A debt of kisses

Requested by @thehopelessfighter: “Imagine teaching Bofur about mistletoe and he decides to carry some with him at all times so he can constantly hold it over your head” from Thereandbackagainimagines


The Yule Fest was near, and you bustled cheerfully about Erebor’s library, humming one of the old, traditional songs to bolster your holiday spirit as you tackled the happy task of decorating your workspace. Your latest flash of inspiration found you balanced precariously on a chair, reaching to tie a silken ribbon attached to a tiny branch of greenery onto the hanging lantern in the library’s entryway, and Bofur, who likewise whistled a merry tune, walked into the small vestibule and pulled up short upon seeing you.

“What are you doing?”

You carefully climbed down from your perch and brushed wrinkles from your skirts. “Just making things a bit more festive,” you smiled.

He picked up another sprig from the cluster of leafy branches in your marketing basket and looked at it curiously. “What’s this, then?”

“Mistletoe,” you explained. “I bought it at the Yuletide market in Dale. ’Tis very popular among the folk there.”

Bofur gingerly sniffed the dusky green leaves. “And why might that be?”

“Well, there is a tradition,” you explained, a mischievous grin plucking at your lips, “that if a couple should find themselves beneath a sprig of mistletoe, they must share a kiss.”

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anonymous asked:

Hiiiii! Firstly I love your blog!!!! Also sorry to bother you but I just can't find this one wolfstar fic I read a while ago! Remus has a heart condition and meets Sirius at a bookstore and they bond over the one book that Remus can cite word for word. Sirius is a mechanic in this and it's super angsty with an awful heart wrenching ending with a lot of pain but I can't find it :(

I gotchu ;)

  • A Wolf’s Heart by mizdiz– 87k, M, non-magic AU. “Remus Lupin has a congenital heart defect, and is awaiting an available heart for transplant. Sirius Black is an immature twenty-something, living with a couple other immature twenty-somethings. Both are obsessed with the same obscure book, which becomes their coping mechanism for navigating their instant and torrid love affair. Life, they discover, is precarious at best, but from each other, they learn how to make it something that’s worth living.

I very much enjoyed this fic as well, as it’s well-written and interesting, but I do echo the warning for lots and lots of angst, pain, and grief. Heed the TW for major character death carefully.

Honeyhunters | Eric Valli

“Going down the rope required Zen concentration,” Valli recalled.

Twice a year for nearly 12,000 years, men of Gurung tribe of central Nepal have braved the Himalayan foothills to harvest the honey of the world’s largest species of honeybees. The knowledge of extracting honey from hives that were precariously parched on the hillsides was passed from father to son for these millennia, and in 1987, the 63-year old villagehead Mani Lal was the last of his village to have mastery of the technique.

But that year, he was aided not just by an experienced team of his fellow villagers; he was accompanied by the French photographer Eric Valli and his Australian wife Diane Summers who was acting as a filmmaker (Summers was a lawyer when she met Valli on a Nepali bus). The couple had spent the two previously years tracking and searching a thousand Himalayan cliffs for the rumored master honey hunters of the Himalayas.

They finally found Mani Lal, who was planning to retire the very next season, and agreed to take Valli on the dangerous mission. The photographer dangled from a nylon rope down a 395-foot cliff to make what is perhaps one of the most breathtaking nature photoessays of a generation. They appeared in National Geographic, and handily won that year’s World Press Photo Award for Nature Stories, and the accompanying well-narrated book was a hit. (See other photos from the series here).

The book also was an illustrated lesson, showing how Mani Lal descends down the rock cliff, how he dislodges beehives with bamboo poles, and how the hive is lowered using pulleys, and was responsible for kickstarting an anthropological interest in these arcane honey hunting skills of the Gurungs. Ironically, soon their way of life was threatened not by obscurity but by over-exposure as anthropologists and tourists hiked up there.


anonymous asked:

chelsea, I need some ziall recs asap, it seems like no one reads it and there's beraly none on fic recs, plsplspls

i kno this is a really late reply im so sorry! but here are a couple i enjoyed

sooner or later

Niall has always been perfectly fine with keeping to himself. He has enough on his plate already, from schoolwork to his family’s financial situation, and with graduation rapidly approaching, the last thing he wants is to add something like maintain social relationships to the heap of to-do’s he already has weighing down on his shoulders.

