#American of Chinese ancestry

[innerkola-trash]

Nowhere near as tough as she lead us all to believe...plus her otherwise insistence.

[verylead-flavored-candy33]

Roberta vs. Revy.

[echidnana]

honestly the grip sinophonia has on america. embarrassing

[abwwia]

Emily Cheng, Double Green, 2014

Flashe on canvas

17 × 16 in | 43.2 × 40.6 cm

Emily Cheng (born 28 July 1953) is an American artist of Chinese ancestry. She is best known for large scale paintings with a center focus often employing expansive circular images... "radiantly colored, radially composed". Via Wikipedia

[calpalsworld]

what kind of sign languages do you guys think they would use on europa

[somehowmags]

i’ve seen a lot of posts talking about nimona’s queer messages which is great! but ive not seen as many posts talking analyzing how both ballister and ambrosius were changed to be asian, which is a shame because i genuinely think its one of the most important parts of the film! a huge part of it is a deconstruction of the model minority myth and respectability politics, both of which are big issues in the asian american community. both of them represent each side of the spectrum, with ambrosius expected to be superhuman with very little support and ballister being seen as less than human, no matter how hard he tries- a monster.

ambrosius (who is now east asian, like his voice actor eugene lee yang, who is korean with chinese and japanese ancestry), despite being in a seemingly powerful position as head of the knights and a descendant of gloreth, he isn’t really given the kind of support that this position needs- he’s constantly undermined and belittled by todd, the face of the other knights, and when asked about his emotional state by the director, represses his emotions rather than talk to her about his true feelings. this is very similar to how asian american students in schools aren’t given the support they need academically by teachers and administration, as the model minority myth leads to them being perceived as more intelligent and competent than their fellow students and therefore not needing support. he’s also held to a higher standard than any of the other knights, being immediately placed into a position of power despite just being knighted, again a reflection of the model minority myth, since asian americans are held to higher standards unfairly. despite being technically better off than ballister, he has no support, no friends, no way to seek help for his problems, and, just like ballister, is immediately thrown away the moment the director thinks he’s served his use.

ballister is now pakistani, like his voice actor riz ahmed (no, not like pedro pascal. where did this come from lol), and i’d go as far as to say that he is also, if not explicitly muslim, heavily muslim coded as well. he’s framed as a terrorist by the white, christian institution, and from then on, it doesn’t matter how good he tries to be- everyone else sees him as a monster. he’s also from a lower socioeconomic class than ambrosius and the rest of the knights- while this is initially used to frame him as a success story, after he’s framed, it’s used to cast suspicion on him. almost immediately he’s othered, with posters casting him as a foreign invader sent to destabilize the city, much in the same way that muslim immigrants are seen in real life. even when he tries to be peaceful and good, it’s always twisted so that he’s the monster of the story. while ambrosius is held to too high of a standard, ballister will never be enough for the institution to accept.

which is why both of their arcs culminate in them breaking out of the system, learning to accept what they’d been taught was monstrous, and leaving behind respectability. it’s a genuinely great commentary, and i can definitely see why riz ahmed and eugene lee yang were chosen for this, as they’ve both done activist work for their communities.

[inthedayswhenlandswerefew]

1968 [Chapter 9: Dionysus, God Of Ecstasy]

Series Summary: Aemond is embroiled in a fierce battle to secure the Democratic Party nomination and defeat his archnemesis, Richard Nixon, in the presidential election. You are his wife of two years and wholeheartedly indoctrinated into the Targaryen political dynasty. But you have an archnemesis of your own: Aemond’s chronically delinquent brother Aegon.

Series Warnings: Language, sexual content (18+ readers only), violence, bodily injury, character deaths, New Jersey, age-gap relationships, drinking, smoking, drugs, pregnancy and childbirth, kids with weird Greek names, historical topics including war and discrimination, math.

Word Count: 5.9k

Let me know if you’d like to be tagged! 🥰

💜 All of my writing can be found HERE! 💜

The October surprise is a great American tradition. As the phases of the moon revolve towards Election Day, the candidates and their factions seek to ruin each other. Lies are told, truths are exposed, Tyche smiles and Achlys brews misery, poison, the fog of death that grows over men like ivy. The stars align. The wolves snap their jaws.

In 1844, an abolitionist newspaper falsely accused James K. Polk of branding his slaves like cattle. In 1880, a letter supposedly authored by James Garfield—in actuality, forged by a New York journalist—welcomed Chinese immigrants in an era when they were being lynched by xenophobic mobs in Los Angeles and San Francisco. In 1920, a rumor emerged that Warren Harding had Black ancestry, an allegation his campaign fervently denied to keep the support of the Southern states. In 1940, FDR’s press secretary assaulted a police officer outside of Madison Square Garden. In 1964, one of LBJ’s top aids was arrested for having gay sex at the Washington D.C. YMCA.

Now, in 1968, Senator Aemond Targaryen of New Jersey is realizing that he will not be the beneficiary of the October surprise he’s dreamed of: his wife’s redemptive pregnancy, a blossoming first family. There is a civil rights protest that turns into a riot in Milwaukee; this helps Nixon, the candidate of law and order. For every fire lit and window shattered, he sees a bump in the polls from businessowners and suburbanites who fear anarchy. Breaking news of the My Lai massacre—committed back in March but only now brought to light—airs on NBC, horrifying the American public and bolstering support for Aemond, the man who has vowed to begin ending the war as soon as he’s sworn into office. The two contestants are deadlocked. Election Day could be a photo finish.

