empty the skies out.

Maxwell Bainbridge Fletcher. [Written by Emzy for spookylittletownhq]

[maxwellbymoonlight]

🌱 the moon gardener ✨

MAXWELL FLETCHER has arrived in Albion. While they may seem FAMILIAR, they are connected to the WESTERLY FOOTHILLS HOPKINS. Their passport was stamped at Falls Inn and shows that they are 33, 6'1", with BROWN HAIR and BLUE-GRAY EYES. Mrs. Kuiper at the Inn said that they seemed NEAT and INTELLIGENT, though they were seen SMOKING as they departed St. Catharine’s Depot. Be wary, and report any sightings to Madame Lange’s Tea Room.

--Quick Facts-- Full Name: Maxwell Bainbridge Fletcher Birth Date: May 21, 1890 Star Sign: Taurus Pronouns: He/him Orientation: Homosexual Family: Clement "Clem" Fletcher (father), Magdalene "Maggie" Fletcher née Hopkins (mother), Norah Fletcher (sister, deceased)

Personality & Traits: Maxwell is definitely an introvert, which is not exactly helpful in a relatively small community such as Albion. He prefers to keep to himself, and because of the odd hours he keeps, he usually gets his way. In terms of an alignment chart, I think he would lean the most toward true neutral. He's contemplative and straightforward (even a little awkward), which some take to mean that he's cold. And he can be - not intentionally, but he's only got so much energy to give throughout each day. There is kindness and a longing for love in him, but he also lacks fear of darker elements and understands certain evils in this world are simply necessary. As long as there is a balance, the planet will keep spinning as usual.

---

Selected excerpts from the journals of Maxwell Fletcher…

It is sunny today. Mother is making sandwiches. She says we will have a picnic and she will tell me about Norah. She is the girl in the tree. I do not see her but Mother says we have met. The tree is very pretty. Mother says I can try the tea she makes from the flowers if I want. I hope it will taste good.

~

March 3, 1899

Alfie was telling the other boys how annoying his younger siblings are. He told me how lucky I was to be an only child. I didn’t say anything after that. I don’t think I will say anything to him ever again. It’s late while I’m writing this, and I’m sitting under the magnolia tree. I can’t sleep again. Mother says Norah wasn’t even a month old when she passed. She never cries when she talks about Norah. She just says God needed her more than we did.

~

June 28, 1900

If some animals are nocturnal, maybe some people are nocturnal, too. I think I’ll go to the library tomorrow and try to find a book about nocturnal animals. I don’t know what time it is, but Mother and Father are asleep. The moon is so full and bright it’s like another sun. Looking at the moon doesn’t hurt your eyes, though. I understand why animals would want to be awake right now.

~

October 5, 1903

Mother found a tea recipe she thinks might help me sleep when I can’t on my own. We dried the ingredients together and she brewed some for me this evening. It’s mostly valerian and lavender with a few other things. The taste is strong. I’m not sure if I like it, but I do feel a bit calmer.

~

March 13, 1909 - clear

I feel mad as a march hare. This is a rough bout. I snapped at father when he rose this morning to start work, and he shouted at me. That woke Mother, and he berated her for taking my side when I’m always making it difficult for everyone. I tried to work in the garden to calm my nerves, but the trowel kept slipping from my hands and I pruned too much of the rosemary. I’m scared it will wilt. But Mother came outside and laid my my head in her lap like a child, right there in the dirt. I nearly cried.

~

September 4, 1916 - some clouds

Mrs. Wilcox came to call upon me today, needing ingredients for a potion. She is such a vain, distasteful woman. Why she insists on doing business with me rather than elsewhere, I don’t understand. As I gathered her order, she criticized nearly every step I took. Apparently I had the radio turned too loud and she couldn’t hear herself think, even though it was barely above a murmur. The fact I don’t have any of my pots labelled continues to send her into a fit, but I continued to assure her I knew what everything was and there wouldn’t be any mix-ups. And just as I was packing everything up, she began screaming about licorice root - the first time she had mentioned it since walking in. At this point my nerves were frayed, but she kept badgering me. I did notice a sharp tingle as I trimmed the roots for her, but I couldn’t bring myself to care. She’s probably just making some kind of beauty cream for herself. Serves her right if it should turn out a little sour.

