea replied. She felt emboldened, having caught him in such an expended state. She rose from her seat, taking a few steps in his direction. "Looks like Thor really kicked your ass."

"Looks can be deceiving. Indeed, if you went down to the training grounds now, it would look as though my idiot brother and I were still fighting." Althea remembered the clone Loki had conjured the first time they met. Apparently, he used his ability for avoidance in battle as well as in social situations. She wondered if this one of the tricks Thor believed he had caught on to. "I assure you I had the match well in hand," he added, smiling confidently.

"If that's so, why did you run away?", she asked, sitting down beside him, unable to help but point out the flawed logic in his explanation.

He shot her a withering look. "Because," he sighed, "I prefer to leave once something becomes boring or tedious. Take, for example, this exchange." He moved to stand, bracing his weight on his arms as he rose. As he rose he sucked in a breath through gritted teeth, obviously in pain.

Althea stood with him, concerned. "You're hurt." She looked him over for injury, eventually discovering a sizeable cut on his left arm that had escaped her notice. In the dim room, the flowing blood blended in the deep emerald of his shirt.

"It's nothing," Loki insisted. He made to shift the injury away from her but was too slow.

Without thinking, Althea had reached out to touch his wounded arm. As soon as her fingertips made contact with his torn skin, her hand began to glow; a steady white light emanating from her palm. She withdrew the offending hand quickly, but it was too late. Loki watched in awe as the skin of his arm stitched itself together, the laceration disappearing before his very eyes. Soon the damage had disappeared completely, the tear in his sleeve and the stain of his blood the only indications that the injury had occurred at all.

"What did you do?" he breathed. He looked to Althea for an explanation, but she had turned away from him. Forcefully, he grabbed her shoulder and spun her around, ready to demand an answer, and froze. She stood grasping her arm, a pained look on her face as she avoided his gaze. Between her fingers, fresh blood flowed freely. Cautiously, curiously, he reached for her hand. Althea choked back a small sob as he peeled her fingers away. There, cutting deep into her flesh, was a fresh gash, a perfect mirror to the one that had just disappeared from his own arm. In a matter of seconds, it too began to heal. The flow of blood slowed as the wound closed, eventually vanishing and leaving smooth, unbroken skin behind.

Loki looked back and forth between his own arm and Althea's, trying to work through what he had just witnessed. "What are you?" he questioned, his voice barely above a whisper.

"Loki, I..."

Althea was interrupted by Thor, who strode into the room breathing heavily.

"You fooled me again, brother. Though you must admit I had you on the ropes for a great deal of our match. How long have you..." Thor trailed off as he took in the sight before him. His eyes darted between Loki and Althea, pausing on the troubling amount of blood that covered both of their limbs. "What in the nine realms is going on here?"

Loki met Althea's gaze, his blue-green eyes glittering, before answering his brother's concern. "Something very interesting."

[rugeon]

The level design of V&A Design/Play/Disrupt

Recently went to the V&A expo on videogames and thought it might be fun to try and think about it’s ‘level design’. I realise its silly to call it that and is more informed by planning an exhibition/ event planning and architecture, but w/e.

[pictured:  how do you Do it?, 2014 - Nina Freeman, Emmett Butler, Decky Coss, and Joni Kittaka]

This is mostly gonna be some simple thoughts on the experience of traversing the space of this exhibition, and how that space is used effectively to create different effects/ experiences, as well as notes on the smarter considerations on how the experience is paced/sequenced.

This warped/truncated/inaccurate/drawn from flawed memory map roughly shows the layout of the V&A expo:

The whole exhibition can be roughly broken up into four fairly distinct parts:

Exhibits of the design of different video games from differently sized studios ~2009 onwards. [blue]

Articles, talking points, video discussions and exhibits of games as part of our broader social context, concerned with violence, gender, sex, sexuality, race, language, protest etc. [orange]

A large video theatre showing some of the communities that form around games. [red]

An arcade showcasing several more experimental games and projects, that is open to free play. [yellow]

DESIGN

When you walk in you are greeted by a huge projector flashing between collages of the various exhibitions and the alternating titles DESIGN, PLAY, DISRUPT.