Nixon is in Texas. Wallace is in Arkansas. In Florida, Aemond visits the Kennedy Space Center and pledges to fulfill JFK’s promise to put a man on the moon by 1970. He makes a speech at the Mary McLeod Bethune Home commending her work as an educator, philanthropist, and humanitarian. He greets soldiers at the Naval Air Station in Pensacola. He feeds chickens to the alligators at the Saint Augustine Alligator Farm Zoological Park.

But it is not the senator the crowds cheer loudest for. It is his wife, his future first lady, here in her home state where she staunched her husband’s hemorrhaging blood and appeared before his well-wishers still marked with crimson handprints. In Tarpon Springs, she and Aemond attend mass at the Saint Nicholas Greek Orthodox Cathedral and pray at an altar made of white marble from Athens. Then they stand on the docks as flashbulbs strobe all around them, watching sponge divers reappear from the depths, breaking through the bubbling sapphire water like Heracles ascending to Mount Olympus.

~~~~~~~~~~

You kick off your high heels, tear the pins and clips out of your hair, and flop down onto the king-sized bed in your suite at the Breakers Hotel. It’s the same place Aemond was almost assassinated five months ago. He has returned in triumph, in defiance. He cannot be killed. It is God’s will.

You are alone for these precious fleeting moments. Aemond is in Otto’s suite discussing the itinerary for tomorrow: confirmations, cancellations, reshufflings. You pick up the pink phone from the nightstand on Aemond’s side of the bed and dial the number for the main house at Asteria. It’s 9 p.m. here as well as there. Through the window you can see inky darkness and the kaleidoscopic glow of the lights of Palm Beach. The Zenith radio out in the kitchenette is playing Satisfaction by the Rolling Stones. No intercession from Eudoxia is necessary this time; Aegon answers on the second ring.

“Yeah?” he says, slow and lazy like he’s been smoking something other than Lucky Strikes.

“Hey.” And then after a pause, twirling the phone cord around your fingers as you stare up at the ceiling: “It’s me.”

“Oh, I know. Should I take off my pants, or…?” He’s only half-joking.

You smile. “That was stupid. Someone could have bugged the phone.”

“You think Nixon’s guys are wiretapping us? Give me a break. They’re goddamn buffoons. They’re too busy telling cops to beat hippies to death.” You hear him taking a drag off his joint, envision him sprawled across his futon and enshrouded in smoke. “Everything okay down there in the swamp?”

You shrug, even though Aegon can’t see you. “It’s fine.”

“Just fine?”

“My parents were there when we stopped in Tarpon Springs. They kept telling everyone how proud they are of me, and I just felt so…dishonest.”

“Of course they’re proud. If Aemond wins, the war ends and more civil rights bills get passed and this hell we’ve all been living in since 1963 goes away.”

“I miss you,” you confess.

“You’ll be back soon to enjoy me in all my professional loser glory.” He’s right: Aemond’s entourage will spend Halloween at Asteria. You’ll take the children trick-or-treating around Long Beach Island—with journalists in tow, of course—and then host a party with plentiful champagne and Greek hors d’oeuvres, one last reprieve before the momentous slog towards Election Day on November 5th, a reward for the campaign staffers and reporters who have served Aemond so well. “What are you going to dress up as?”

“Someone happy,” you say, and Aegon chuckles, low and sardonic. “Actually, nothing. Aemond and Otto have decided that it would be undignified for the future president and first lady to be photographed in costumes, so I will be wearing something festive yet not at all fun.”

“Aemond has always been somewhat confused by the concept of fun.”

“What are you going to be for Halloween?”

You can hear the grin in his voice as he exhales smoke. “A cowboy.”

“A cowboy,” you repeat, giggling. “You aren’t serious.”

“Extremely serious. I protect the cows, I comfort the cows, I breed the cows…”

“You are mentally ill. You belong in an asylum.”

“I ride the cows…”

“Cowboys do not ride cows.”

“Maybe this one does.”

“I thought you liked being ridden.”

Aegon groans with what sounds like genuine discomfort. “Don’t tease me. You know I’m celibate at the moment.”

“Miraculous. Astonishing. The Greek Orthodox Church should canonize you. What have you been doing with all of your newfound free time?”

“Taking the kids out sailing, hiding from Doxie, trying not to step on the Alopekis…and playing Battleship with Cosmo. He has a very loose understanding of the rules.”

“He does. I remember.”

“He keeps asking when you’ll be back.”

“Really?” you ask hopefully.

“Yeah, it’s cute. And he calls you Io because he heard me do it.”

“Not an appropriate myth for children, I think.”

“Cosmo’s what, seven years old?”

“Five.”

“Close enough. I think I knew about death and torment and Zeus being a slut by then.”

“And you have no resulting defects whatsoever.” You roll over onto your belly and slide open the drawer of the nightstand. Instead of the card Aegon gave you at Mount Sinai—you’ve forgotten that you’re on Aemond’s side of the bed—you find something bizarre, unexpected, just barely able to fit. “Oh my God, there’s a…there’s a Ouija board in the nightstand!”

Aegon laughs incredulously. “There’s a what?!”

“A Ouija board!” You sit upright and shimmy it out, holding the phone to your ear with one shoulder. The small wooden planchette slides off the board and clatters against the bottom of the drawer. “Why the hell would Aemond have this…?”

“He’s trying to summon the ghost of JFK to stab Nixon.”

“Oh wow, it’s heavy.” You skim your fingertips over the black numbers and letters etched into the wooden board. There’s something ominous about the Good Bye written across the bottom. You can’t beckon the dead into the land of the living without reminding them that they aren’t welcome to stay.

“Aemond is such a freak. Is it a Parker Brothers one, like for kids…?”

“No, I think it’s custom made. It feels substantial, expensive. Hold on, there’s something engraved on the back.” You flip over the Ouija board so you can see what your hands have already felt. The inscription reads in onyx cursive letters: No ghosts can harm you. The stars were never better than the day you were born. With love through all the ages, Alys.

“What’s it say?” Aegon asks from his basement at Asteria.

You’re staring down at the Ouija board, mystified. “Who’s Alys?”

Instead of an answer, Aegon gives you a deep sigh. “Oh. Yeah, she would give him something like that. Fucking creepy witch bullshit.”

“Aegon, who’s Alys?” She’s his mistress. She has to be. It fills your skull like flashbulbs, like lightning: Aemond climbing on top of another woman, conquering her, owning her, binding her up in his mythology like a spider building a web. And what you feel when the shock begins to dissolve isn’t envy or pain or betrayal but—strangely, paradoxically—hope. “She’s his girl, right?”

