#Cup and saucer vine

[heaveninawildflower]

Cathedral bells or cup and saucer vine (Cobaea scandens) by Pancrace Bessa (1772-1835).

Wikimedia

[thebotanicalarcade]

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[actual-changeling]

aziraphale turns around, two cups of freshly brewed tea in his hands, and stills.

rain is pounding against the window, and the sky is so dark it might as well be night, they're alone in the bookshop and safe from prying eyes, but -

"angel, you're staring."

"right, sorry, it's nothing."

crowley takes the cup from him, making sure their fingers don't as much as brush, and aziraphale settles in the armchair opposite him with a weight in his chest and a bitter taste on his tongue. having him hear again at all is oddly relieving, he breathes easier when he can feel his aura right next to his, can look at him from across the room and remind himself that he is alright, they both are.

they drink in silence at first, the noise of the traffic fading into that of the thunderstorm encompassing london, a pleasant background noise that makes his voice less cutting when he tries to speak.

"so. it's- well, i'm still figuring out the details, but-"

"the second coming," crowley interrupts him, not unkindly, "yes, i'm aware."

aziraphale blinks at him, caught momentarily off-guard, and no matter how hard he tries to grasp the vital information bouncing around his brain, all he can think of is that he cannot see crowley's eyes. that he hasn't seen them since- since the day he left.

a handful of years during which taking off his shades had been his first act upon entering the bookshop, now the statue remains empty, and his eyes and any indication of emotion carefully hidden. the white porcelain clings in his hands, and he puts the cup and saucer down, wringing his hands to try and stop them from shaking. guilt mixes with sorrow and anger, mostly at himself, and takes root inside his ribcage. vines slither up his throat and keep his words where they are.

it's stupid. he shouldn't.

aziraphale braces himself for the reaction he will receive but he cannot stop his arms from reaching out, crossing the gap between them. he makes it as far as his fingertips brushing over the cold metal frame when crowley violently flinches back, spilling his tea and then miracling it and the cup to heaven knows where.

"don't."

it's a one-word response and yet more final than anything else ever could be, a piece of metal dropped in an empty warehouse, its echoes bouncing around and reminding you of your mistake over and over again.

"you don't get to do that. now, tell me whatever you have in mind or i will leave."

crowley is tense, muscles tight, back as straight as a serpent can manage, and he slowly leans away from aziraphale, shuffling down the couch until he is half slung over the armrest and as far away from him as possible.

right.

shame stings in his eyes and sinks to the bottom of his stomach; he misses his eyes. crowley no longer feels safe enough around him to show them, and if there is one thing he hopes to solve it is that. the world can end but he cannot live without his world.

patience, he reminds himself. just be patient.

"right, about the second coming..."

[hectic-hector]

Encantober prompt #20: Vision

A Perfect Vision

If you had asked four-year-old Mirabel what her favorite color was, her answer would vary from day to day, sometimes even minute to minute. One moment it might be pink or purple, the next moment it might be yellow, silver, or red. And sometimes it was impossible for her to choose when her Tia Pepa made a rainbow.

The prospect of picking a favorite color had never seemed as daunting as it did on the day that Julieta told her youngest daughter she needed glasses. “But why can’t you make my eyes all better with food?” 

The question had very nearly broken Julieta’s heart. With a sigh, she set her pestle down and wiped her hands on her apron. “Because that’s not how my gift works, mija.” She knelt down in front of a sniffling Mirabel and clasped her tiny hands in hers. “Your eyes are not broken. They’re just a little different. Like your father’s.” She looked over at Agustín, who made an attempt to appear suave by leaning casually against the counter while adjusting his glasses. Casita playfully swatted him in the back of the head with a cabinet door, making him jump and knocking his glasses askew. Mirabel giggled. “See?” Julieta said. “His glasses make him look handsome and smart. And guess what? Doctor Orozco says you can have any color you want for your frames.” She smiled big. “Isn’t that nice?” The little girl began to mirror her smile, but after a moment, her face fell. “I don’t want any color,” she murmured, looking at the floor. “I don’t want glasses.”

Julieta sighed again and gently coaxed her into a hug. “I’m sorry, querida, but if you want to see better, you need them.” Agustín knelt beside the two, hugging his daughter next. “It’ll be alright, Miraboo. I wear glasses, and I think they’re great! Here, why don’t you try mine on?” He removed his glasses and, after some fiddling, just barely managed to balance them on Mirabel’s much smaller nose and ears. The girl lifted her hands to feel the oversized frames as she glanced around the kitchen, marveling at how different everything looked. The designs on the floor tiles appeared blurrier, while saucepans and ladles hanging on the wall across the room were more in focus. Mirabel shook her head. “Don’t like um.” She handed them back to her father. Agustín put them back on. “Well, the eye doctor’s going to make special glasses just for you, Mira. They’ll fit perfectly and make everything crystal clear. And don’t forget to tell him your favorite color!”