[pictured slides from Jenny Jiao Hsia’s talk on prototyping to make her game: ‘Consume Me’, 2016]

Seeing this is unavoidable when entering, and it serves as something of a banner to signal the transition into the formal exhibition space. YOU HAVE ENTERED THE WORLD OF THE VIDEO GAMES.

Mapping this first area of the 1. Design section of the exhibit we get something like this:

Note that these numbers are in an arbitrary order of roughly when I encountered them, and are not indicative of density, just general location of possibly several bits of each exhibit. Also this list is not exhaustive, nor is the map strictly accurate, I do not have an eidetic memory, but I do have a notebook and a smartphone.

Design/Play/DIsrupt screen

Large Print Text Binders

‘Journey’ gameplay montage projection

Notebooks, sketches, a headphone + video prototype demo, inspo photos/footage, graph and board of intended player journeys/narrative threads

‘Last of Us’ Dual screen demo showing gameplay and some of the work relevant to make that part of the game happen

Sketches, notebooks, board plotting out story events/setpieces in seasons, film made for atmosphere reference, blue sky concept art, colour scripts

Mocap footage +suit

Matt Lees @jam _sponge describing the anxious, excitable play of ‘Bloodborne’ between 3 screens.

Notebooks, sketches+concept art, level design docs, and SketchUp pics of early levels, headphones to listen to a recording of the soundtrack

Bunch of top designs for ‘Splatoon’

Early Prototype, creature sketches, fashion asset design

Playable prototypes from the making of Consume Me

Notebooks, corkboards, workplace ephemera, unity project demo, headphone + video 40 minute talk on prototypes

Music from ‘Kentucky Route Zero’ / KR0, visual representation of branching dialogue in twine, Margritte’s ‘Spring in the Forest’

Inspirations, typeface considerations, group wiki, twine showcase

Realtime Art Manifesto, Even more notebooks, with sketches and details of designing Tale of Tale’s ‘The Graveyard’

Playable demo of The Graveyard

Bench

Multi-screen montage of generated worlds in ‘No Man’s Sky’

Blueprint tool for spaceships, terrain debug tool, sci-fi inspirations

Visual inspirations

So what are some of the ways we can think about how this expo was laid out? 

For a start it’s fairly linear, there are no branching paths at Design/Play/Disrupt, it’d be a layout ill-suited to somewhere like this where there’s a strong desire for the audience to see all the content and assets (the exhibits) and not miss any pieces that time was spent curating. Thankfully unlike some videogames, this linearity is not gated. There are no attendants fiendishly running up behind you and closing doors as you move from one game to another, people might have missed something, or want to visit an earlier piece while friends are preoccupied with something for a little longer.

Exhibits are visited for the most part in a defined order, with some freedom in the Kentucky Route Zero/Graveyard room as well as the Splatoon/Consume Me room. You are encouraged to experience what is on display for each work and are being guided in a deliberate order, as opposed to set loose in an open hall with no boundaries where some attendees might skip or miss a part of the exhibition.

One thing tying sections you can explore or skip is their loose thematic / tonal linking:

To put it another way, there is a good reason that Bloodborne is next to The Last of Us. Both are triple-A big budget, rated 16+, 18+ action games for blood guts and all the cheery stuff. Consume Me and Splatoon work well next to eachother as the cute aesthetic and playable prototypes hanging from the ceiling work well across from Nintendo’s colourful and playful Splatoon. It would be a bit less natural to have the grotesque and rapacious sounds of Bloodborne echoing within the exact same room as Splatoon. I’m not saying any of these works don’t have some commonality beyond the arbitrary border I’ve drawn, but they fit better together. 