“Please don’t be mad at me for not telling you,” Aegon says. “There wasn’t a good time. When I hated you I didn’t care if he was fucking around, and then after what happened in New York I didn’t want to hurt you, I didn’t know how you’d take it. It’s not your fault, there’s nothing wrong with you. She was here first. He’d have kept Alys around if he married Aphrodite herself.”

“I’m not mad.” You’re distracted, that’s what you are; you’re plotting. “Where is she?”

“She lives in Washington state. I’m not sure exactly where, I think Aemond moves her a lot. He doesn’t want anyone to see him around and start noticing a pattern. Neighbors, shopkeepers, cops, whoever.”

“Washington.” Just like when Ari died. Just like when Aemond didn’t come back. “Who knows about her?”

“Just the family. Fosco and Mimi found out because when they married in, the fights were still happening. Otto and Viserys demanding he give Alys up, Aemond refusing. It’s the only thing he ever did wrong, the only line he drew. He said he needed her. She could never be his first lady, but she could be something else.”

“His mistress.”

“Yeah,” Aegon says reluctantly. “Are you…are you okay?”

“I’m okay. What’s wrong with Alys?”

“What?”

“Why couldn’t Aemond marry her?”

“I mean, she’s the type of psycho who gives people Ouija boards, first of all,” Aegon says. “And she’s…she’s not educated. Her family’s trash. She’s older than Aemond. Hell, she’s older than me. She would be an unmitigated disaster on the campaign trail. She unnerves people. But Aemond, he…”

“He loves her,” you whisper, reading the engraving on the back of the board again. “And she loves him.”

“I guess. Whatever love means to them.”

A thought occurs to you, the first one to bring you pain like a needle piercing flesh. “Does she have children?”

Again, Aegon sounds reticent to disclose this. “A boy. Aemond’s the father.”

“How old?”

“I don’t know, I think he’s around ten now.”

And that’s Aemond’s true heir. Not Ari, not any others he would have with me. That place in his heart is taken. He couldn’t mourn the loss of our son because he already has one with the woman he loves.

Out in the living room of the suite, you hear the front door open. There are footsteps, Aemond’s polished black leather shoes.

Aegon is asking: “Are you sure you’re okay? Hello? Babe? Hello? Are you still there?”

“I’m fine. I gotta go.”

“Wait, no, not yet—!”

“Bye.” You hang up the phone and wait for Aemond to discover you. You’re still clutching the Ouija board. You’re perched on the edge of the bed like something ready to pounce, to kill.

Aemond opens the bedroom door, navy blue suit, blonde hair short and slicked back, his eyepatch covering his empty left socket. He’s begun wearing his eyepatch in public more often—not for every appearance, but for some of them—and whoever finally convinced him to concede this battle wasn’t you. His right eye goes to you and then to the Ouija board in your hands. He doesn’t speak or move to take the board, only studies you warily.

“I know about her,” you tell him.

Still, Aemond says nothing.

“Alys,” you press. “She’s your mistress. You’re in love with her.”

“I did not intend to hurt you.” His words are flat, steely.

“I’m not hurt, Aemond.”

“You shouldn’t have ever known about this. I apologize for not being more discrete. It was a lapse in judgment.” But what he regrets most, you think, is that his secret is less contained, more imperiled.

“What we have is a political arrangement,” you say. The desperation quivers in your voice. “You don’t love me, you never have, and now we can be open about it. You need me to win the White House, but that’s all. Your true companion is elsewhere. I want the same thing.”

He steps closer, eye narrowing, iris glinting coldly, puzzled like he couldn’t have understood you correctly. “What?”

“I want to be permitted to have my own happiness outside of this imitation of a marriage.”

“No,” Aemond says instantly.

Your stomach sinks, dark iron disappointment. “But…but…why?”

“Because I don’t trust you to not get caught. Because I need to be sure that I am the father of the children you’ll give birth to. And because as my wife you are mine, and mine alone.”

Tears brim in your eyes; embers burn in your throat. “You’re asking for my life. My whole life, all of it, everything I’ll ever experience, everything I’ll ever feel. I get one chance on this planet and you’re stealing it away from me.”

“Yes,” Aemond agrees simply.

“So where’s my consolation?” you demand. “You get Alys, so where’s mine?”

“What do you want?”

You don’t reply, but you glare at your husband with eternal rage like Hera’s, with fatal vitriol like Medusa’s.

“You think I don’t know about that little card you keep in your nightstand?” Aemond is furious, betrayed. “You used to hate him.”

“I was wrong.”

“Because he was at Mount Sinai and I wasn’t? Three days undid everything we’ve ever been to each other? Our oaths, our ambitions?!”

“No,” you say, tears slipping down the contours of your cheeks. “Because he’s real. He doesn’t try to manipulate people into loving him, he doesn’t pretend to be someone he’s not, when he’s cruel it’s because he means it and when he’s kind that’s genuine too. And he wants to know me, who I really am. Not the woman I have to act like to get you elected. Not who you’re trying to turn me into—”

Aemond has crossed the room, grabbed the front of your teal Chanel dress, and yanked you to your feet. The Ouija board jolts out of your hands and lands on the carpet unharmed. Your long hair is in disarray, your eyes wide and fearful. You try to push Aemond away, but he ignores you. You can’t sway him. You’ve never been able to. “Aegon has nothing to his name except what this family gives him,” Aemond snarls, hushed, hateful. His venom is not for his brother but for you. You have upended the natural order of things. You have dared to deny Zeus what he has been divinely granted dominion over. “You would jeopardize his wellbeing, his access to his children? You would ruin yourself? You would doom this nation? If you cost me the election, every drop of blood spilled is on your hands, every body bag flown home from Vietnam, every martyr killed by injustice here. What you ask for is worse than being a traitor and a whore. It is sacrilege.”

“Let go of me—”

“And there’s one more thing.” Aemond pulls you closer so he knows you’re paying attention. You’re sobbing now, trembling, choking on his cologne, shrinking away from his furnace-heat wrath. “Aegon isn’t capable of love. Not the kind you’re imagining. He gets infatuated, and he uses people, and then he moves on. You think he never charmed Mimi, never made her feel cherished by him? And look how she ended up. I’m trying to carve your name into legend beside mine. Aegon will take you to your grave.”

Your husband shoves you away, storms out of the bedroom, slams the door so hard the walls quake.