Julieta nodded, cupping the girl’s cheek and kissing her forehead. “We’ll go tomorrow morning. Alright? In the meantime, I want you to decide what color you want for your frames. You can only pick one, though. And ‘rainbow’ isn’t one color.” “Awww!” Mirabel pouted. ~   ~   ~   ~   ~

 “You’re probably gonna look like this. Or like this. Or maybe like this!” Camilo, who had only gotten his gift a month prior, kept changing into different versions of Mirabel with glasses, each one growing progressively less flattering. The glasses grew to the size of saucers, and the nose and teeth had also grown until he looked like a comically nerdy caricature come to life. “Stop it, Camilo! That’s mean!” Mirabel shouted, stomping her foot. “Papi has glasses and he doesn’t look like that!”

“That’s ‘cuz he’s a boy,” Camilo replied, reverting back to himself. “He doesn’t gotta be pretty.” No sooner had he spoken than a wreath of pink and yellow plumerias burst into bloom on his head. “Nobody has to be pretty,” said Isabela, descending from the upper mezzanine on a vine. She stepped down in front of Camilo, growling at him. “Now buzz off before I make you pretty!”

The boy took off, tearing at the flowers that continued to sprout from his hair. Isabela rolled her eyes. “Boys are dumb,” she muttered, boredly conjuring pansies and petunias out of thin air. “You won’t look that bad, I’m sure. Especially if you pick a good color for your glasses. Like one of these.” 

Mirabel took the proffered bouquet, looking at the bright colors. They were mostly various shades of pink and purple, with a little bit of white and yellow for accents. “What color would you pick?” she asked, gazing up at the much taller twelve-year-old.

Isabela blinked. “Me? I wouldn’t pick any color, because I don’t need glasses.” Mirabel’s lip trembled, but she remained silent as she turned and walked away, the hand holding the bouquet hanging dejectedly at her side. ~   ~   ~   ~   ~ Mirabel spent the next hour alone in the nursery, flowers, papers, and crayons scattered all around her on the floor as she lay on her stomach drawing and redrawing herself with different colored glasses. Camilo’s unflattering interpretations of her kept invading her thoughts, and each time they did, she pressed the crayons harder into the paper, drawing the lines thicker and darker, as if she could somehow scribble those images out of her head. When the first crayon broke, so too did Mirabel’s resolve. 

Sobbing, she stood up, clutching her latest drawing to her chest, and ran out of the room. Tears clouded her vision, and as she ran up the mezzanine toward her parents’ room, she did not see the figure that emerged from a different door until it was too late.

Mirabel collided with a green blur, nearly knocking both of them to the ground. “Whoa, careful there,” said Bruno, catching her by the elbows to steady her. “You really gotta watch where you’re going, kiddo. You don’t wanna get… Mirabel? What’s wrong?” he asked as he looked her over. “Are you hurt?”

Mirabel shook her head. Grabbing two fistfuls of fabric, she buried her face in her uncle’s ruana, sobbing quietly. Bruno looked down at her, speechless. He leaned down to put his arms around her, to offer the poor girl some comfort, but paused when he noticed the paper on the ground. It was rumpled and tearstained, but the picture she had drawn was unmistakably a self portrait. A distorted, exaggerated self portrait, with so much frustration and fear rendered in thick black crayon, particularly in the wide circles around the eyes. Bruno stared at it for a moment, then at the little girl clinging to his clothes. He knew what he had to do.

~   ~   ~   ~   ~

Mirabel stood in the middle of the stone chamber, holding her uncle’s hands as well as her own breath. Bruno’s eyes glowed brightly as he slowly turned his neon gaze from Mirabel to the sands swirling overhead. Though this wasn’t the first or even the tenth time she’d witnessed him having a vision, she still found herself transfixed by those eyes. A second pair of gleaming green eyes appeared in the storm above. Mirabel squinted, as much to keep the sand out of her eyes as to try to make out what the vision was showing her. Meanwhile, Bruno’s eyes remained wide and unblinking, even as his hair whipped violently around his face. 

The two green circles widened, then connected, as other features began to take shape around them. Mirabel was just beginning to make out a face and a body when the swirling sands flared impossibly bright. She let go of her uncle’s hands to cover her eyes, and in an instant, the torrential winds ceased. Silence fell inside the stone chamber, and when she looked up again, Bruno was holding an emerald slab over her head to protect her from the falling sand.

A moment later, he was turning the tablet around for her to see. “Looks like you’ve got nothing to worry about after all,” he said, grinning despite his sudden headache. “See?” Mirabel stared at the vision. Etched in emerald, a smaller version of herself looked back, smiling wide as she reached her hand out toward a butterfly. Even her eyes were smiling behind large, round glasses that flattered her face. 