~

September 7, 1916 - rain

News has reached me that young Aubrey Wilcox is very ill. I’ve scarcely been able to eat since I heard. My tea doesn’t help at all. Mrs. Wilcox came looking for ingredients for her son, not for herself. The potion was for him. She never said a word to explain herself, and I was so put out with her, I didn’t ask. I swear had I known, I never would have given her the licorice root once I realized I’d tainted it. What if it can’t return to how it was? I have half a mind to dump the whole plant in the woods and ask for a cutting of someone else’s to start from scratch. Please dear God, let the boy heal.

~

September 9, 1916 - misting rain

Aubrey Wilcox has passed.

~

September 23, 1916 - clear

Mother has proposed I leave the valley. Or “take a sabbatical,” as she graciously phrased it. Even she can tell I’m not wanted here. I have less friends now than I’ve ever had, and I didn’t have many to start with. If I do decide to leave, Mother offered to help me pack up my plants - at least the ones that can easily be maneuvered and would have no trouble growing outside the valley. I would have to leave so much of my work behind. But what is the point if I have nothing to tether to?

~

November 17, 1923 - cloudy

I brewed myself a pot of Mother’s magnolia tea this evening, but as I took a sip it tasted strange. Bitter, almost ashy in a way that’s hard to describe. It’s never tasted like this before. I keep looking out the window toward the valley. I know she only makes the tea with Norah’s magnolia blossoms. I have nothing but my instinct to go off of, being so far away, but something is not right. The tree must be ill, though I can’t tell how just yet. Mother hasn’t said anything in her letters about crops failing or pests sweeping through. I would have to examine it in person. Or perhaps Norah

[quiltmakereffie]

Effie found herself wandering around town, unsure of what to do or if she really belonged here anymore. She had forgotten about all of the little rules in the town, how things were always supposed to be a certain way. She, too, had stopped by Flory's for a treat knowing that she may not have the opportunity soon.

Instead of being wary about bringing food into the library, Effie had a different take. She was concerned about entering the library at all, aware of the thought that she had spent so much time there before and how she had given up the thought of ever entering foot inside again.

She stood at the doorway, staring inside while trying to determine whether or not she should go inside or not. Before she had the chance to make a decision, someone spoke from behind her.

She turned to notice that the man now standing before her had his hands full. He was asking for something, but either hadn't said it yet or Effie did not hear him.

"Oh--" she began "Um, sure. What's the request?"

[maxwellbymoonlight]

Maxwell nodded gratefully, raising an arm to scratch at his scalp, only to be reminded that his hands were full.

"Could you--if it--" He stopped, took a breath, and started again. "I need to run inside. I shouldn't be long. I know what I'm looking for." Technically, it wasn't a lie. He knew the section of books where the answers he sought should be. Whether or not they would actually be there within the words, another matter entirely. And his mind was a little too stretched like taffy right now for him to be brave enough to consider his next steps if they turned out not to be. The bottom line, it should only be about four or five books he would need to borrow.

He gestured to the treats in his hands - the sticky bun wrapped in a paper napkin and the box bound by a small piece of string. "There's no safe place to set these down. Could you...watch them for a moment?"

[ruthiesalenger]

maxwellbymoonlight​:

Maxwell had watched the snow come down the night before. A night he couldn’t even pretend to entertain the possibility of letting his head touch the pillow. So he’d pulled his ferns and amaryllis underneath the window, tending their soil and softly serenading on his violin as the sprinklings of white turned into patches, and then into a blanket.

Now the sun (or at least what could be seen of it behind the gray winter clouds) floated in the sky again and his hooded eyes still refused to close completely. He’d been wandering, as was usual. Focusing on little more than the motion of putting one boot in front of the other. He couldn’t tell you how long he walked, but the cold had prickled most of the feeling out of his legs.

When the floating aroma of a hot meal touched his nose - sausage and butter and all the good things designed to be eaten before noon - he realized just how starving he was, and followed the trail up the stairs like a dog. Though at least one of his senses came to the surface once he’d actually reached the door, for it took him two whole minutes of pacing and contemplation before his hand finally shot out to knock.