~~~~~~~~~~

Parading down streets like the victors of a fallen city, jack-o-lanterns keeping watch with their laceration grins of firelight. Hecate is the goddess of witchcraft, Hades rules the Underworld, Selene is the half-moon peeking through clouds in an overcast sky. The stars elude you.

The children—ghosts, pirates, princesses, witches—dash from doorstep to doorstep like soldiers in Vietnam search tunnels. They smile and pose in their outfits when the journalists prompt them, beaming and waving, showing off their Dots, Tootsie Pops, Sugar Daddies, Smarties, Razzles, and candy cigarettes before depositing them in the plastic orange pumpkins that swing from their wrists. Only Cosmo, dressed as Teddy Roosevelt with lensless glasses and a stuffed lion thrown over one shoulder, stays with the adults. He is the last one to each house, approaching the doorway reticently like it might swallow him up, inspiring fond chuckles and encouragement from the reporters. He clutches your hand and hides behind you when towering monsters lumber by: King Kong, Frankenstein, vampires with fake blood spilling from their mouths.

Aemond wears a black suit with orange accents: tie, pocket square, socks. You glimmer in a black dress dotted with white stars, clicking down the sidewalk in boots that run to your knees, silver eyeshadow, heavy liner. You almost look your own age. There are large star-shaped barrettes in your pinned-up hair, bent glinting metal. As the reporters snap photos of you and Cosmo walking together, they shout: “You’ll be such a great mother one day, Mrs. Targaryen!”

Fosco is Ettore Boiardi—better known as Chef Boyardee—an Italian immigrant who came through Ellis Island in 1914 with a dream of opening a spaghetti business. Helaena, Alicent, and Ludwika are, respectively, Alice, Wendy, and Cinderella; Ludwika clops along resentfully in her puffy sleeves and too-small clear stilettos. Criston is Peter Pan. Aegon wears a white button-up shirt, cow print vest, ripped jeans, brown leather boots, a cowboy hat that’s too big for him, and a green bandana knotted around his throat. He stays close to you and Cosmo because he can, here where the journalists expect to see him being a devoted father and active participant in the family business of mending a tattered America. Teenagers are fleeing their families to join hippie communes and draftees in Vietnam are getting their limbs blown off and junkies are shooting up on the streets of New York and Chicago and Los Angeles, but here we see a happy family, a perfect family, a holy trinity that thanks the devotees who offer them tribute. Otto, who neglected to don a disguise, glares at you murderously. You have failed to give Aemond a living child. You have dared to want things for yourself.

Back at Asteria in the main house, the children empty their plastic pumpkins on the living room floor and sort through their saccharine treasures, making trades and bargains: “I’ll do your math homework if you give me those Swedish Fish,” “I’ll let you ride my bike for a week if I can have your Mallo Cup.” While the other adults ply themselves with champagne and chain smoke away the stress of the campaign trail, Aegon gets his Caribbean blue Gibson guitar and sits on the couch playing I’m A Believer by The Monkees. The kids clap and sing along between intense confectionary negotiations. Cosmo wants to share his candy cigarettes with you; you pretend to smoke together as sugar melts on your tongue.

Now the children have been sent to bed—mollified with the promise of homemade apple pies tomorrow, another occasion to be documented by swarms of clamoring journalists—and the house becomes a haze of smoke and indistinct conversation and music from the record player. Platters of appetizers have appeared on the dining room table: pita, tzatziki, hummus, melitzanosalata, olives, horiatiki, mini spanakopitas, baklava. Women are chattering about the painstaking labor they put into costumes and men are scheming to deliver death blows to Nixon, setbacks in Vietnam, Klan meetings in Mississippi. Aemond is knocking back Old Fashioneds with Otto and Sargent Shriver. Fosco is dancing in the living room with drunk journalists. Eudoxia is muttering in Greek as she aggressively paws crumbs off of couches and tabletops. Thick red candles flicker until wax melts into a pool of blood at the base.