“Here.” Bruno set the tablet in her hands. “No more sad or scary drawings of yourself when you’ve got this.” ~   ~   ~   ~   ~

Mirabel had no idea how, but somehow, that vision tablet had survived the fall of Casita. And it was Bruno, of all people, who had found it in the ruins: cracked, chipped, but still in one piece. He recognized it instantly. Mirabel saw him standing motionless in the rubble on the second day of cleanup and went to see what he was holding. As she approached him, she froze when she saw it. Bruno looked up at her. “You kept this?” Mirabel blushed. She stepped closer, pushing some debris aside with her broom. “Um, yeah. I did.” They both looked down at the tablet, studying the nearly forgotten image for a long moment, before Mirabel spoke again. “I wanted to remind myself that I shouldn’t worry so much. About the future. About… myself.” She shrugged. “I guess I also kept it to remind me of you. After you left.” She met his gaze, and despite the fact that she was smiling now, there was a little shadow of sadness behind it. Bruno had gone into hiding only a month after giving Mirabel that vision. The last one he had ever given her, until the present day. “No matter what anyone said about you, I didn’t want to believe them.” She placed a hand on his arm. “You gave me a perfect vision. I didn’t want to forget that. Or you.”

Bruno could only stare back at the young woman, completely speechless. Mirabel took the tablet from him and wiped away the remaining dust, and as she did so, her smile grew warmer, and when she looked up at him again, there was no trace of sadness left. “You’re the reason I chose this color, you know,” she said, tapping the frames of her glasses. Bruno blinked. “You mean because of how they looked in the vision?” Mirabel giggled. “No, silly. I picked green because I wanted my eyes to be like yours!” Bruno could only stare at her, speechless yet again. “What?” she said, tucking the tablet under one arm. “I was just a kid at the time. A kid who thought you had the coolest eyes when they glowed.”

Bruno smirked. “So if my eyes glowed bright pink instead –”

Mirabel smirked back, shaking her head. “I like green better.” @encantober-official

[spunknbite]

South Downs, revisited

The garden faces south.

Wisteria and lavender. Borders of delphinium. Brilliant violet asters, peonies and shock-white hydrangeas. Hostas that could use splitting come spring. Hollyhocks thriving, standing ten feet easy. Lady’s Mantle, climbing roses, snap dragons. Yarrow, a lot of yarrow.

Grow you a garden. Start from seed, from the beginning, the inception. Dirt under fingernails, cracked terracotta pots, noon sun high. Watch stalks rise and flowers bloom, creation, something new and whole and yours.

There’s lattice-work arches too. A little neglected, water-warped wood imprinted with decades of climbing tendrils tattooing the grain. The clematis has fallen back, overstretched and thinning at the apex, but still the stains of its vines remain on the wood, revealing past summers. The patio stones that dot the perimeter are smoothed almost slippery from years of use and rain. Initials are carved in the trunk of the overgrown birch that shadows the back gate. SM + RB dug deep in testament, a fine layer of moss creeping at the edges.

Loved, this garden was loved by its former caretakers. Could be loved again, certainly.

There’s room enough to spread out. Add some colour — daylilies, cosmos, bellflowers. Coax some ivy up the brick. Mint as ground cover, along with flowering thyme, lily of the valley, phlox. 

He could build an awning off the back wall, offer some more cover. Move the hostas – they’d be happier under the protection. Plant some astilbes, coral bells, some begonias in the summer. Add a few lounges, a place for an angel to read while it storms. 

Maybe an apple tree, if he’s feeling bold.

-----

“I quite miss the country,” Aziraphale says one afternoon. A sip of tea, the familiar clink of cup on saucer. “It’s been centuries.”

“Tadfield?”

“Centuries since I’ve holidayed properly. The occasional day trip hardly counts.”

“You can’t leave this shop.”

“Not permanently, maybe just to get some air. See the sky again.” Saucer meets desk. A smile his way, blue eyes alight,

“And I will make thee beds of Roses  And a thousand fragrant posies,  A cap of flowers, and a kirtle  Embroidered all with leaves of Myrtle”

“For Satan’s sake, you’re invoking Marlowe of all people?”

“And why shouldn’t I? Just because he’s been a smidge overshadowed by —”

“You know he was an atheist, angel?”

“Even a broken clock is right twice a day.”

“And that broken clock can write poetry too?”

“Quite.”

The bell above the shop door rings, and Aziraphale is off. 

-----

The third bedroom is just a nook really; it peaks out of a dormer window overlooking the back garden. It has built-in shelves along one wall, inset and bordered with the sort of colonial crown moulding that Crowley imagines only Aziraphale would truly appreciate. Grandmotherly; shelves seemingly meant to house sun-faded doilies and ceramic cats.

But it could be a library. Granted, a small one, but there was space enough for a collection of the essentials with room to spare under the window for a desk. An angel must keep up with his correspondence, after all. 

Dear angel, he’d written once, centuries ago. Then scribbled it out.

Dear angel, he’d written again, not long after. Then burned it.