“I–” He swallowed, lips chapped. “Don’t let me bother…but I was wondering if it could…” A hand lifted in what he assumed was the general direction of the kitchen. “I could smell it from the street, and I’ve been walking for a while. If it’s not too much trouble–”

The sheer embarrassment washed over him. He sunk against the doorframe, pinching the bridge of his nose. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have come. This…um.”

“Huh.”

Ruthie gave him as polite of a once-over as she could manage, which was not all that polite at all. She hadn’t a good poker face, and her green eyes often slanted toward shrewdness, rather than remaining soft, like a sage leaf. Had she held a spatula, she could have placed one hand on her hip and been a caricature. 

Instead, she considered while the sausage babbled merrily behind her.

“That depends, I guess.”

He looked a fright, pale and lean, with snow still packed on his shoes. And familiar, she thought, though that probably meant they were some sort of related. Ruthie frowned, drawing lines across her forehead. Surely not, she thought, though she tried not to think it too hard in case he was the type to read thoughts. An annoying talent, if ever.

Her opinion changed rapidly, then, question transforming from do I know you to an answer: she did. At least in glimpses, around the edges. The sort of face that had been in her periphery rather than her focus. Someone she watched in stray glances. Someone–

“How do I know you?”

[maxwellbymoonlight]

The unimpressed look in Ruthie's eye did not escape him - he practically felt the look before he even saw it. He thought he would wilt, but instead his back seemed to grow imaginary ice crystals of its own, and any shame or sting of judgment stopped short of penetrating him, chipping off in flakes.

"Maxwell Fletcher," he said, trying to stiffen. No matter how many of them he had to fend off, words dug deeper than looks - and he couldn't even predict what she might say once she heard the name. "We were...in school around the same time."

And for a brief moment, he pondered which of them truly knew more about the other. Between their school time and certain mutual acquaintances, Maxwell knew more about her than someone of his demeanor probably cared to. Nothing too deeply personal or intimate, mind you, but the way one carries themself through the day can often tell you a great deal more than a favorite food or a birthday.

For example, Ruthie seemed the type to keep her finger on the pulse of things - whether through keen observation or this mythical thing called charisma he'd heard tell of, he couldn't say. But she always seemed to know things before anyone else. He had nothing against her specifically, but for his own reasons he simply preferred not to put himself in her direct path.

Usually.

His stomach growled, and all thought deflated from his mind for a moment. The imaginary ice shield sloughed off.

"If you rather I'd go, I'll go."

[smilton]

Past the boulders near Old Peabody’s place. 

Along the broken down fence until you reached the oak saplings, now trees. 

Over the hill and then–

“If I ain’t the universe’s fool.”

Boulders, again. Sallie scrubbed a mittened hand underneath her nose, sniffing noisily. She squinted at the map in her hands, blurred by clusters of heavy snowfall. 

The map was superfluous, she knew the route to the Hugh Farm like the back of her hand; it mostly served to assure her that she wasn’t half out of her mind walking in circles on a road to nowhere, or rather, a road that was carefully avoiding going somewhere. 

She had been at it an hour with nothing to show for it. It was time to change tact. 

The map was slipped into the inner pocket of her oversized overcoat. Her eyes fluttered shut. A careful breath in– the scent of pine, the sting of cold, a fire somewhere in the distance –and a breath out– exhaling the urge to lead by sight instead of sensation. 

There it was, somewhere between her thumb and index finger. A snag in the fabric of reality. Her fingers twitched, trying to tug at it. If she could just–

There. 

A new smell, wool and the muck of pigs. Sallie took a step forward a beat before her eyes opened. 

She swore she caught sight of a faded red barn before the air was kicked out from under her. 

Her left foot flew up, her right foot still stuck in the snow, and she ended up in a pile, staring up at the swirling nothingness of the fading afternoon light. 

She shivered, then flinched. It was a nasty inversion of sensations– her back freezing where snow had managed to slip down the collar of her coat and her ankle hot, twisted the wrong way round. 

Hello? 

She didn’t think much of it at first, when the wind howled tongues wagged. But then the voice called out again, her name this time. 

It wasn’t the air that was calling out, it was the past.

Maxwell Fletcher was wading through snowdrifts, against all odds looking concerned. 

She supposed he was good at acting the part of “concerned neighbor”. 