Through the veil of cigarette smoke and the rumbling bass of Season Of The Witch, Aegon finds you when no one is looking, and you know it’s him without having to turn around. His hand is the only one that doesn’t feel heavy when it skims around your waist. He whispers, soft grinning lips to your ear, rum and dire temptation like Orpheus looking back at Eurydice: “Let’s do some witchcraft.”

You know where Aemond keeps the Ouija board. You take it out of the top drawer of his nightstand in your bedroom with blue walls and portraits of myths in captive frames. Then you descend with Aegon into the basement, down like Persephone when summer ends, down like women crumbling under Zeus’s weight. You remember to lock the door behind you. You’re not high—you can’t smoke grass in a house full of guests who could smell it and take it upon themselves to investigate—but you feel like you are, that lightness that makes everything more bearable, the surreal tilt to the universe, awake but dreaming, truth cloaked in mirages.

Aegon has stolen three red candles from upstairs. He hands one to you, keeps a second for himself, and places the third on his end table beside a myriad of dirty cups. You glimpse at his ashtray and a folded corner of the receipt that’s still tucked beneath it, and you think: I have my card, Aegon has his receipt, Aemond has his Ouija board. I wonder what Alys likes to keep close when she sleeps. Then Aegon clicks off the lamp so the only light is from the flickering candles.

He tosses away his cowboy boots, hat, vest and is down on the green shag carpet with you, his hair messy, his white shirt half-unbuttoned. He’s taking sips of Captain Morgan straight from the glass bottle. He’s lighting a Lucky Strike with the wick of his candle and then giving it to you to puff on as he places the planchette on the board. “Wait, how do we start?”

You exhale smoke, setting your candle down on the carpet and then tugging off your own boots with some difficulty. “We have to say hello.”

“Okay.” Aegon places his fingertips on one side of the heart-shaped planchette and you rest yours lightly on the other. He begins doubtfully: “Hello…?”

“Is there anyone who would like to send us a message from the other side this evening?”

“You’ve done this before,” Aegon accuses.

“I have. In college.”

“With a guy?”

You chuckle, taking a drag as the cigarette smolders between your fingers. “No, with my friends. It’s not really a date activity.”

“I think it’s very romantic. Candles, darkness, danger, who’s gonna protect you when the ghosts start throwing things around…”

“You’d fight a ghost for me?”

“Depends on the ghost. FDR? You got it. I can take a guy in a wheelchair. Teddy? No ma’am. You’re on your own.”

“Which ghost should we summon?”

Aegon ponders this for a moment. “John F. Kennedy, are you in this basement with us right now?”

“That is wrong, that is so wrong.”

“Then why are you smiling?” Aegon says. “JFK, how do you feel about Johnson fucking up your legacy?”

“That is not the kind of question you’re supposed to ask. We’re not on 60 Minutes.”

“JFK, do you haunt the White House?” Aegon drags the planchette to the Yes on the board. “Oh no, I’m scared.”

“You are a cheater, this is a fraudulent Ouija board session.” You put your cigarette out in the ashtray and then take a swig from Aegon’s rum bottle. “JFK, are we gonna make it to the moon before 1970?”

Aegon pulls the planchette to the No. “Damn, Io, bad news. Guess the Russians win the Space Race and then eradicate capitalism across the globe. No more beach houses. No more Mr. Mistys.”

“Give me the planchette, you’re abusing your power.”

“No,” Aegon says, snickering as you try to wrestle it away from him. In his other hand he’s clutching his candle; scarlet beads of wax like blooddrops pepper your skin as you struggle, tiny infernos that burn exquisitely. Red like paint splatter appears on Aegon’s shirt. You grab the green bandana around his throat, but instead of holding him back you’re drawing him closer. The Ouija board and all the world’s ghosts are momentarily forgotten.

“You’re dripping wax on me—”

“Good, I want to get it all over you, then I want to peel it off and rip out your leg hair.”

You’re laughing hysterically as you pretend to try to shove him away. “I’m freshly shaved, you idiot.”

“Everywhere?” Aegon asks, intrigued.

You smirk playfully. “Almost.”

“Okay, let’s get you cleaned up.” Aegon sets his candle down on the carpet and strips away tacky dots of red wax: one from your forearm down by your wrist, another from your neck just below one of your silver hoop earrings, wax from your ankles and your calves and right above your knees. His fingertips are calloused from his guitar, from the ropes of his sailboat. They scratch roughly over you, chipping away who you’re supposed to be.

Then Aegon stops. You follow his gaze down. There is a smudge of wax on the inside of your thigh, extending beneath the hem of your dress, glittering black and white fabric that hides what is forbidden to him. Aegon’s eyes are on you, that troubled opaque blue, drunk and desperate and wild and afraid. With your fingers still hooked beneath his bandana, you say to him like a dare: “Now you’re going to stop?”

His palm skates up the smoothness of your thigh, and as he unpeels that last stain of red wax his other hand cradles your jaw and his lips touch yours, gently at first and then with the ravenousness of someone who’s been dying of thirst for centuries, starving since birth. You’re opening your legs wider for him, and his fingers do not stop at your thigh but climb higher until they are whisking your black lace panties away, exploring your folds and your wetness as his tongue darts between your lips, tasting something he’s been craving forever but only now stumbled into after four decades of darkness, trapped in you like Narcissus at his pool.

You are unknotting his green bandana and letting it fall to the shag carpet. You are unbuttoning the rest of his shirt so you can feel his chest, soft and warm and yielding, safe, real. The candlelight is flickering, the thumping bass of a song you can’t decipher pulsing through the floor above. Now beneath your dress Aegon’s fingers are pressing a place that makes your breath catch in your throat, makes you dizzy with need for him. He looks at you and you nod, and he reads in your face what you wanted to say months ago in this same basement: Don’t stop. Come closer.