Dear angel, he’d written again and again and again. Wasted paper made pulp made paper again, never sent.

-----

He buys the damned cottage. 

Dumb idea. Impulsive, really. Like a lot of what he did, what he still does — gets a notion in his demonic skull and just charges on, unencumbered by reflection. As if he trusts some higher power is looking out for him, has his back – the absurdity of it. Once upon a time before the beginning of the world, he’d sauntered vaguely downward without really considering all the consequences, the ramifications of it all; hadn’t weighed and measured, worked out the celestial maths. No, he made a choice and paid for it without knowing the price.

(he would have kept sauntering on anyway, knowing where it would ultimately lead — earth and humans and their wonderful cars and Aziraphale and and and — but he hadn’t known then, couldn’t have known, just what shape his damnation would take, and that was rather the point; he was a careless idiot)

Here too, on earth. We can run away together — Alpha Centauri. Get an idea, a cocked up, stupid thought and go all in on it. 

The Bentley, raging down London streets. A sharp, nearly blind corner. Is there oncoming traffic? Could he stop if he wanted to? Who’s even in control, has he ever been? Has he gone from one master to another to another?

You go too fast for me, Crowley.

So he buys the damned cottage, because what else can he do?

-----

Aziraphale gets in the elevator and Crowley gets in the Bentley. He doesn’t know where he’s going, but it’s not South Downs.

Also on ao3 for anyone interested.

[freesia-writes]

Ok. I’m so sorry to those of you waiting ages for your requests but my inspiration has been at zero lately, except this lil spark of a Howzer idea thanks to @ilovestarwarsmen725 that I managed to churn out yesterday. However. It ends very abruptly because I’m leaving for like 4 days and I know I’m not gonna finish. So… enjoy my feeble attempt. 🤣🙈😘

Howzer x GN!Reader - Tea and Long Walks on the Beach

1.2k words and SFW (sorry, LOL)

Howzer was truly full of surprises.

You never would have guessed that his way of asking you on a date would involve a bouquet of wildflowers and a cryptic note inviting you to meet him at some coordinates on a certain day and time. You’d been friends for a while, although you couldn’t honestly say in good faith that you saw him as just a friend; you’d harbored a crush on him from the start but busy schedules and a sense of duty before pleasure had so far kept you apart. Until now.

You certainly hadn’t expected him to arrive looking impossibly suave yet casual at the same time, sporting an insanely flattering green sweater that fell loosely around him but hugged all the right places just enough to show off his physique. His hair was effortlessly tousled atop his head, and his dark jeans gave the whole ensemble a sense of class. Yet when he saw you as you opened the door to greet him, he only had words of praise and admiration for how lovely you looked. (I can see him in all of these outfits so take your pick from the selection below and keep it in mind as we continue, LOL).

For all his accomplishment and esteem, you hadn’t expected him to be so humble, so relatable, so focused on you. This was a refreshing date indeed. So when you found yourself sitting in the most charming tea shop you’d ever seen, you realized you needed a moment just to take it all in. It was a tiny hole-in-the-wall sort of place, with a simple entrance through a wooden door that had clearly seen years of use. It swung open with a cheerful creak, revealing the inside of a quaint cottage that had been turned into a small tea room. The wall was covered with paintings, photos of patrons over the years, and so much memorabilia that it could have been kitschy if it weren’t so endearing, so representative of good memories and fun times that had occurred within the walls.

Howzer had taken your hand, weaving through the motley assortment of tables in every shape and size, and headed for a screen door, which apparently led to an intimate garden patio full of string lights and plants. The entire thing was covered by a lush trellis full of delicate flowers whose light fragrance wafted throughout, hydrated by the unassuming water feature that provided a soothing background sound. Every table was surrounded by a variety of foliage, from hanging pots with vines flowing down their sides to neatly-trimmed bushes that provided little walls of sorts, for beauty as well as privacy. It was the middle of the afternoon, the perfect lull between lunch and dinner, and you’d been thoroughly distracted from your perusal of the menu as you gazed at the clone before you, sharp and intelligent yet soft and kind.

“Where are you off to in that brain of yours?” he asked gently, startling you out of your reverie. You met his gaze, the spark in his eyes curving your cheeks into an immediate grin.

“I just can’t believe we’re here,” you admitted sheepishly, shrugging and continuing to look all around. “This is gorgeous!”

“Tell me about it,” he said cheesily, staring only at you and waggling his eyebrows enough to catch your attention as well as a delighted chuckle.

The server came, orders were placed, and immediately a large pot of tea was brought to the table, along with wildly mismatched cups and saucers that made your heart swell in your chest. Even the spoons were unique, each one having its own color, curves, and details that gave it character.

“I didn’t take you for a tea kind of guy,” you mused as he opened the top of the teapot to inspect the color of the liquid inside.

“Needs a few minutes,” he muttered before turning back to you. “I guess I’m just full of surprises then?” he offered, his smile holding a hint of a smirk now.