“S’nothin.” The insistence came too quickly to be true. ““Really. I was just–” He looked like he was going to make a move to touch her. There had been a time when she might have let him, a time when the thought didn’t turn her stomach. “Just tripped as all, and it seemed a good a place as any to sit for a minute. You just get on your way.” 

[maxwellbymoonlight]

Sallie's brush off shouldn't have surprised him. And in all honesty, it didn't. But that didn't stop a tiny spear of ice wedging right against his chest, picking at old wounds. He pressed his mouth into a line.

"You'll freeze if you stay there. Don't be foolish."

He didn't mean for it to come out quite like scolding a rebellious child, but keeping his voice even proved a challenge all its own right now. His body stood at odds with itself. The soft emotional center of his youth couldn't bare to leave one of his friends in such a state, while his bitter adult brain argued why on earth should it be his fault wherever the girl decided to trip and fall? It's not as if she would be jumping to help him if the roles were reversed. She had more than proven that.

For a moment, Maxwell stole a glance back at his father, who had the decency to look somewhat concerned. He sat a little straighter in the driver's bench, trying to watch Sallie from around Maxwell's back.

"Miss Milton?" he called out. "We're on our way back to the farms. If you're not feeling well, we can drop you home."

At least they had the good fortune to come this way by buggy. If Sallie was injured indeed, they wouldn't have to hobble her through the snow.

"Give me your hand," Maxwell said with the small modicum of finality he could muster, offering out his own for her to grasp.

[ruthiesalenger]

🥓 to open the door and find my character just about to knock – whatever you’re cooking smells so tempting. @maxwellbymoonlight​

December 05, 1923 55 Green Street Mid-morning

Ruthie stared at the skillet as the pork edges began to brown. She had never been gifted at listening for the sizzle-crackle-pop of cookery, the volatility of an open flame, trusting her instinct rather than her intuition for when a dish was properly cooked. The whisk stilled in her hands, whipping batter. It was the first time in nearly an hour that she could feel her fingertips.

Snow whipped the scene outside the windows of 55 Green Street – which were wide, and polished, and unvarnished by curtains – white. As far as Ruthie could see, the rooftops of Albion were dusted in confectioner’s sugar-snow, lofty and thick. Smoke rose from chimneys in tendrils. In her apartment, still mostly unfurnished, Violet curled in a ball on the ottoman nearest the fireplace.

Ruthie flung three droplets of batter into the skillet. Sizzle. Crackle.

Knock.

She gave the door a glare, and then paused.

Whisk exchanged for wooden spoon, she turned the sausages over and then left the gingerbread kitchen to cross the vacant parlor, entering the hallway. White light filled the transom window over the apartment door, and she hesitated – hand over the gold doorknob, seeking intentions – before opening it.

“Hi.”

A beat. A hesitant familiarity took her – not for the first time since she had returned, though there was a difference between being familiar on the corner of Green and Front Street – and on her front door. Ruthie cocked her head.

“What’re you doing here?”

[maxwellbymoonlight]

Maxwell had watched the snow come down the night before. A night he couldn't even pretend to entertain the possibility of letting his head touch the pillow. So he'd pulled his ferns and amaryllis underneath the window, tending their soil and softly serenading on his violin as the sprinklings of white turned into patches, and then into a blanket.

Now the sun (or at least what could be seen of it behind the gray winter clouds) floated in the sky again and his hooded eyes still refused to close completely. He'd been wandering, as was usual. Focusing on little more than the motion of putting one boot in front of the other. He couldn't tell you how long he walked, but the cold had prickled most of the feeling out of his legs.

When the floating aroma of a hot meal touched his nose - sausage and butter and all the good things designed to be eaten before noon - he realized just how starving he was, and followed the trail up the stairs like a dog. Though at least one of his senses came to the surface once he'd actually reached the door, for it took him two whole minutes of pacing and contemplation before his hand finally shot out to knock.

"I--" He swallowed, lips chapped. "Don't let me bother...but I was wondering if it could..." A hand lifted in what he assumed was the general direction of the kitchen. "I could smell it from the street, and I've been walking for a while. If it's not too much trouble--"

The sheer embarrassment washed over him. He sunk against the doorframe, pinching the bridge of his nose. "I'm sorry. I shouldn't have come. This...um."

