#bibbity bobbity;thread

[bhaalsdeepbat]

Someone was talking about how tailoring and embroidery are two different skills, and I keep thinking about a Tav who thinks they're the same bringing a bunch of fabric and thread to Astarion hoping he can bibbity-bobbity-gay-hands magic a dress, but instead of a gorgeous gown, they end up with an abomination that would scandalize any seamstress and make any designer faint

[xspellboundx-blog1]

continued from ❤ for @tartetease​ 

“Stopping in my store last week. Granted, I get a wide variety of clientele, but not many with…” Long blond hair covered in glitter? Heels higher than most normal human beings could walk in without a lot of practice? “Your style.”

[fanficweasley]

Fanfic Rec #20

Hanging By A Thread by shuns

Charlie Weasley x Pansy Parkinson

Rating: Mature

Chapters: 3

Trope: Alternate Universe

Summary: Andromeda Tonks, Narcissa Malfoy, and Pansy Parkinson - you could not find three witches less like the benevolent Fairy Godmothers from Hermione's ill-advised Disney Movie Night's for Teddy. Though if you asked they all secretly want to be Cinderella. But before you can say "Bibbity-Bobbity-Bitch", Hermione's Wedding will be here. Hopefully, so will her dress. Between a job loss, outrageous French custom duties, an unauthorized trip to the Forbidden Forest and a certain red-headed former dragonologist turned Care of Magical Creatures professor, Pansy is at her wit's end, Hanging by a Thread.

[demonologist-in-denim]

“Oh, you’re right – just let me wave my magic wand and bibbity-bobbity boo the bastard away!” – Crowley, probably

Crowley’s version of spellcraft would be adapted to life on the road, to limited resources and patience, and indifference towards the craft of magic.

Given his history with witches, Crowley would not be disposed to intensely study or use magic. He would be adept at it only because of its usefulness to him and to the boys. And he would be hesitant about relying on it too heavily, preferring instead to use his wits to obtain his goals. Only when the circumstances required it, or it would have proven more efficient in hindsight, would Crowley bother to rifle through magical texts and lore for useful spells. And he would carry only the most basic of spell ingredients, preferring to use whatever came to hand at the time. There’s no time or interest for in-depth study of herbology or biology. His version of spellcraft would directly reflect the life of a demon-turned-demonologist on the road with a pair of flannelled hunters: straightforward, course, bare bones.

This grimy, practical sort of spellcraft would be lacking in dramatic flair. That sort of nonsense would be reserved for striking fear in an opponent, or delighting a layperson. No, Crowley’s sort of spellcraft – if it could even really be called that – would be brusque, irritated, and impatient. (Which might occasionally cause some mishaps. Oops.) And he would have little qualms about using spells or hex bags on victims or allies, if it moved the case along, or offered necessary protection, or avoided violence. For Crowley, hunting would be one small part of everything he and the Winchesters were attempting to accomplish, and individual cases – while worth their while – would still be somewhat of a nuisance. If magic was the quickest means of resolving a case, he’d make use of it, but never relish spellcraft for its own sake.

Crowley would askew most spell ingredients, be more comfortable with common components, use whatever came readily to hand on the road. Graveyard dust, chalk, the stub of a candle. He would carry a battered tin with the most basic of herbs, salt, and the like. No long hours spent over the mortar and pestle for him. His hex bags would be made of thin swatches of old flannel shirts and worn jeans that could no longer be patched, stained oil rags, and paper napkins collected from all the diners and coffee shops along the road. Along with his angel blade and the demon knife, Crowley would always carry a pocket knife, clean and well-sharpened, to slice a palm with. And needle and thread – not specifically for working magic, but one never knows when such things might come in handy.

He would also carry a flask and a lighter. Not a flask containing whiskey or tea. No, this flask would contain blessed water or holy oil, for spellcraft or expelling demons. All well and good, until one night he’d confuse that flask with his whiskey flask, not knowing he was taking a good, long pull of blessed water until it was too late. (Ouch.) To ensure against future mishaps, Dean would suggest “labelling the damned thing,” and Sam, in an attempt at still slow reconciliation, would commission a flask engraved with “Blessed Water: Do Not Drink, Idjit” on the leather encasement. For a while, Crowley would carry books of matches scavenged from motely motel rooms and beer halls. Then one day, in a grimy consignment shop that occasionally peddled supernatural trinkets, he’d come across a shiny, gleaming zippo lighter. Not a scratch on it. Salt and burn, he’d think ruefully. Crowley would carry it separately in its own pocket, where he could reach in, flick open and then snap shut the top. He would hold the lighter in his hand as he stared out the window on long drives, enjoying the sharpness of the sound it made, the way it would irritate Dean in the driver’s seat in front of him.

Crowley would keep a journal, too. Oh, not for magic or anything like that. No, the journal is entirely separate, and will be written about again, at another time. But he would keep a thin, flat notebook of a sort to scribble in. Half his spells would be frankensteined together from work by the grand masters of magic, and his notebook would be full of mad calculation and annotations. Crowley would otherwise prefer to write with ink pens, but – having learned a little something from the Russians – would carry only pencils, worrying them down to nubs with his frantic, irascible scribbling, as he cobbled together spells while wraiths and other threats raged around them.

Crowley would carry it all in a battered leather or canvas messenger bag, something that had seen plenty of wear and tear. The bag itself, in Crowley’s opinion, would be worth more than all the spell ingredients in his tin, and only slightly less than his engraved flask and angel blade. It would be the only bit of spellcraft he was proud of performing. He’d learned a thing or two from Mary Poppins as well – anything that could fit into the opening of the bag, the bag made room for inside. Entire libraries of lore could disappear into its depths, and be called forth by simply reaching inside. Weapons, medical supplies, supernatural artifacts, iron knuckles, summoning bowls, a change of clothes, car parts, packed lunches, once an entire elementary school class. All without adding an ounce of weight. It would be fair to say there would be a time or two that that bag, and what it contained, would save the world.