- Plus this open space invites an atmosphere of play after having just been cramped into two games rooms that feature horror elements

[Pictured: Splatoon’s section, as well as Consume Me minigame prototypes open to play, suspended from the ceiling]

This also showcases another thing about this event applicable to level design: the same space can be made appealing to different types of audiences. This is an exhibit about video games. I’ll admit this is just my gut but I’d be willing to bet that this exhibit is more likely to be attended by parents and their children than it would most other exhibits. I don’t know exactly what the V&A’s idea of the ideal attendant is, and that’s probably owed to the fact that this event catered to lots of different levels of assumed knowledge and engagement with videogames. 

Parent’s who might be a little out of touch with mainstream games, are quite likely to have been put off by bringing their kid to something that was entirely wall to wall Bloodborne, Dark Souls and other things as frightening (as much as I personally would have enjoyed that). Standing watching a parent pull their rapt child away from dulcet descriptions of how deadly mistakes are, in the big monster game, the success of the exhibition is apparent; the next room is a bit more targeted towards that kid’s age range (even though they did seem pretty into Bloodborne). 

[The concept art from Bloodborne is such a treat]

It’s no surprise as well that the first game is not The Last of Us, but Journey. More people are playing games now than ever but there remains a fair few people who still don’t really know what’s going on in games. As an exhibition that in part is attempting to show the breadth and depth of games being designed, it makes sense that the first introduction to what games are being made is a game without much in the way of traditional combative interaction. 

To wafflingly reiterate: the sequence of how things were placed matters: The accessibility options: 2. [Large Print Binders] are available at the start. Benches and places to sit are placed later throughout the exhibit (including rather wittily across from The Graveyard; a game where the entire goal is to make an old woman sit on a bench).

Reinforcing this point of how the same space can be made to cater to different people this event was extremely Multimedia. Explanations of parts each games design process written up, sketchbooks, and lots of different drawings, scrawled graphs, charts and plans. Concept art, drawings. Video of prototypes and animation, Sounds of ‘Long Journey Home’ echoing up the hall, and the omnipresent dread of Matt Lees echoing down, as well as headphones to listen to specific parts of the exhibition that might be less suited to how crowded the soundscape is or be for a more narrow audience (I wonder how many of the attendants listened to all ~40 Minutes of Jenny Jiao Hsia’s talk on prototyping. I did. It was good). Just in this section of the exhibit, there were so many different means of engagement, and they all felt very well matched to the story of each games development that they wanted to tell, while still offering different types of engagement. People can be looking at a video display showing how the layers of environmental concept art become important and manifest in The Last of Us, while someone else is poring over sketches of Ellie’s design. 

[Corkboard plotting out events + setpieces across the timeline of The Last of Us]

As an exhibition space, it is made with the fact that multiple people are occupying it at the same time in mind. If something is not available you can engage with something else. And if one type of engagement is not to your tastes there’s a good chance something else will be- not bothered about the wiki used to help the team of KR0 to communicate? Maybe you’ll be more interested in some of Ben Babbit’s sonic improvisations, or the visual inspirations involved in the creation of the game.

There’s more I could talk about wrt this first sections layout of how it winds you around instead of giving you a straightline to the exit, the choice of games playable being fundamentlly simple, an anecdotally sweet image of a child holding the obscenely big original xbox ‘duke controller’  on a pedestal and their dad cradling their hands. But I’ll just leave off this post here for now and maybe continue looking at V&A things and posting about it later.

To be continued..?

[jsilva0117]

CS Sleeping Beauty AU: Once Upon a Dream

Summary: Emma knows nothing about her past nor being the princess of Misthaven, and little does she know she has met her betrothed and true love.

Start from the beginning here.

*I am working on this fic without a beta at the moment, so I do apologize for grammatical errors.

Chapter 10

King George paces relentlessly in his throne room. A habit he’s picked up recently ever since reading his son’s letter. His royal guard has been searching the entire kingdom and beyond for him with no luck. He stops at the window to look out. “That boy will regret ever defying me,” King George proclaims to himself.

“Having trouble keeping track of your own son, King George,” an unknown voice speaks.

Startled, King George turns around, wondering who has intruded in on him.

“I guess some people are just not meant for royalty.” Regina is planted firmly on his throne, grinning like a snake.