[tabithateivel]

maxwellbymoonlight​:

When he heard a cinema had been set up in the old barn, Maxwell had to admit he was charmed. He had gone to the pictures only about four times in his years away. Not that he didn’t appreciate them, just that the process of going often seemed more of a hassle than the experience was worth. But the idea of seeing a picture in a place that only borderline classified as indoors gave the feeling as if it wasn’t the flickers across a roll of film, but fairies putting on a light show or a play. The notion gave him the strangest feeling almost like homesickness - curious when he was technically already there.

He’d picked the later showing because of course he had, and a part of him hoped it would be less popular than the first.

However. His blood froze when he felt a hand on his arm - intentional rather than an accidental brush. Eyes snapping to the side, he stiffened. But then he heard his name and, for the briefest moment, however improbable, half his mind considered he was being arrested.

Oh God, did she…actually recognize him? Whether they had actually met before, or (heaven forbid) she knew him by reputation alone, he couldn’t quite decipher. But neither option sounded desirable, as he scanned her face and drew a blank. A striking beauty, she was, and admittedly there was something vaguely familiar about her. But that only confirmed she seemed to be from the valley. Perhaps he’d seen her across the street once and nothing more.

But if she knew who he was, he couldn’t dare admit to that. He trained his eyebrows and the corners of his mouth to move - a vaguely pleasant expression even as his initial shock still bled through. Words came with a bit more effort, though.

“That will be fine,” he nodded, leading with a couple slow-but-gentlemanly steps.

He’d eaten only a while ago, so it didn’t even cross his mind to pick up any sort of treats on the way. Dumbly, he pulled at his pockets, and found about half a pouch left of roasted pumpkin seeds - the last of his personal stash. He opened the pouch to show her the contents.

“You’re…welcome to these, if you’d like.” It felt like a test - something he had to pass.

It was almost too easy, but Tabitha wasn’t sure what she had expected. If there was anything memorable about Maxwell Fletcher, it was how quiet and amiable he was. Her grasp loosened slightly on his arm as she handed her ticket stub over for entrance into the barn (which was hopefully accompanied with a decent seat).

She leaned and peeked into the offered pouch of snacks, only slightly disappointed at the savory instead of sweet variety. Though given the circumstances, she wasn’t going to be picky. “Egads,” Tabitha beamed taking a delicate handful and popping seeds carefully and deliberately into her mouth. “Thank you kindly.”

She popped up on her tiptoes looking for unoccupied chairs, but it seemed like a mish mash of dining room seating, simple stools, and…hay bales. Tabitha pursed her lips, hesitant to approach any of the bales that were wide open for the taking, “Who would have thought Victor Hugo put to screen would be so popular?” Her green eyes trailed back to Maxwell beside her and she shrugged, “Gothicism has irresistible qualities, I suppose. So, the last time I saw you-“ She motioned to him, “You were whispering to some plants on the outskirts of the schoolyard.”

Her brow furrowed, noticing more clearly now how startled and unsure the man with a mop of dark hair seemed. Was it possible he didn’t remember her this entire time? Tabitha supressed an amused smirk at the thought, and continued, “Maxwell Fletcher remains a flora romancer and…a newly found cinema connoisseur?”

[maxwellbymoonlight]

Taking her lead, Maxwell grabbed a couple of seeds for himself, ideally to give him at least a momentary excuse not to talk. His mind still whirled around like a spinning wheel, full attention focused on every move and gesture he made, as if an experiment under scrutiny.

"A dour subject for such excitement, yes." He'd dipped his toe into the Gothic works at one point, but pulled his toe out just as quickly. Underneath the scrolling language and the stormy backdrops, it all hit a bit too close to home in a strange, uneasy way. "The Greeks and Romans had their tragedies and...we have this. I suppose."

He cleared his throat. "That sounds about right." Though nothing had really changed about that in the meantime. The schoolyard...had they gone to school together? It would stand to reason, the valley being so small. And he did have a habit for ignoring a great deal of the social goings on around him in his youth. Though he'd clearly made enough of an impression on her, and better she remember him for that than...anything else. He felt like such a cad.

One shoulder rose in a shrug. He hardly considered the few pictures he'd gone to see thus far the makings of a connoisseur. "It's a place to go. Do you...prefer the front or the back?"