Aegon lifts your dress over your head, nips at your throat as he unclasps your bra, and you are suddenly aware of how the cool firelit air is touching every part of you, how you are bare for him in a way you’ve never been before. You catch Aegon’s face in your hand before he can see the scar that runs down the length of your belly and say, your voice quiet and fragile: “Don’t look at me.”

Pain flashes in his eyes, furrows across his brow. “Stop,” he murmurs, kissing your forehead as you cling to him. Then he begins moving lower and you fall back onto the carpet, no blood on Aegon’s hands this time, only your sweat and lust for him, only crystalline evidence of a betrayal you’ve long ago already committed in your mind.

You’re combing your fingers through his hair and gasping as Aegon’s lips ghost down your scar, not something ruinous or shameful but a part of you, the beginning of your story together, the origin of your mythology. Then his mouth is on you—yearning, aching wetness—and you thought you knew what this felt like but it’s more powerful now, more urgent, and Aegon is glancing up to watch your face, to study you, to change what he’s doing as he follows your clues. And then there is a pang you think is too sharp to be pleasure, too close to helplessness, something that leaves you panting and shaking.

You jolt upright. “Wait…”

Aegon props himself up on his elbows. His full lips glisten with you. “What? What’d I do wrong?”

“No, it’s not you, it’s just…it’s like…” You can’t describe it. “It’s too…um…too intense or something. It’s like I couldn’t breathe.”

Aegon stares at you, his eyebrows low. After a long pause he says: “Babe, you’ve come before, right?”

I’ve what? “Yeah, of course, obviously. I mean…I think so?”

He’s stunned. He’s in disbelief. Then a grin splits across his face. “Lie back down.”

You’re nervous, but you trust him. If this costs you your life, you’ll pay it. He pushes your thighs farther apart and his tongue stays in one spot—where you touched yourself in the bathtub in Seattle, where you wanted him when he slipped his fingers into you for the first time—and suddenly the uneasy feeling is something raging and irresistible like a riptide in the Atlantic, something better than anything you knew existed, and you keep thinking it’s happened but it hasn’t yet, as you cover your face with your hands to smother your moans, as your hips roll and Aegon’s arms curl under your thighs to keep you in place so he can make you finish. It’s a release that is otherworldly, celestial, terrifying, divine. It’s something that rips the curtain between mortals and paradise.

It’s always like this for men? That’s what Aemond has been getting from me, that’s what I’ve been denied?

As you lie gasping on the carpet Aegon returns, smiling, kissing you, running his fingers through locks of hair that have escaped from your pins. “Not bad, right little Io?” he purrs, smelling like rum and minerals, earth and poison. Now he’s taking off his jeans, but before he can position himself between your legs you have pushed him onto his back and straddled him, pinning his wrists to the floor, watching the amazement ripple across his flushed face, the desire, the need. You tease Aegon, leaning in to nibble at his ear and bite gingerly at his throat, never harming him, never claiming him, grinding your hips against his and listening as his breathing turns quick and rough. Then you slip him inside you, this man you once hated, this man who was a stranger and then a curse and now a spell.

Aegon wants to be closer to you. He sits up as you ride him, hands on your face, in your hair, kissing you, inhaling you, shuddering, trying not to cry out as footsteps and laughter and thunderous basslines bleed through the ceiling. You know he’s been high on so many things—things that corrupt, things that kill—and you hope you can compare, this brief clean magic.

He can’t last; he finishes with a moan like he’s in agony, and as the motion of your hips slows, you take his jaw in your grasp and gaze down at him. “Good boy,” you say with a grin. Aegon laughs, exhausted, drenched in sweat, his hair sticking to his forehead. He embraces you so tightly you can feel the pounding of his heart, racing muscle beneath bones and skin.

He’s murmuring through your disheveled hair: “I gotta see you again, when can I see you again?”

You don’t know what to say. You don’t have an answer. You unravel yourself from Aegon and dress yourself in the red candlelight: panties, bra, dress, boots, all things that Aemond chose for you, all things he bought with his family’s money, all things he owns. Aegon has nothing to his name and neither do you. You are—like Fosco once said—pieces of the same machine.

“Where are you going?” Aegon asks, like he’s afraid of the answer.

“I have to go back upstairs to the party before someone realizes I’m missing.”

“Are you serious?”

“I am.” You kneel on the carpet to kiss him one last time, your palm on his cheek, his fingers clutching at your dress as he begs you not to leave. “I have to, I have to,” you whisper, and then you do.

You grab the Ouija board and planchette off the green shag carpet, hug them to your chest, and hurry up the steps. The first floor of the Asteria house is a maze of cigarette smoke and clinking glasses, guests who are dancing and cackling and drunk. From the record player strums Johnny Cash’s Ring Of Fire. You slip unnoticed to the staircase.

In the blue-walled bedroom you share with Aemond, you carefully place the Ouija board and planchette in the top drawer of his nightstand exactly as you found them. Then you go to your vanity to try to fix your hair. As you’re rearranging clips and pinning loose strands back into place, the door opens. Aemond is there, feeling beloved and invincible, looking for you. He crosses the room and closes his long fingers around your wrist. He wants you: under him, making children for him, possessed by him.

“Come to bed,” Aemond says.

“Not right now. I’m busy.”

“You aren’t busy anymore.”

“I told you no.”

He wrenches you from your chair. Instead of surrendering, you strike out, hitting him in the chest. You don’t harm him, you’re not strong enough, but genuine shock leaps into his scarred face.