“I like surprises,” you crooned, thrilling at the genuine laugh your flirtation earned from him.

“I’ll keep that in mind,” he returned, as a three-tiered stand of plates arrived, covered in tea sandwiches, scones, fresh fruit, petit fours, and other delicately-arranged small bites.

It was still hard to believe that you weren’t dreaming as you compiled a little assortment of treats on your plate, thanking him as he poured tea for the both of you once he finally deemed it ready. The snacks were divine -- every texture and taste perfectly complimenting the entire spread, and the conversation flowed easily. You knew the basics about each other, but you were absolutely enthralled with his stories about his experiences, his philosophies on life, and his responses to your own thoughts and contributions.

Before you knew it, you were both comfortably stuffed with light, fresh food and equally soothed by hot tea that settled your stomach in a most satisfying way. You felt ready for a nap, and thought about inviting Howzer to join you for that very idea, but before you could suggest it, he was on his feet, hand outstretched to you, and out the garden gate with you in tow.

You lost track of time again, wandering the streets of the quaint village as you chatted about the things you saw and the random variety of thoughts they led you to. Jokes were shared, shoulders nudged, furtive glances cast back and forth that sent a thrill through you every time. And then he stopped suddenly, inviting you to look up at where he had led the two of you.

The entire bay stretched out before you, forming an uneven C shape with large rocky cliffs curving around either side. The water inside was quiet, with the large ocean waves buffeted by the protective peninsulas so that they reached the shore in a gentle, lapping rhythm. The sun was setting earlier this time of year, so it had already begun its descent through the haze on the horizon, bathing everything in a creamy golden light.

Your mouth fell open slightly, taking it all in, and you could feel Howzer watching you from your side. The feeling of his hand slipping around your waist, pulling him into a snuggly hug, was the cherry on top of a perfect setting, and you leaned into his shoulder with a contented sigh.

“You’re the best,” you murmured, utterly in awe at his planning.

The rest of the evening involved a long walk, hand in hand, chatting about everything and nothing. As the twilight colors faded into a velvet navy blue and the twinkling stars began to peek out, you stopped at the end of the peninsula, gazing out into the vast expanse of sea and sky.

Then you made out and had wild sex on the beach and somehow sand wasn’t an issue in the slightest cause this is fanfic and we’re all in dream land anyway.

The End. 🤣🙈💕

[herbertholdingacamera]

Cobaea Scandens - The Cup-and-saucer Vine

[aworldofpattern]

Strawberry print tea set and skate decks, Palace x Wedgwood, 2023

A teapot, cup & saucer and plate all feature a strawberry graphic pattern pulled straight from the Palace archives.

The pattern is also a nod to Wedgwood’s nearly three centuries of heritage, as one of the key Wedgwood motifs is a strawberry-and-vine pattern.

One skate deck is printed with Palace's strawberry pattern, and the other with a Wedgwood blue jasperware print.

The Antiques Roadshow-inspired campaign video by Alasdair McLellan, starring Ceramics expert Lars Tharp.

[cantuscorvi]

They're upset---suspicious even, perhaps, with how they squint a little at their usual afternoon cup of tea and the gold filigree border on the saucer and the little flower painted rim. Suspicious, yes: they bring the cup close to their reflection and smell that rusty, stagnant water scent again for just a moment before it goes away, and their nose wrinkles and their teeth bite the edges of their tongue. They see their own worn, tired expression in the red-steeped water. They've been looking more sickly than usual lately.

"... What blend did you say this one was again?"

@lunarscaled

After he sets down the cup, Raum does not watch Lyric to see if they drink the tea. Instead, he is busy preparing another little plate. A knife glides smoothly in his hand, creating a slice of cake. It’s pristinely rectangular, layered with watermelon and jelly and light cream in stripes; pink, white, beige. Atop, a layer of deep red strawberry, crushed pistachio, tiny fragments of dried rose petals. Very pretty, light in flavour, certain to compliment the tea.

He sets down the cake plate next to Lyric’s cup and saucer with a small fork, his hand present on the back of their chair.

“Ah.” Raum circles around to sit across from Lyric at the table. There is a note of a smile in his voice, perhaps a genuine sort of pleasure at preparing something with finery, even if it was laced with the poison that was slowly eating away at their spirit.

“This is Tieguanyin. The iron goddess. It’s an oolong tea — this one in particular is harvested in spring. It's roasted, so it has a strong flavour, but I’m sure you’ll like it.”

Raum notes the hesitation in Lyric’s eyes, the fatigue in their shoulders while they stare into the liquid, and he sighs. Their resistance to his influence is making them tired, almost frail — he can sense it. How their vitality seems strangled by invisible vines.