[maxwellbymoonlight]

From @smilton: 🤕 to discover my character was injured (sprained their ankle!) getting home in the storm.

Setting: Westerly Foothills, late afternoon

The snow had come, just like he knew it would. Just as it always had. He'd quite literally passed the point of no return. It came on thick and heavy, with wet patches freezing into ice underneath. Not quite a snow that brought the whole world to a standstill, but rather one that slowed the world so that everything moved at the same inching pace.

Despite his protests, his father had roped him into aiding with some delivery work that day. "If you're back under my roof," he'd said, "you might as well earn your supper." They'd loaded the little buggy up with yams, beets, and potatoes in the morning and drove the stubborn old workhorse into town. The path between had been trampled down a bit by other wagons and foot traffic, so it was a little easier to traverse, but snowdrifts still threatened from either side.

After a brief (and mostly silent) lunch at Spaden and Specks, the two made their way home again. But this time Maxwell spotted something on the side of the road - something that looked like a person. He couldn't explain why, but the position they were in sent a spark down his spine.

"Father, stop," he instructed, one hand hovering over the reins but not touching.

Clem Fletcher sighed, muttering something under his breath, but yanked at the horse and the buggy inched to a stop.

"Hello?" Maxwell called out, climbing onto the ground before he got an answer. His boots sunk deep, and the cold mercilessly cut through his socks. He recognized her, the closer he got. The dark hair and soft, little face...

"Sallie." The name came out like a breath drawn from him by a ghost. He hadn't seen her since...since... A tinge of red flashed in the corner of his eye. A voice in the back of his head that sounded too much like his own demanded to turn around and walk away. But the sight of her sprawled in the snow caused something to clamp over his chest. Against his better judgement, he knelt down. "Are you hurt? What happened?"

[jimmie-leo]

In the City (’cause there’s only one City, you follow?), you had to look busy. Busy meant you were important, was going places, yeah? But the trick was to look busy, and not be busy. 

But boy, between shifts at Pegamon’s and the even shiftier Eddie, he still had to do all the things on Auntie Sherry’s list? Stars. He was going to start looking tired. 

He squinted at the spiky writing, then up at the sky, before squinting back down. The coordinates were all written according to the stars, because, of course. Which meant he had to run the errands at night, when there wasn’t enough light to read the writing by. 

“Typical Auntie Sherry, ain’t it?” he said, rhetorically but only because there wasn’t really anyone around to say it to, except... 

A spark of light in his consciousness, seeking but not quite latched on yet. But maybe if he strolled on by -- bingo. 

“Only ‘cause it’s a small request, I don’t think I got it in me for a big one, not after the day I’ve had,” he said, smile at the ready (No. 12, the One Before a Wink), “A medium one might take some negotiation, but I’ll hear you out on it.”

There was something familiar about this gent, floppy curls and all. 

“Hey.”

It was the nervousness, yeah, twitchy enough to send the air around the man tingling. 

“Hey, Maxine, is that you? Nerts, it’s been an age and a half!” 

[maxwellbymoonlight]

"Thank you. I need to stop into the library for only a few minutes. Could you--"

He stopped when the other man started to speak again. And that's when it hit him. The eyes, the planes of his cheeks and jaw...

Jimmie Leong. He remembered the young lad - boyish and charming, the center of everyone's attention. The complete opposite of Maxwell. But that had been so long ago, and time had only done good things for the man in the interim. Some people's genetics better complemented their youth, while some only came to their full potential once they reached adulthood. Jimmie definitely fell into the latter category.

To be perfectly honest, Jimmie was the last person he even expected to see. Even as a boy, he always seemed too...large for the valley. Too bright. Already so full of the world. Yet here he was. If Maxwell's mind wasn't already racing in six different directions, he might have humored the consideration of why he'd come back.

He could only wince at the mispronunciation - typical - though he silently berated himself for even allowing to be disappointed in the first place. Why on Earth should it matter?

"Maxwell. Yes, it...it has." He cleared his throat, shuffling the items between his fingers, then remembered a moment later the point of what he was trying to ask. "Yes. Right. I just need to step inside for a few minutes. Could you make sure that no one makes off with these?"