“Guards,” King George shouts out when Regina cuts him off.

“Don’t bother. I soundproofed this room. I thought we could have a chat.”

“And who might you be? And how did you get in here,” King George raises his voice with clear inpatients for his intruder.

Regina laughs and stands to introduce herself. “oh, calm down your majesty. I’m here to offer you a most appealing opportunity. I’m queen Regina.”

“Regina? Queen Snow’s mother?  You were exiled years ago.”

Regina’s lips curl in anger. “Stepmother.” Her poise returns back quickly. “And that’s an excellent Segway as to why I’m here.” Regina starts to pace the room. “I’m about to reclaim my throne from my step-daughter and her prince charming,” slithering King David’s moniker out with a sarcastic tone. “ This will no doubt cause a war. A war I plan to win, for I have a plan in motion to obtain something most precious to them.”

King George smirks, ready to call her bluff. “You don’t have Princess Emma. Everyone knows she’s in hiding.”

“Oh, but I have the next best thing.” Her smile grows in the most sinister way, sending chills up King George’s back. “See, I know that Princess Emma will come to me because I have the man she loves.”

“And who is that?”

“Why, her betrothed, of course. It seems they have already met and have fallen for one another. Your wish come true your highness.”

“Killian? You have my son!” King George starts to charge at Regina with anger in his eyes, but before he can get the second step in he feels an invisible grip wrap around his throat, cutting off his air supply. It stops him in his tracks as he struggles to breathe.

“You dare to approach me in such a manner!?” Regina’s grip gets tighter, enjoying watching King George fall at her mercy.  “I’ve come to offer you a deal, George. Join me in my quest to take back my throne. With Princess Emma in my procession and your army, Snow and David will have no choice. It’s no secret you have the most powerful army in the realm. With your army and my magic, we can be unstoppable.”

Regina finally releases her grip on the King, letting him crumble to the floor, gasping for precious air. Rubbing this strained neck and coughing he responds, “And what exactly is in this form me?” He slowly makes his way back to standing to face her. “After you’ve gotten your thrown back, what do I get out of this?”

Regina’s lips curl into a wicked grin. “Why, you king George, get your son back.”

King George’s eyes go wild with anger. “What have you done with him”, he yells at Regina but hesitates to put himself any closer to her.

“He’s fine. He’s making himself comfortable in my dungeon as we speak. Help me, and you may have him back. Do nothing and he dies.”

King George hesitates, studying Regina and weighing his options. “I’ll never help you. I know Killian. He’ll find a way out. He’s my son, and he’s the most resourceful man I know, and I’ve grown tired of our little visit. It’s time for you to leave.”

Regina’s expression goes cold with rage. “Well, that would be a mistake, George.” She quickly strides over to him and plunges her hand into King George’s chest and pulls out a glowing, beating heart.

King George gasps and falls to his knees, grabbing his chest, surprised to feel no opening or injury there.

“See King George, with my magic I can take your heart. And when you hold a heart, you control it. Now, let us have a visit with my step-daughter, shall we.”

>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>> 

 “Snow will you please stop pacing. I know you’re anxious to see our daughter, but there’s no need to wear out the floor”, King David teasingly says to his wife as they both await the arrival, and a long-awaited reunion with their only daughter, whom they have given away so many years ago.

Maleficent had sent a message via bird saying the princess was on her way to them. Snow has not sat down since.

“Snow, Maleficent just sent that bird. They’re still miles away.”

Snow stops to look at him, realizing how anxious she was to see her daughter.  “You’re right”, she sighs out. She walks to her seat to sit next to her husband in the dining hall awaiting their dinner.  “But David, do you think we did the right thing?  I mean, how can we expect her to forgive us for sending her away?”

David takes Snow’s hand into his. “Hey”, he says softly. “We had no choice. Regina would have found a way –“

Snow cuts in. “We could have protected her. We could have found a way. We always do!”