“You need to keep your strength up if you want this to continue, Lyric.” He reaches over and uses the fork to spear some of the cake. “I’m fulfilling my end of our arrangement. But for this to work properly, you need to be willing to accept my help.” He lifts the fork and offers it to Lyric directly. Deceptively, it smells sweeter than it looks.

“I understand you have doubts. But this will start to feel better once you stop struggling against it.”

[imdonewithis]

He stood still as a ghost, staring intently at the cracks and splinters in the wooden door. The handle had become old and rusty, it's shiny surface had chipped off long ago, leaving the ugly metal core on display. 

Dusty air filled his lungs, scratching him from every corner. He did not let go until it was suffocating him. The breath came out shuddering

Grindlewald’s hands shook in his robes. Clutching the letter in his pocket, the weight of it too heavy for him. The slight tremble in his hands was still there as he reached for the handle. Twisting it slowly, in successions. 

The door opened with a long squeak. The warm air of the room pulled him in with it’s vines. There was no way out now.

His eyes fluttered closed. The room smelt of memories older than time itself. Behind the closed lids wasn’t the darkness he saw, but something a lot worse. 

“Hello, Gellert,”

Gellert. Gellert.

Who was that? The name wasn’t his anymore.  Was it supposed to sound so grim and wistful? He had stopped being Gellert so long ago. He stopped being Gellert the moment he became Grindlewald. 

“Albus,”

His own voice sounded foreign to him. So soft, so gentle. Who was he? 

Dumbledore stood centuries apart. Standing in all handsomeness. With confidence on his shoulder and the infamous twinkle in his eyes. It shone brighter than ever behind the sorrow. The eyes did not leave him for a second. They did not see the rats or felt the cold, for all the other things were a mere background. Something to pay no mind. 

There was a desire running hot and fast in his veins. The desire to cage the man. To make him his and his only. To make him see what he was seeing, his vision, his dream—their dream. To erase everything in his heart but himself. 

Albus was Gellert’s weakness as he was of Grindlewald’s. He despised the man for abandoning him and their cause, but wept for the part of himself that he lost. He hated him making him complete then braking away the last piece of him. He hated him for all the time they could’ve had, of all the nights he promised then never setting the sun ever again. 

But he loved still. He loved him because of it all. 

“Would you like some tea?”

Albus straightned and walked over to the table in front of the fireplace. Gellert’s eyes never left his back. He used to walk with so much confidence, like he was the ruler of the world, like he was invencible. But now, his steps were hurried. 

Gellert could sight the tremble at the tip of his fingers as he picked up the teapot. He noticed the emotions by the way the tea sloushed in the cups and drops scattered the tray. He observed as he waved his hand a little too much to warm up the liquid.

The teapot was carefully placed on the table, ready to serve it’s owners. 

Grindlwald carelessly threw his coat on the bed and walked over. He didn’t take his eyes off from Dumbledore’s figure for a single moment. Afraid, that it wasn’t true, that he would dissappear like he himself did. 

He sat down and picked up the steaming cup. Even the handle had heated up—he couldn’t feel it. 

They sipped in complete silence, very much aware of the other’s presence. Albus placed his cup in the saucer and crossed his legs, looking into the fire as the flames danced in his eyes. “How are you?” 

Albus turned around to look a Gellert and his world stopped. There was no hate in the other’s eyes, no dissapointment. Oh how he longed to look at him. Just look at him, without purpose, without intention or the need to pursuade or manupulate. 

“Good. How about you?” His voice was soft, gentle. Like the touch of morning frost or the first snow. There was something between them, something fragile that would break if he said too much or too little. “How’s it teaching the future of the wizarding world?”

Albus looked down, a shy smile on his face and something hardend in Gellert’s chest. Everything he did, every little action, every little smile; reminded him of the summer his heart started beating. That posionous curve of his lips that defiled him.

“It’s been intereasting. Children could be very. . .child like,”

“Idiots,” Gellert chuckled, a low breathy chuckle. And Albus turned to him. The surprise in his eyes was not hidden. Gellert Gridlewald had never laughed, he rarely smiled. But Albus Dumbledore was someone who bought out the worst in him. 

The adoration was there, in the professor’s eyes, in his smile, so obvious and painful, like hundred swords peircing your skin. He examined every corner of his face, every crease and every pore made in his absence. He envied time for accompanying him when he wasn’t there, for taking him with it.

His hands slowly reached out to touch him, to feel his presence. Albus met him halfway, just like they did when they made their blood troth. Their fingers interwined, sinking into the other. There was a feeling in his chest, Gellert couldn’t name, he only knew—he felt anchored.

Albus pulled his hand to his lips and placed a kiss on his own. But Gellet felt it. He felt it like his own flesh. The warmth of him and the softness of his lips. He felt the hesitance, the struggle, the desire. Like a shock traveling from his nerves.

Gellert’s eyes fluttered close, he etched the feeling on every part of his skin. Engraved it for centuries to come, to remember for time eternal.

“What about your, apostles?” 