Crowley wouldn’t care much for spellcraft, and whether or not he was adept at it, whether or not he was a natural, wouldn’t be of much interest to him. What would matter is that magic would be one of the means by which Crowley felt like he was pulling his weight among the boys. One of the ways he contributed, made the world better, made himself of value. And on the very rare occasions another Winchester prank war broke out, would likely prove to be very useful indeed.

Thank you to @additionaladdams for suggesting a witch!Crowley mood board. As I tried to decide on what images to use, I began to think about how Crowley would use untraditional ingredients and implements for spellcraft that were better suited to life on the road and his own distaste for magic. And that led to all this wonderful character development, which gave me a great deal of insight for my Bergamot & Sulphur series, as well as my One of the Boys series. The bottomless messenger bag has been with me a very long time, well before I actually began to write spn fanfiction, and I’ve always imagined Crowley – as one of the boys – would utilize it. The bag actually has quite a bit of backstory that, like the journal mentioned above, I won’t bore you with here.

The non-quote at the top is what I imagine Crowley snarking back at the boys with after one of them suggests using magic to take out some opponent that they are ill-equipped to defeat. I think it sums up his opinion of spellcraft – and occasionally, the Winchesters – rather well.

[themysterioust]

Ramtiger: HORSE

Ram: i know i said it in the thread but

Ram: THE HORSE

Ram: THE HORSE ISTHE DRIVER/W H AT

Sal: Which cinderella?

Ram: original disney

Ram: fairy godmother was tricking out the carriage and i was mad bc nobody was using the horse

Ram: since she turns the mice into horses

Ram: and i always thought teh carriage drove itself.

Ram: or at least the mice knew what to do

Ram: BUT THEN SHES LIKE. "i need a horse of course"

Ram: and BIBBITY BOBBITY BANG POW

Ram: HORSE IS THE DRIVER

[msumabel]

.tracker

note: threads marked with * are event threads - if you’d like to drop them and i’ve not put them on the drop list please message me! also if i missed any threads please let me know–i’m terribly disorganised sometimes so i may have lost a few threads :((

WRITING •

candy - @msukevin shining star - @msulimiao * pixie bust - @msuspence * two halves - @msuxhaeun * untitled - @msuxhamin * the tree of knowledge - @msuyeonhee * moon sleepover - @msumalia haunted hope - @msuxander * bibbity bobbity blah - @msumalia * toddlers and tiaras - @msuxelodie​ *

WAITING FOR •

none...

DROPPING •

creative carvers - @msutaeyeon * scream - @msunatty * shego-rgeous - @msukirby * looking gourd-geous - @msukangdae *

PLOTTING •

i’d love to plot with anyone i dropped a thread with, to replace the threads i dropped! i also need to message those who liked my plot call on discord, but anyone who would like to plot please message me on discord, twitter (@tensohns) or on here (though i’m far slower here)!

[xspellboundx-blog1]

continued from  ❤ for @yourwhcre​ 

Josette couldn’t help but inhale the scent of the cigarette. She didn’t smoke, but she loved the smell of smoke. In fact, she typically smelled like a burning wood a majority of the time. The brunette crossed her arms over her chest and smiled. “Well, that’s just what life is, isn’t it? A bunch of moments that are utter crap, with some happy spots in-between. I think the in-between parts are what you have to try and focus on.”

Listen to her being an optimist. Maybe she wasn’t feeling well.

[xspellboundx-blog1]

continued from  ❤ for @sassyassgrayson​ 

“Well I only meant you need to stay there until I can get up there...” Fletcher replied with a sigh, glancing around. The other dark-haired teen appeared to be sitting on the ledge of a building. Fletcher glanced around. He could very easily get up to that rooftop, but... He sighed, cupping his hand around his throat to call up to the other male.

“Hey, can you close your eyes for a sec?”

[xspellboundx-blog1]

continued from ❤ for @bcautifulsouls​

Fletcher couldn’t help but stare, golden-brown eyes wide. What this girl was holding was an ancient spell-tome for green witches—Cecil had one just like it, but it wasn’t half as old as this one. He almost reached out to take it on instinct with his scarred and bandaged hands, but he stopped himself. He shook his head. “No, it isn’t mine… But I know what it is. Can I see it?”

[xspellboundx-blog1]

@solskn 

“Oh, man... There is not enough alcohol in the world tonight.”

[xspellboundx-blog1]

continued from ❤ for @cultmasked​ 

In Josette’s case, she really did typically smell like something was burning—leaves, wood, candles, etc. Being a draconian and fire based witch, the smells associated with flame constantly hung around her at all times of the day. She was also typically an early riser, even if it took her much longer to actually get out of bed. Hence, why she was the first to wake up in the morning, next to a man in a bed with dark red sheets.

The brunette smiles and props herself up on her elbow to look at her bed-mate. She wasn’t feeling half as hungover as he was—a witchly perk, she supposed. Her wild curls of hair tumbled over half of her face, messy from the night before, and she absentmindedly pushed it away only for the strands to fall forward again. What was his name again? Something with an I… Irizu? That sounded right. “Well we certainly aren’t in my bed—though I love your sheets.”

“My memory isn’t holding up too badly. You were a very gracious host, though we didn’t really spend much time anywhere but here last night,” Josette explained, the grin on her face teasing and mischievous. “And just to pad your memory—My name is Josette. Do you want me to get up and make you some coffee?” If only she had Cecil’s affinity for tea. She could’ve whipped something up to get rid of his hangover.