“Don’t fucking touch me,” you hiss. You can’t let Aemond undress you; he will find the evidence of your treason, he will see it, feel it, taste it. But that’s not the only reason you stop him. “Every goddamn night I give you what you want, and exactly how you want it. Tonight I’m saying no. You want to take me? You’ll have to do it properly. I’m not going to give you the illusion of consent. You remember what Zeus did to all those women, right? Go ahead. Act like the god you think you are. But I’m going to fight you. And if those people downstairs hear me screaming, you can explain to them why.”

Aemond stares at you in the silvery light of the half-moon. You glare boldly back. At last he leaves and descends the staircase into an underworld of churning smoke, returning to the party to sip his Old Fashioneds and decide what to do with you.

[atlaculture]

sorry if this is a personal question that you don’t want to answer but: are you actually asian or indigenous or are just a big fan of all the cultures which is why u started this blog??

I'm Asian-American, born and raised in the United States. Both of my parents are from Cambodia and my ancestry is Khmer and Teochew Chinese. I grew up working class and around a lot of other Asian immigrant families.

Regarding the question of "Are you Asian or just a fan?" I guess both? There were definitely some details in ATLA that I recognized immediately from my cultural upbringing, but plenty of other aspects that I had to research pretty extensively. I definitely developed an interest in Himalayan, Siberian, and Indigenous cultures through running this blog.

I started this blog as a way of gushing about a show I liked, but I feel like it has taken on a life of its own over the years. I still love ATLA, but I realize I love archiving information even more. There's so much cultural knowledge on the internet, but it's all very decentralized. By gathering some of this information for my blog, I'm hoping that it helps people to develop a more nuanced understanding of other cultures.

[moss-the-irishman]

Riordanverse race/nationality headcanons (Main characters and background characters alike)

This may be a very long post, and I’m throwing in little tidbits about appearances, so with no regard to any particular order, strap in:

(Seriously, this is a huge post)

Edit: Changed Luke from just Korean American to mixed Argentinian/Korean American, inspired by @tagthescullion

The Seven (Including Nico and Reyna):

Percy Jackson: Biracial White/Latino, Cuban American (Sally was born in Havana, she had Percy shortly after moving to the US)

Annabeth Chase: Biracial Black/White, Irish/African American (with Swedish, Ghanaian and Polish descent)

Jason (And Thalia, by extension) Grace: White German American (Beryl moved from Germany to the US)

Piper McLean: Native American, Cherokee

Leo Valdez: Latino, Mexican, Born in Texas

Hazel Levesque: Black, African American, New Orleans (1940's French Creole)

Frank Zhang: Chinese Canadian, Vancouver

Nico Di Angelo: White, Italian with Russian descent, 1920’s Venice

Reyna Avila Ramirez Arellano: Latina, Puerto Rican

Camp Half Blood:

Will Solace: Biracial White/Bangladeshi American, Texas

Luke Castellan: Mixed Argentinian/Korean American (Born in the US, May (or Mi-Hee) grew up in a Argentine Korean community in Buenos Aires before she moved to the US and met Hermes)

Malcolm Pace: White with albinism, Scottish, Glasgow

Travis and Connor Stoll: Mixed Scottish and Laotian, Edinburgh (Source: @freddie-77-ao3)(I think in the TV show, they cast two Asian boys as the Stolls, so I've made them Asian)

Alice Miyazawa: Japanese American, Los Angeles

Julia Feingold: White Luxembourger, Luxembourg City

Cecil Markowitz: White Austrian/Northern Irish (Born in Graz, grew up in Belfast since he was two, has dual citizenship)

Katie Gardener: White Scottish, Aberfoyle

Castor and Pollux Vintner: Black, Irish (Pollux is Albino, Castor wasn’t), Donegal

Michael Yew: Mixed Irish and Chinese, Limerick (Granny moved from China)

Lee Fletcher: White Irish, Donegal

Clarisse La Rue: Mixed French/Pakistani American, Arizona (Mother moved from France)

Chris Rodriguez: Afro-Latino, Nicaraguan (Moved to the states when he was seven, lived in the same neighbourhood as Clarisse)

Silena Beauregard: Blasian, African American and Filipino, Mississippi (French descent)

Charles Beckendorf: Black, African American

Jake Mason: White American, Wyoming

Harley Smythe-Davidson: Biracial White/Aboriginal Australian (Source: @freddie-77-ao3)

Nyssa Barrera: Latina, Panamanian, Panama City

Shane O’Doherty: White Irish, Laois

Christopher Chalkevas: White Greek/English (Born in Larissa, moved with his mother to Hackney, London at age five, has dual citizenship)

Clovis Karlsen: Wasian, Welsh (Welsh/Norwegian grandad, Indonesian granny, Source: @ashthenerdtheythem)

Chiara Benvenuti: White Italian, Florence

Alabaster C. Torrington: British Indian, English, Westminster

Lou Ellen Blackstone: Black with vitiligo, British Ghanaian, Birmingham

Drew Tanaka: Japanese American, New York City

Valentina Diaz: Latina, Colombia

Mitchell Singh-Donovan: Mixed Indian and Irish, Cork

Lacy Alfsen: White Danish, Copenhagen

Ethan Nakamura: Japanese, Tokyo

Damien White: White Irish, Northside Dublin

Miranda Gardiner: Vietnamese American, Massachusetts (Distant Irish ancestry)

Billie Ng: Wasian, Irish/Thai Canadian, Toronto (She grew up in Longford till she was seven, then she and her mortal dad moved to Canada)

Sherman Yang: Chinese American, Alaska

Marcus (Mark) Dooley-Wallace: White Irish American, Georgia

Ellis Wakefield: Black, Algerian

Holly and Laurel Victor: Sri Lankan American, Seattle

Meg McCaffery: Wasian, Irish/Vietnamese American

Camp Jupiter:

Dakota Cheshire: Black, Bermudian

Gwendolyn Nunez: Hispanic, Spanish American

Bobby Herrera: Latin American, New Mexico

Lavinia Asimov: White Russian, born in San Francisco

Larry Schumacher: White American, North Carolina

Leila Grunfeld: White American, Colorado

This has been a very exhausting post to make lmao. I gave some of the characters who don’t have canonical surnames my own Hcs for their surnames. Also, I am yet to read through trials of Apollo, so maybe I’ll come later back to add more Roman names to the list.