[spookylittletownhq]

Welcome to Meme Friday at Spooky Little Town! Each Friday (usually), we’ll post one or two memes for characters to reblog on their accounts. Reblogging the meme indicates that you are accepting asks from it, and that you’re also sending asks out to others. Enjoy! 💚

Send a symbol and I’ll start a thread for us after the first snow in the valley. As a note – my character refers to the sender of the meme. So, if Annie were to send Clara the first one, it would be Sallie finding Ruthie slipping on the ice. 

🧊 to find my character slipping on the ice. 🚪 to help my character shovel open their front door. ☕️ to meet my character as the only one on the street at Albey’s Traveling Café. ☃️ to catch my character (delightedly?) making a snow angel. 🤕 to discover my character was injured (sprained their ankle, broke their arm, etc – please specify!) getting home in the storm. 🥓 to open the door and find my character just about to knock – whatever you’re cooking smells so tempting. 💥 to catch my character about to confront Mrs. Quince for her gossip… and distract them. 🍁 to bring an extra pair of snow-shoes and bring my muse to check the maple syrup taps (and escape their family/neighbors/persistent cat).

[tabithateivel]

the blue barn, friday 9:15pm

december 1923

for @maxwellbymoonlight​

She thought Simon and Rebecca were setting her up on some poorly executed prank the first time they told her the cinema had been moved to the blue barn, but the Gazette had confirmed it with no room for debate. Tabitha never thought Salem would stand as a town of luxury, but it seemed she’d been spoiled in her years away with fancy movie houses littered downtown.

Tabitha arrived fifteen minutes early and well bundled for the cold winter air. They could board up that barn all they liked, it would still be drafty and trigger hay fever to select, unlucky patrons. She lingered outside the barn, ticket already secure in her pocket as the redhead looked for something…more. It hadn’t even crossed Tabitha’s mind that Albion would be lacking entrepreneurial vendors. No licorice, or roasted peanuts? She pouted, about to step inside to find an open seat when she thought she saw the outline of a familiar face. Since returning she hadn’t been wrong yet.

She grabbed onto his arm, walking alongside him like they were old chums instead of several years removed. “Maxwell Fletcher. If it hasn’t been an age.” Tabitha smiled sweeter than she was and then inquired, “How about we sit together, as not to look like two lone bumpkins. And uh…would I be too hopeful that you brought any sweets with you?”

[maxwellbymoonlight]

When he heard a cinema had been set up in the old barn, Maxwell had to admit he was charmed. He had gone to the pictures only about four times in his years away. Not that he didn't appreciate them, just that the process of going often seemed more of a hassle than the experience was worth. But the idea of seeing a picture in a place that only borderline classified as indoors gave the feeling as if it wasn't the flickers across a roll of film, but fairies putting on a light show or a play. The notion gave him the strangest feeling almost like homesickness - curious when he was technically already there.

He'd picked the later showing because of course he had, and a part of him hoped it would be less popular than the first.

However. His blood froze when he felt a hand on his arm - intentional rather than an accidental brush. Eyes snapping to the side, he stiffened. But then he heard his name and, for the briefest moment, however improbable, half his mind considered he was being arrested.

Oh God, did she...actually recognize him? Whether they had actually met before, or (heaven forbid) she knew him by reputation alone, he couldn't quite decipher. But neither option sounded desirable, as he scanned her face and drew a blank. A striking beauty, she was, and admittedly there was something vaguely familiar about her. But that only confirmed she seemed to be from the valley. Perhaps he'd seen her across the street once and nothing more.

But if she knew who he was, he couldn't dare admit to that. He trained his eyebrows and the corners of his mouth to move - a vaguely pleasant expression even as his initial shock still bled through. Words came with a bit more effort, though.

"That will be fine," he nodded, leading with a couple slow-but-gentlemanly steps.

He'd eaten only a while ago, so it didn't even cross his mind to pick up any sort of treats on the way. Dumbly, he pulled at his pockets, and found about half a pouch left of roasted pumpkin seeds - the last of his personal stash. He opened the pouch to show her the contents.

"You're...welcome to these, if you'd like." It felt like a test - something he had to pass.

[pirateskinned]

theme 84 / preview - get the code on github

minimal theme with custom post size, font size & family and a highly customisable sidebar, including four versions for images, description and navigation with two custom links.

read my terms of use. please reblog if you plan on using!