Apostles. Followers. Gellert wasn’t the feared psychopath or the dark leader in these four walls. He wasn’t the evil of the world and Albus wasn’t his opposite. They weren’t good and evil or light and dark fighting because they were expected to. They were just two teenagers deeply in love. Here, they were the grey line in between. 

He tilted his head to the side, “Turns out, some people carry that idiocy to adulthood with them,”  

Albus chuckled, a small, short sound. It’s been too long since Gellert heard it, far too long. He bathed in the cheers and praises of his crowd but he drowned in the laughs of his lover. 

“Then I reckon you must have some facinating stories to tell,“

His lips twitched. Stories. Folktales. They are nothing more than a prespective. A half-hearted truth from someone who have lived only a part of it. Seen from the crowd. Or painted the color as you wished. A man could taint the purest of stories just by his words. And Gellert lived with forever blood on his hands.

“Not as much as you, why don’t you recite how child like children could be?”

He turned to the fire and gently stroked the hand in his, like a falcon’s feather. As if he had forgotten the sins they committed. It was as if, with each stroke of his fingers, he could wash away every drop of blood it held.

Albus spoke. Stories of conventionality and routine. The words held no meaning or purpose but the voice washed him with comfort. They were like stones rolling off his tongue, and he, the neffler collecting them. In that cold, dormant heart of his, there was only one flicker of fire that he couldn’t dowse even if he wanted to. 

Gellert’s voice came out on it’s own. Like a river that only flows to meet the sea. He closed his eyes and talked about everything he could. Every tea he tasted and every bread he ate. 

When there was not much to say, he looked towards his friend, and was all at once hit with everything he never thought about. Albus was looking at him with in daze, a lazy smile on his lips. He wasn’t listning to him, not really. He was looking at Gellert like they were back along the lake in that summer morning. 

StGellert could feel the ripples of lake and the grass between his fingers. The boy was looking at him with the purest of look and kindest of smile. He was once again back.

Gellert Grindelwald knew he would lose all purpose and intentions if he indulged himself in Albus. He knew that he would burn down the world not for anything but this man in front of him.

And he didn't mind it.

That day, the sun hid behind the window, it gave them one last night of existence as nothing but two beating hearts. But as the moon climbed the top of the sky, and it looked down at laughed at them, and Gellert stopped his heart.

He clutched the parchment in his coat once again, trying to absorb any essence left of it.

Even the villain deserve a day's rest.

Gellert kissed his life with the littlest speck of goodness left in him. He savoured the sweetness and beauty of him. And listened to the sound calmness.

Grindelwald closed the door behind him and the tiny fire that kept him warm from inside was dowsed.

He was cold.

[maisonfleurant]

Check out this listing I just added to my Poshmark closet: Mikasa ENGLISH COUNTRYSIDE WHITE DP900 5 PLACE SETTING FOR 1.

[rich4you]

Check out this listing I just added to my Poshmark closet: Vintage Royal Chelsea Teacup And Saucer 261A.

[alwaysinstitchesco]

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[peace-and-light-poetry]

Cups and Saucers

She oft had much to say Especially over tea Getting giddy everytime

Her tales spreading, growing, and climbing Like vines devouring a fence Swallowing it up

She would regale them With her tales

She wasn't so much "Pouring the tea" as she was "spilling" No, she always had a teacup

And much to say Getting giddy as her rumors and stories Spread, grew, and climbed

Devouring the town Like vines swallowing up a fence.

—Amoridere, c. 10/10/2023

[kimtaku]

9/2 탄생화 코베아 (Cobaea, 멕시칸 아이비)

멕시코 원산의 꽃고비과(ハナシノブ科) 코베아속(コベア属)의 덩굴성 식물

일본어 : ツルコベア

영어 : cup and saucer vine (컵앤소서바인), cathedral bells (카테드랄 벨스, 대성당의 종), Mexican ivy (멕시칸 아이비), monastery bells (모나스터리 벨스, 수도원의 종)

[phatburd]

The fanfic sequel that never happened

Back when I finished “The Well,” I already had a sequel in mind. I was looking forward to Star Trek Picard S2, and seeing what new canon lore I could mine for this Star Trek/The Old Guard fusion.

Then S2 happened and the sequel died on the vine.

I’m still too pissed at Star Trek Picard to ever go back to this story. But this fragment has been sitting in my drafts since then and I don’t know what to do with it.

Do I just leave it in my drafts? Publish it on AO3 with a huge disclaimer?

It was to be called “The Rose,” which is another reference to “The Little Prince” like the first fic.

It probably won’t make much sense unless you’ve read “The Well.” I hope you enjoy it anyway. 🤞

2387

He was a man who had passed through the long autumn of his life and now the icy fingers of winter tugged at his bones.

The summer sun was beginning its descent towards the horizon, casting warming rays across the verdant rows of pinot noir grapes. Soon it would be time for harvesting this particular varietal, and when that was done, it would be time to harvest the aligoté.