“Maybe, but I think you know we couldn’t take that risk. Sending her away was her best chance,” David responds to Snow’s unease and regret, stroking her cheek, giving her as much comfort as possible. The pain and guilt were eating at him too. He knew what she was going through. “And it’s not us we should be projecting this on. This lies on Regina. She’s responsible for those years lost with Emma. She’s the reason she grew up without her parents.” David’s throat gets tight and his eyes get watery with the rage and heartache swirling inside him. “We can only hope Emma will understand.”

Snow looks at her husband with love and adoration, feeling so lucky she has him. She leans toward him bringing her lips to his, cupping his cheek, a single tear rolling down her face. When she breaks the kiss she rests her forehead on his. “Thank you. I don’t know what I would do without you. I only hope you’re right. That Emma will understand and hopefully forgive us because I’m not sure I can.” More tears stream down Snow’s cheeks and David grabs her for an embrace, hoping to comfort her.

“I know,” he says softly. “Me too.”

The castle’s butler interrupts their moment as he opens the doors to the dining hall. “Your Majesties, King George has arrived and has requested he speak with you.”

David takes a moment to answer, wiping a tear from his eye, trying to regain a king’s poise. “Send him in.”

King George walks in bowing before the King and Queen of Mishaven.  “King George. To what do we owe the pleasure? Please tell me it’s not about Princess Emma’s return. We’ve already told you, we won’t force our daughter to marry your son. We agreed we’d set up the conditions for them to meet and court, but the rest would be up to them.”

King George stands to address them. “I’m afraid that’s not why I’m here. Queen Regina paid me a visit.”

“Regina,” Queen Snow interjects. “What did she want?”

King George hesitates for a moment. “For me to break my alliance with Misthaven and join her to overtake your kingdom.” His voice breaks, conflict present in his features.

“Well, what’d you tell her,” King David commands.

“She sends me with a message.” King George’s tone and voice change slightly, almost as if it didn’t belong to him. “Give up the crown now and avoid a war with my army that will end countless lives. You will then live the rest of your days in her dungeon, while your daughter lies in an eternal sleep.”

David and Snow quickly come to their feet, David drawing his sword. “You’ve aligned with Regina,” David growls.

“Not by choice.” King Georg pauses. “She has my son.”

“Killian,” Snow whispers. “We will stop her and save Killian George. You don’t have to do this. We’ll find a way.”

“His son isn’t the only thing I have,” Regina says as she waltzes in from behind the doors, King George’s heart on hand.

“Regina,” Snow’s voice gets low with fury. Snow takes David’s sword from his hand and charges at Regina with full force. Snow screams as the blade lead her charge.

“Oh please,” Regina sarcastically responds at the sight. Her wrist flicks toward Snow’s weapon, causing it to fly out of her hand and land several feet away.

Stunned, Snow looks at her husband’s sword on the ground, unsure of her next move.

“You think you can come at me with your petty weapons,” A snarl escaping Regina’s lips as she grips the air with her hand, making Snow gasp for air.

“Snow,” David yells from across the room. He starts running toward his Wife.

“Move any closer Charming and I’ll snap her neck.”

David stops in his tracks, feeling helpless, watching his wife gasp for air to no avail.

Regina looks Snow in the eye. “I would love nothing more than to watch you die right here and now, but killing you wouldn’t be enough. I want you to suffer as I have. I want you to know loss.” Rage and grief battle within Regina as a single tear traces down her cheek. Regina’s vengeful stare bores into Snow’s as she watches the life drain out of her. It’s a challenge to let go and not fulfill her revenge right then and there, but Regina releases her grip and Snow falls for the floor coughing and rubbing her neck.

David runs toward his wife to catch her before she can hit the ground. He checks over her, making sure she’s okay. Turning to Regina he shouts, “What do you want Witch!”

Regina looks down at the King and Queen, satisfied with how she’s wielded her power over them.

“Why, I’ve come to accept your surrender of course. I have at my disposal King George’s army. You can’t win. Soon I will have your daughter under my curse.” She kneels down putting her eyes in line with theirs. “I’ve won.”