Enter Zayn: kind, a bit mysterious, and for some reason dead-set on invading the precarious little world Niall’s built for himself. Whether or not his presence is a welcome one…well, that’s still up for debate.

come take my pulse

“Everything’s always better when the sun comes up,” Niall says, idly drawing a Z on Zayn’s elbow. Or an N. It’s hard to tell. “Sorta funny, when you think about it - whole world’s fucking dead, but the sun still rises and sets like nothing’s changed. The predictability is nice.”

Zayn sighs and tells him tiredly, “Y'know, you say eerily cheerful things for someone who bashed a zombie’s face in with a golf club today.“

Little Green

“Of course, I’m upset Niall. You know it just takes me time to process —”

“What is there to process? Tell me, Zayn, what is there to process because it seems pretty clear cut to me. We lost our baby. We were supposed to have a baby and now we don’t.”

In which Zayn and Niall try adopting for the third time

“The ceiling is bowed, dipping in the middle, “because the room above us is filled from top to bottom, completely” but that’s no anomaly. Besides a precarious route to the downstairs toilet, this is the only room in his two-bedroom house that is useable.”

Inside look at the lives of the UK’s most obsessive record hoarders.

Classical philosophy once formulated a truth now disdained by scientific logic: subject and object are not rigid and isolated poles but can be defined only in the process in which they distinguish themselves from one another and change. The lyric is the aesthetic test of that dialectical philosophical proposition. In the lyric poem the subject, through its identification with language, negates both its opposition to society as something merely monadological and its mere functioning within a wholly socialized society [vergesellschaftete Gesellschaft].

But the more the latter’s ascendency over the subject increases, the more precarious the situation of the lyric becomes. Baudelaire’s work was the first to record this; his work, the ultimate consequence of European Weltschermz, did not stop with the suffering of the individual but chose the modern itself, as the antilyrical pure and simple, for its theme and struck a poetic spark in it by dint of a heroically stylized language. In Baudelaire a note of despair already makes itself felt, a note that barely maintains its balance on the tip of its own paradoxicalness. As the contradiction between poetic and communicative language reached an extreme, lyric poetry became a game in which one goes for broke; not, as philistine opinion would have it, because it had become incomprehensible but because in acquiring self-consciousness as a literary language, in striving for an absolute objectivity unrestricted by any considerations of communication, language both distances itself from the objectivity of spirit, of living language, and substitutes a poetic event for a language that is no longer present. The elevated, poeticizing, subjectively violent moment in weak later lyric poetry is the price it has to pay for its attempt to keep itself undisfigured, immaculate, objective; its false glimmer is the complement to the disenchanted world from which it extricates itself. 

Theodor W. Adorno, “On Lyric Poetry and Society,” Notes to Literature, Volume I, trans. Shierry Weber Nicholson, pg.44-5 (x)

I had a dream where me and my brother climbing a very precarious staircase -half of which was supported by chairs. I was going first but i was so so slow. My brother got really frustrated and overtook me and was waiting for me at the corner. I moved and the makeshift staircases began to crumble. I said be careful! but the staircase where he was crumble right under him. It was one of the worst dreams Ive bad in a awhile

I saw your house the other day
and it looked the same outside,
but inside, it wasn’t, you weren’t there.

The walls which used to greet me
with warmth and affection,
were now stood precariously.

Wallpaper curled from the ceiling
to the floor, and the bricks
fell and crumbled.

I searched hastily amongst the rooms
hoping that I might see you,
and, for a second I thought I did.

A glimpse of movement
from the corner of my eye
deep in the backroom, somewhere,

but to my disappointment
I found a mirror
showing nothing but my reflection.

I don’t know where you’ve gone to now,
or who you share your house with.
I hope, at least, it looks the same
to how I’ll always remember.



1. not securely held or in position; dangerously likely to fall or collapse.

2. dependent on chance; uncertain.

3. dependent on circumstances beyond one’s control; uncertain; unstable; insecure.

4. exposed to or involving danger; dangerous; perilous; risky.

5. having insufficient, little, or no foundation.

Etymology: Latin precārius - obtained by entreaty or mere favour, hence uncertain.