Insects buzzed, trilling their million year old songs in their endless dance. Life was slow to change here in the Bourgogne, sheltered away from the concerns of the wider galaxy.

Jean-Luc Picard was starting to understand why his brother had preferred it here, his sibling’s sense of responsibility to tradition and family aside. He could pass his time here in the château that bore his family’s name in obscurity and without scrutiny. He had nothing but time.

He felt nothing of the midsummer warmth as he sat outside his home, a cooling cup of tea and a half-eaten pain au chocolat on the cluttered table. He frowned at the padd propped up before him, and struck out another sentence with his writing stylus.

“I take it the muse is still being fickle, eh, fiston?” The gravelly voice floated through the air to him, and Picard looked up from his work to see his oldest friend walking towards him, a piping hot kettle in his hand. Sébastien Le Livre smirked at him and poured fresh water into the teapot and then sat down in the chair opposite Picard. “Laris was thinking you needed a refill.” Château Picard’s newest residents had been acclimating themselves quickly, but he supposed they’d have made for poor Tal Shiar operatives if they weren’t quick studies.

“I’m just trying to set the record straight.” Picard gestured with his stylus, no doubt repeating himself for the thousandth time. And Sébastien, patient as ever, had listened to it for the thousandth time. “I feel that people need to know the truth of what really happened, but every time I try to write it all turns to rubbish.”

“Fiston,” Sébastien soothed, and Picard again marveled how this man always made him feel like a child again in his presence. “Give it a rest. At least for the day. I taught Zhaban an apricot galette recipe earlier and he wants you to taste test the results at dinner.” He poured Picard a fresh cup of tea and pushed the saucer towards him.

He took a moment to reflect on how confused Laris and Zhaban would be if they overheard Sébastien refer to him — a man just past his eighty-second year — as “fiston.” “Son.” To anyone looking on, one would think that the reverse was true, that Picard was the elder, and Sébastien was the younger man who was half his age. Looks, however, could be deceiving.

Klingons, Vulcans, Denobulans, El-Aurians, they all had lifespans that far exceeded an average human’s. Sébastien Le Livre was none of those things and, not for the first time, Picard wondered if it hurt his friend to see the young boy he had known grow into an old man. Something that Sébastien himself would never be.

“Besides, didn’t you already write your memoirs?” Sébastien was saying, and Picard refocused himself. “Is this really something you want to do again?”

“Don’t tell me you actually read this?” Picard moved aside a small stack of padds on the table and flourished the hardcover copy of “All Our Lives” at Sébastien.

“Of course I read it,” Sébastien countered, smirking again. “Why wouldn’t I?”

Picard sighed and rolled his eyes, letting the book drop with a dull thud back onto the table. “It’s pretentious twaddle! I tried reading it again, and I don’t recognize myself in those words anymore. This is an embarrassment, and I can write a follow-up without all that stuff and nonsense.” Picard had published his memoirs sixteen years ago, when he’d come back to La Barre for the year between the loss of the Enterprise-D and Robert and René and the launch of the E. “You should forget I ever wrote this garbage.”

“Well, yeah, it was pretty pretentious, but I’ve read way worse. Besides, I think Madame Sand would have appreciated you quoting her,” Sébastien replied evenly. He still had that annoying smirk.

“‘Le vrai est trop simple, il faut y arriver toujours par le compliqué,’” Picard quoted from memory. “‘The truth is too simple: one must always get there by a complicated route.’ She wasn’t wrong about that. Getting to the truth is a complicated endeavor.” He indicated the pile of padds and papers on the table.

“She also had a great pair of tits with this hypnotic little bounce once she got her rhythm going,” Sébastien tacked on, stealing Picard’s half-eaten pain au chocolat and washing it down with a swig of tea.

Picard stared at the other man, scandalized and mouth agape. “You knew George Sand? How would you even know that? You didn’t sleep with her, did you?”

A wide grin spread across Sébastien’s face. “Hah! I had you going there for a hot second, yeah?”

Picard put his face in his hands and laughed, his tension and stress ebbing away from him. “Thank you, old man. I think I needed that.”

“For you, anything,” Sébastien toasted with his tea cup. “Anyway, of course you don’t recognize yourself in those words because you’re not the same man who wrote them. No one stays the same decade to decade, Jean-Luc.”

“Not even immortals?” Picard needled, still smiling.

Sébastien’s self-satisfied smirk returned. “Especially not immortals.”

Picard exhaled, and gave the cluttered table another once-over. “I guess you’re right. Perhaps Calliope will be more accommodating tomorrow and reveal to me what comes next.” He pushed the chair back to stand up. “Is Mars up tonight?”

Sébastien’s smile slipped a little. Reflexively, he leaned back in his chair to squint into the still-light sky. “Got a few hours yet, I think.”

Not many people on Earth liked looking up at the sky these days. Some people more than most.