“You won’t get her,” Snow manages to speak under a raspy voice. “We’ll see to that.”

Regina slowly stands back up, looking down at them. “Well then, I’ll just have to make sure you can’t stop me.” With another wave of her hand, a purple mist casts over Snow and David. Before they can realize what’s happening they both fall to the floor resting in a deep, deep slumber. Regina grins, feeling the buzz of victory in her grasp. She turns to walk out, King George’s heart still in hand.

“What have you done to them,” King George asks as she strides past him.

“Oh don’t worry. I’ve just put them under a sleeping spell. Different than the one I have in store for the princess. Their sleep is temporary. This spell eventually wears off. I just need to make sure no one gets in my way.” And with that Regina steps outside twirling her free, magical hand in the air as if creating her own magical twister. The purple mist gets bigger until she blows on it with her mouth, sending it out into the atmosphere, putting everyone in the Kingdom under the same spell as the King and Queen.

[markwatkinsconsumerguide]

Consumer Guide / No.93 / Reading Football Club fan, blogger and archivist Chris Lee with Mark Watkins.

MW : Other than Reading FC, which football team/s do you follow and why?

CL : I did what most young kids at school did – chose a big, first division team to 'support'. I won't say which one though, but safe to say I soon grew out of it! Its only ever really been about one club – and as the late John Arlott said, no matter where he was in the world, he couldn't settle until he knew the result of Reading's game!

MW : How long have you been following Reading? Can you remember your first game?

CL : My first game was in January 1972 vs Barrow in the old, Fourth Division (now League Two) and the whole family went so we could get tickets for the Arsenal cup-tie. I was nine-years-old and don't remember much about the game itself, only that we won 1-0.

MW : Tell me about the most memorable match you've EVER seen at Elm Park, The Madejski Stadium and away from home…

CL : So many memorable games at Elm Park, but the one that just stands out because of its personal nature, is Bolton in 1995. My fiancé's father Bill was from Bolton (the family had moved to Reading a few years before) and he'd taken me to the away fixture on New Year's day. Both teams were going for promotion to the Premier League (they went on to beat us in the play-off final that season) and at the home game me and Bill took our places on the South Bank. It was one of those special games under the Elm Park lights – the atmosphere was electric and we won 2-1 thanks to a brilliant late goal from Lee Nogan. Bill sadly died a few years later, and whenever I think of this special night it's tinged with poignancy.

I don't get to go to as many games as I'd like at the “Mad Stad”, but try and go four or five times a season. I haven't been able to go the 'big' games for various reasons, initially work commitments and then my health, but to be honest, when I do, the best thing is having a chance to catch up with my big brother. The best away game for me was Bristol City in 1995 – the crowd was around 9,000 with 5,000 from Reading, and the atmosphere in the away end was just incredible.

MW : How did you get into collecting ‘The Biscuitmen’ memorabilia?

CL : I was visiting a collectors fair in Twyford in the mid-eighties and just happened to see an old Reading FC postcard which immediately appealed to me. 

I soon managed to get a few more which qualified as a collection of sorts, and then discovered a cigarette card showing Reading's Sam Jennings at the old stamp shop on Castle Street. I decided to find out what cards had been issued featuring the club – not an easy task in the pre-internet days! 

At first I just concentrated on postcards and cigarette/trade cards and built up a fair collection (though I did have various other bits and pieces I'd kept over the years). It was after I started 'The Biscuitmen' website in 2008 that I decided to branch out a bit more.

MW : What are some of your favourite items in your collection and why? What items do you most seek?

CL : The advantage of having a website like mine is that people occasionally tip me off about auction items or offer to sell and sometimes even donate stuff. 

A chap contacted me saying he had a large framed team photo from 1925-26 that had belonged to his grandfather, who happened to be a Reading FC director at the time. He offered to let me have it for nothing, which was amazing! 

I was also pointed in the direction of a medal which was up for auction, with the description only stating it was an 'R.F.C. 1893-94' medal, which many people assumed meant rugby. But I knew the Reading team had been awarded medals in 1894 just for qualifying for the FA Cup first round proper, and the name on the back matched one of the players. I managed to get it for around £50, and those two items are definite highlights. 

