#tea campbell

[larodgersphoto]

Meet Me @ The Altar - Red Rocks Amphitheater

06.20.2024

[binders-and-beanies]

Meet Me @ the Altar // Philly 3.3.23

[theadamantium]

Pop-punk newcomers, Edith Victoria, Téa Campbell, and Ada Juarez, of Meet Me @ The Altar, join us on this season premiere episode of The Adamantium Podcast. We discuss their debut album, Past // Present // Future, their singles “Say It (To My Face)” and “Kool,” as well as their delightful cover of Freaky Friday’s “Take Me Away.” We also talk about their unique origin story, influences, touring with 5 Seconds of Summer and opening for Green Day.

[lizzygrantisaliveandbreathing]

leighton meester in 2000s.

[mintytealfox]

they are quite a pair aren't they LOL

[jomiddlemarch]

And loved me for what might or might not be –

“Let me make you a cup of tea,” Rupert said. It sounded entirely implausible, Rupert standing in what must be his drawing room, in clothes so perfectly tailored to his body they looked as if they’d never been ironed or even laundered, making such an ordinary offer. Though to be fair, he’d enunciated every syllable in his posh accent, nothing like the way Da talked about making a cuppa for Mam, a cigarette dangling from his lip.

If it hadn’t been for the spaniels sleeping in front of the marble fireplace and the terrier whining for him to pet it, she’d never have believed it possible.

“Do you even know how to make a proper cup of tea?” she said.

“I ought to be offended by that, angel, but I have a fair idea of the impression I make,” he replied, his lips curving in a smile. “I’m not as helpless as you might imagine in a kitchen.”

“You underestimate my imagination,” Taggie said tartly, partly to surprise him and partly to distract herself from the vision his words had conjured, Rupert shagging a woman senseless on a well-scrubbed refectory table, Rupert coming up behind a woman washing dishes and bending her over to take her, Rupert’s hand, wet with soapsuds, cupping a woman’s breast through her apron bib. A woman, but really, it was always herself, Taggie being ravished, lavished with his attention, her name on his lips that’s right, Taggie darling, let me have a taste, so good, angel. He called her angel because he didn’t know better just how filthy her dreams were. Hade become since she’d met him.

“Perhaps you’re right,” he said.

“I suppose you might try,” she said. “If it’s horrible, I’ll make a fresh pot.”

“We’ll hope it won’t come to that,” he said. “It’s through the hall and down a flight of stairs—”

“You’re going to make me a cuppa in the kitchen?” she said.

“You’d rather I brought it to you here on a tray, with the teapot in a knitted cozy, and a plate of ginger biscuits?” he said. She might have thought he was mocking her, except for the undeniable earnest uncertainty in his tone. It was a rare feeling, being the object of his affection and not his lust, and young as she was, she knew it, the way she knew he’d make the tea too weak, too eager to pour it out. He’d use a Sevres tea-set as casually as she’d handle the random crockery that came with the Priory.

“I’d be happier in the kitchen. And if there’s any shortbread, I like that better than ginger biscuits. Unless you have custard creams,” she said.

“You’ve got a sweet tooth,” he said.

“My mother doesn’t like to keep a lot of sweets in the house. She fusses about her figure,” Taggie said.

“I don’t know if there’s anything but the ginger biscuits. Those are my favorite and I don’t often have people round to tea,” he said, walking from the room, taking her hand in his very lightly, so that she might have pulled away without any real effort, a tentative gesture that was more erotic than if he’d palmed her ass. 

“Lizzie would come, wouldn’t she?” 

Rupert shrugged, which wasn’t much of an answer, but Taggie didn’t especially want to talk about Lizzie, how old a friend she was. She didn’t want to remind either of them how much older Rupert was, how young she must seem, naïve and inexperienced before you took into account how little she’d read and why.

They’d got to the kitchen, a brighter, sunnier space than the one at the Priory, altogether more orderly, as he must have staff in to cook and clean up, but the terrier settled down at once in a basket near the oak table’s end and she wondered just how much time Rupert spent here. He waved a hand for her to sit down, so she chose the chair closest to the Aga, the one it would be easiest to leave to help with the kettle.

Except it didn’t seem he actually needed any help. Taggie sat and watched him move around the kitchen, graceful even in the smallest ways, picking up a milk jug, setting a cup in its saucer, taking the lid off a canister that held loose tea. He had finely made hands, the whole of him elegantly put together, a recollection of him naked in the garden popping up unbidden, making her blush. He noticed, but he didn’t say anything. 