[juliaroleplays]

✴ Ben Whishaw gif pack

Following the link, you will find 97 gifs of British Actor Ben Whishaw. Whishaw is French, German, Russian, and English and was born on October 14, 1980.

All of these gifs are 245px by 160px and were made by me from the James Bond film Skyfall (2012) and features Whishaw in his role as Q. Please use these gifs for roleplaying purposes only; please do not use in edits, for crackships, add to your own gif hunt, edit into icons, remove the watermark, or repost and claim as your own. If you use these gifs, please like or reblog this post so I know you found it helpful.

Some of these gifs feature Daniel Craig or Rory Kinnear. 

[ GIF PAGE ]

[zvlda]

—   𝐁 𝐄 𝐍   𝐖 𝐇 𝐈 𝐒 𝐇 𝐀 𝐖  , 𝐆 𝐈 𝐅   𝐏 𝐀 𝐂 𝐊

( 𝐂𝐎𝐌𝐌𝐈𝐒𝐒𝐈𝐎𝐍𝐄𝐃 𝐏𝐀𝐂𝐊 ) by clicking on the CONTENT SOURCE BELOW you’ll find #451 gifs of actor ben whishaw in the bbc series: a very english scandal (2018). all of the gifs were made from scratch by me, and intended to be used for roleplaying purposes only. please like/reblog if you find this pack useful!

PLEASE DO NOT :

claim them as your own or add into hunts!

use in smut rps / krps, use to portray minors

use in your own graphics or crop for personal use, without visible credit

[ ! ] CONTENT WARNINGS : partial nudity, kissing, smoking, blood, flashing lights

[juliaroleplays]

✴ Ben Whishaw gif pack

Following the link, you will find 138 gifs of British Actor Ben Whishaw. Whishaw is French, German, Russian, and English and was born on October 14, 1980.

All of these gifs are 245px by 160px and were made by me from the James Bond film Spectre (2015) and features Whishaw in his role as Q. Please use these gifs for roleplaying purposes only; please do not use in edits, for crackships, add to your own gif hunt, edit into icons, remove the watermark, or repost and claim as your own. If you use these gifs, please like or reblog this post so I know you found it helpful.

Some of these gifs feature Daniel Craig, Rory Kinnear, Lea Seydoux and Noamie Harris. 

Trigger warnings: guns and getting shot at; there is only one gif of each and you can’t really tell but just in case!

[ GIF PAGE ]

[maxwellbymoonlight]

Setting: Outside Green Valley Public Library, after sunset

Perhaps this wasn't as temporary of a visit as he originally hoped, for Maxwell had a surprisingly long list of things he needed to do over the next few days. Not the least of them, to tuck himself in at the library for a good few hours and pore over every text he could find relating to green magic. Many of those texts, he'd probably already visited in his youth - a much more active reader back then - but this was not the time for aimless curiosity. He needed something specific. Visiting the magnolia tree at his family home only shouldered him with more questions. If anything like this had happened before - and been documented - he desperately wanted to know.

So he marched his way into town proper, impulsively stopping at Flory's along the way for a sticky bun and a small box of petit fours for his mother. He couldn't believe the shop had announced it would soon close its doors. The dear little bakery had been a staple of Albion for as long as he could remember - the place to go for birthdays and other little things worth celebrating with a sweet treat.

However, he realized his error when he reached the door to the library. It wouldn't be a good idea to take them inside - there was probably a rule against it. Even if not, he would probably make a stain on some hundred-year-old tome, which he did not wish to add to his list of accomplishments. He could try to scarf down the bun, but still what of his mother's package?

After a bit of pacing, he sat down on an overturned barrel - then stood back up when he noticed someone walking past.

"Excuse me. I have a small request." He bit his tongue to keep from overexplaining, in case he scared them off. Or maybe out of embarrassment.

[scarletleaena]

145 icons of Ben Whishaw in The Hour. This is part one of many, so yes there shall be more. All icons were made by me for lionheartholmes but of course, you may use them as well. Please like/reblog if taking! :3

Examples:

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[scalpxl-blog]

249 icons of Ben Whishaw as Danny Holt in London Spy episode 2

Mediafire link here. Individual icons below the cut. Please like or reblog if using!

Keep reading