My first love has always been the old postcards and I have around fifty, but there are many, many more I know of. I often miss out because of the cost, but would dearly love to add to my collection.

MW: Your memories / encounters of / with David Downs and Alan Sedunary?

CL : David has long been recognised as Reading's official historian, and it was his club history 'Biscuits & Royals' that sparked my interest in the past when I received it as a gift in 1984. I've known him for many years, and he's a lovely man. I would respectfully say he's a quirky character – the day before Elm Park's last ever league game in 1998 he put up a tent and spent the night on the pitch!

I don't personally know Alan, but have often corresponded with him regarding the club's past. His book 'Heaven on Earth – The Official History of Reading F.C. 1871-2003' is practically my bible!

MW : Do you have much to do with ‘Hob Nob Anyone’ (The Fans’ View Of Reading Football Club)?

CL : I’m a member of Hob Nob Anyone? but don't often post – I'm not very good at distinguishing banter from abuse!

MW : Pick your ALL -TIME Reading ‘Royals’ eleven with manager!

CL : This is so difficult... I could pick four teams, there are so many players I'd like to include. I've gone for these purely on the basis of how much I enjoyed watching them play, not necessarily how well they would combine as a team!

Team: Death, Murty, Richardson, Wdowczyk, McPherson, Gooding, Parkinson, Sigursson, Senior, Friday, Gilkes.

Subs: Hislop, Shorey, Sonko, A.Williams, Quinn, Horrix, M. Butler. Manager: Steve Coppell.

MW :  Other than following ‘The Royals’  what are your other hobbies and interests?

CL : I've always been a huge film and music fan, and enjoy photography. When I was 17 (forty years ago!) I was the 'singer' and bass player in a band with my mates – it was nothing serious, we hired a hall every Sunday afternoon and messed about really. Our sound was basically a cross between Status Quo and the Sex Pistols!

I've had the same battered old acoustic guitar for many years which I enjoy strumming, but wish I'd taken music more seriously. 

I've always loved the classic film noirs and find the music of that time very appealing as well. I'm a nostalgia buff generally which explains the appeal of pre-war Reading FC memorabilia, there's just something about it.

MW : What do you enjoy most about living in Reading?

CL : I live north of Reading and go into town maybe once a week, but rarely go out for the evening there. I much prefer to have a meal at a pub in the beautiful countryside near to where I live. The most useful thing for me is being able to visit the Reading Central Library, where over the years I've done a lot of research using the local newspaper archive, which they hold on microfilm.

MW : How will you be spending Christmas (2019)?

CL : With family as usual, and I'm hoping to get to the Boxing Day game against QPR at the “Mad Stad”. Christmas is a time for family and reflection, so I’d like to say that I couldn't have coped with life since my illness without the support of my wonderful wife Rebecca, she is my absolute rock.

MW :  Do you have a website?

CL : My website is called 'The Biscuitmen', which was Reading FC's nickname before it was changed to ‘The Royals’ in the 1970s. I started the site in 2008 to aid my recovery from a brain tumour operation, and initially it showcased my card collection.

I had some other stuff tucked away such as handbooks, fixture lists, team and player photos etc and decided to expand the site a couple of years later. 

I add to the collection when I can and I'm constantly amazed by what turns up. And I'm always grateful for donations!

I'm particularly keen to get hold of vintage postcards as well as original team photos from any era. 'The Biscuitmen' can be found here www.chrisdlee.com

MW :  Finally, do you plan to write your own book about Reading Football Club?

CL : I have considered it and it could be about Reading's tour of Italy in 1913. Last year I managed to pick up some Italian papers/magazines printed at the time that feature some amazing photographs. I find the pre-Great War period a fascinating time in our history – Reading were relegated, almost went bust, won promotion and, as well as the trip to Italy, had a couple of exciting cup runs.

© Mark Watkins / November 2019