damn i love this kid

One of the most powerful moments I experienced as an ancient history student was when I was teaching cuneiform to visitors at a fair. A father and his two little children came up to the table where I was working. I recognised them from an interfaith ceremony I’d attended several months before: the father had said a prayer for his homeland, Syria, and for his hometown, Aleppo.

All three of them were soft-spoken, kind and curious. I taught the little girl how to press wedges into the clay, and I taught the little boy that his name meant “sun” and that there was an ancient Mesopotamian God with the same name. I told them they were about the same age as scribes were when they started their training. As they worked, their father said to them gently: “See, this is how your ancestors used to write.”

And I thought of how the Ancient City of Aleppo is almost entirely destroyed now, and how the Citadel was shelled and used as a military base, and how Palmyran temples were blown up and such a wealth of culture and history has been lost forever. And there I was with these children, two small pieces of the future of a broken country, and I was teaching them cuneiform. They were smiling and chatting to each other about Mesopotamia and “can you imagine, our great-great-great-grandparents used to write like this four thousand years ago!” For them and their father, it was more than a fun weekend activity. It was a way of connecting, despite everything and thousands of kilometres away from home, with their own history.

This moment showed me, in a concrete way, why ancient studies matter. They may not seem important now, not to many people at least. But history represents so much of our cultural identity: it teaches us where we come from, explains who we are, and guides us as we go forward. Lose it, and we lose a part of ourselves. As historians, our role is to preserve this knowledge as best we can and pass it on to future generations who will need it. I helped pass it on to two little Syrian children that day. They learnt that their country isn’t just blood and bombs, it’s also scribes and powerful kings and Sun-Gods and stories about immortality and tablets that make your hands sticky. And that matters.

Iwaoi - ‘puppy love’ ..
somehow. :D i think. idk. that was the first thing i thought about hearing that prompt.

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b99 week // day 4
favorite peraltiago moment moments: all the “i love you’s”  

i’m LOVING the 70s/80s(?) aesthetic of the netflix a series of unfortunate events but i couldn’t help thinking about a modern version………..

A Quiet Refrain

It starts with some of the most mediocre eggs Taako’s ever clapped eyes on. Seven out of ten for taste. Zero out of ten for plating. Somehow, they’re still the best damn eggs he’s ever eaten.

(Or: Taako realizes he loves Kravitz back.)


Taako wakes to a smooth, rich baritone wafting down the halls of his home.

He growls at the sunlight streaming through his windows as he rolls out of bed. In a quick flick of his wrist he changes out of his sleep shorts and into a flowing nightgown. Sure, Kravitz saw him fall asleep in his shorts, but this nightgown is an aesthetic he’s hella proud of - there are sequins pressed in layers down the back of the gown, right over his shoulderblades, reading out the double-Ts that are part of the Taako brand, baby. Rhinestones glitter down his arms, from shoulder to a fabric hook over his middle finger, so if he needs to flip someone off, he can do so with extra pizzazz.

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Me, watching The Last Jedi, during the scene where Luke goddamn Skywalker acknowledges that the Jedi Order essentially helped engineer their own downfall, stood at the forefront of a war that decimated entire planets and allowed the seeds of tyranny to take root, and were destroyed from within by one of their own thanks to the Sith taking advantage of their hypocrisy, hubris, and self-righteous arrogance:

so when are we gonna make that female production of newsies happen…

i can provide my complete lack of acting, singing, and dancing abilities 

another oliness fic as I promised! <3

I took the classic trope of sharing a bed and applied it to nessa and oliver. It makes me giddy. I hope you like it!

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Nessa wakes when a strong gust of cold wind presses into her, howling in her ears. The arms holding her secure on the horse tense around her and the horse picks up into a trot. For a moment, panic swells in her as she opens her eyes, disoriented. She can’t remember where she is or what she’s doing or why. Her memories are muddled.

But then she feels the heat of another person at her back, and he speaks in her ear. “Are you awake?”

She shivers at the chill in the air, wishing she could wrap his warmth around her. Her throat is dry and cracked when she speaks. “What’s going on? Where are we?”

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