Was she the only person who knew how tender Rupert Campbell-Black could be?

If she was, did she want that to change?

“Milk, one sugar,” he said, putting down a steaming gilt-edged teacup in front of her. “I think you like honey better but I couldn’t find any. I’ll tell Cook to buy some.”

“You know how I like my tea,” she said, thinking it would be a question before she heard herself speak.

“I can pay attention when it’s warranted,” he said. 

“When it’s warranted?” she repeated, taking a sip of the tea. It was the perfect temperature, almost too hot to drink, and she could hardly remember the last time she’d had a cup of tea made so exactly to her taste, not a little too strong from being the end of the pot, a little too cool for waiting until everyone else had been served.

“When I care. You’re more like your father than I’d thought,” he said, frowning a little. It only made him more handsome. “You ask questions like a journalist.”

“Is that supposed to be a compliment?” she asked.

He laughed, a warm chuckle that she imagined only Lizzie had heard before. Maybe Cook, who bought him ginger biscuits and not custard creams.

“You’re adorable, Taggie O’Hara,” he said.

“That’s not the same as saying you adore me,” she pointed out, drinking more tea. When she put the cup back in the saucer, he took hold of her right hand, stroking his thumb across her palm.

“I don’t adore you, angel. That requires a pedestal for you to stand on and I’d much rather have you squash up next to me on the sofa,” he said.

“That sounds very domestic,” Taggie said. He’d like to have the dogs about, he hadn’t said it but he’d conjured them up with the slightly sagging sofa, the fire merry behind its screen, a half-drunk glass of Scotch on a marquetry table, the ice melting slowly into the golden liquor.

“It wouldn’t stay that way,” he said. He must have made a thousand passes at a thousand women or maybe a million, but it didn’t feel like one with his brown eyes watching her so attentively, appetite balanced by affection, the touch of his hand cherishing, not possessing.

“Good,” she replied. “D’you know what I’d like?”

Another woman, well-read, cultured, in a matching set of lace underwear, would have meant it as coquetry. That was beyond Taggie and she’d have to hope he wouldn’t be disappointed.

“What’s that, angel?” 

“Scones. Cook must keep the ingredients at hand. They don’t take long to make,” she said. She didn’t say they were her specialty, but perhaps he’d be able to tell.

“Would you teach me how?” Rupert asked.

“Yes, but why?” she said.

“So I might make the next batch for you,” he said.

[acetechne]

and what is a maritime vacation without a doodling sesh with @rhinocio and co? (even if much of my Top Secret Work was concealed in my lap most of the time)

if i had ONE takeaway from these past couple weeks - you know, other than how privileged and special it is and I am to be a part of my friends' lives!! - it's Don't Touch The Black Rocks at Peggy's Cove They Will Kill You Dead to Death (if the locals don't get you first).

[ibunyang]

testing brushes...

[thunderstruck9]

Francis Campbell Boileau Cadell (British, 1871-1935), White Peonies (The Black Fan), 1909. Oil on canvas, 30 x 25 in.

[larodgersphoto]

Meet Me @ The Altar - 2021

photo by Leigh Ann Rodgers

[jessthetea]

Thoughts?

[binders-and-beanies]

Meet Me @ the Altar // Philly 3.3.23

[ccbookspoethingsfan]

not me buying mint flavored stuff for a week after every trc reread

[cupidstarz]

Uhhh I can’t sleep so I’m doing a pole. (I’m only giving you the option of democracy so you don’t over throw me. The pole is actually rigged so)

I don’t ship everything on here btw.

[mintytealfox]

*inhales* Norton took the job because he has early stage of black lungs disease

;kajbdgf;ajbdg;ajbga/jgd O H NOOOOOOOOOO

are you saying what I think you're saayyiinnnggggg ?????? 😭😭😭

That he took the job cause he was dying anyway ?? HUUUHHH?? HHUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUHHHHHHH AND THAT HE IS JUST TRYING TO LIVE WHHAT LIFE HE CAN

SO MIGHT AS WELL GO OUT RICH AND FREE EVEN THOUGH IT WONT BE FOR LONG AND EVEN THOUGH IT COSTS HIS MORALS/WHO HE IS???

AND WHY HE KEEPS HARPING ABOUT 'I WILL BE THE ONE WHO LIVES LONG' CAUSE HE IS JUST CONSTANLY LYING TO HIMSELF ALL THE TIME ALREADY????

I CANNTTTTT 😭😭😭😭😭😭😭😭😭😭😭

NORRRTTOOOOOOOOOOOONNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNN

[masonskaya]