Tagging my moots that I like to see their opinions for this (as well as the ones I tagged within the list as well):

@aki-bara @ravingcoffeeaddict @ebony-reine-vibes @squiggle3worm @sleep-needer

[spritecranverry]

(Spoilers for 'Babel' if u haven't read it yet and don't want those)

Hi I'm re-reading this book after my physical copy got delivered and I'm here to argue that Robin's fate is sealed the moment he chooses his name:

When Robin's mother dies, she says his name - his real name - one last time. It's only two syllables, but he'll never hear it again; Professor Lovell decides it's not worth keeping because the English tongue wouldn't be able to pronounce it. It's in this portion of the book that Kuang establishes one of the first instances of language as a means of wielding power: namely, the power to erase.

Even further, the scene where Robin chooses his 'English' name encapsulates his relationship to his identity for the rest of the book: he is simultaneously disconnected (or "un-anchored", as Kuang puts it on page 15) from his culture and 'othered' by it while living in English society, no matter how hard he tries to assimilate. Lovell makes Robin drop his own family's surname on page 12 (which we also never learn), effectively cutting him off from ever re-tracing his own ancestry and lineage. I think it's interesting to note that part of why Lovell doesn't value Robin's surname is because to the English, a name that isn't linked to status and capital is worthless.

What's even more interesting, though, is that Lovell doesn't let Robin take his last name, even after Robin realizes that he's his biological father. Instead, he forces Robin to choose a random English name. He tells him on page 10 that he has no family, and that his father is "unknown". Lovell wants Robin to remove all markers of his Asian identity from his name while simultaneously never claiming his son as his own despite his dependency on him.

This effectively places Robin in this odd liminal space where he is only allowed to participate in English society conditionally, but he also doesn't have the option to ever return to Canton because he no longer has the ability to fully reconnect there. His identity as a result morphs into this ambiguous thing that is constantly in flux relative to how white society perceives him. The choice to make him literally half white and half Asian as opposed to a fully Chinese man trying to assimilate makes this especially poignant; at no point does he have the ability to opt out of this constant state of limbo that the construct of racial identity puts him in. Robin - and perhaps Kuang did this intentionally - exists during a time when diasporic and mixed identities are still being formed and conceptualized, which means he wouldn't have much access to communities of people in similar situations. With the exception of Griffin, he's basically alone here.

It's during the scene where Robin first sets off on that ship to England that I'm reminded of what happened to the identity of enslaved Africans once they got through the Middle Passage: they and their descendants would never be able to fully re-integrate into their cultures of origin, but would also be permanently 'other' in the eyes of American society, relegating them to a constant state of place-lessness. An un-anchoring, if you will. (Obviously these are not the same, but a similar thing is happening in terms of cultural belonging and as an African American this is what came to mind. Please don't jump me 🤚🏾)

Let's circle back to the footnote on page 11 that quotes the book Robin took his name from: "I killed Cock Robin. Who saw him die?"

For the entirety of 'Babel', we see Robin struggle for the rest of his short life against the implications of his name and the circumstances that led to him choosing it, and none of it of his own volition. I think the most tragic part of Robin's story is that Lovell decided what he was supposed to be long before the book even begins. Robin's decision, then, to stray from that path renders him with (at least in his eyes) no other viable way to exist in this world in the state his father has left him in. Once he decides to stop participating in the imperialist machine, neither England nor Canton (which he has no way to return to after killing his father) has a place for him.

Long before he makes that final decision at the end of the book, Lovell subjects Robin to what I think can be interpreted as its own kind of death. He's become a ship permanently lost at sea with nothing left to anchor him and with no destination in sight. The other characters never really seem to fully understand the extent of the loss he has experienced because he is the only character other than Griffin who has been 'un-anchored' in such a specific way. Re-reading the book knowing what his fate will be, then, makes the rest of the story feel like a very slow, winding, and complicated march towards death.

TL; DR: Robin's been dead since the very beginning of 'Babel'. In fact, he's dead the very moment he becomes 'Robin', and Lovell killed him. But who saw him die?

[max1461]

I inherited one chinese penis from my prehistoric ancestry and one american penis. and I can whip each one out depending on if I need to fuck a communistic revolutionary or a capitalist american small business owner. but the secret is I don't tell them which one I whipped out and they're ok with this (signed a waiver not to look) and they know it could be not the one theyr're expecting which is all part og the fun.

[asexual-cat-furry]

TF2 nationality headcanons

(I think of RED and BLU as separate characters, who might just happen to look/act alike)

RED Scout - american (Boston, MA) (his ma has irish ancestry, from Galway - I saw this headcanon somewhere and I love it)

BLU Scout - filipino-american (NYC)

RED Soldier - american obv (Atkins, AR) (I know that he's supposed to be from the midwest but I don't care. I headcanon that his dad is from Idaho and his mom is from Ohio. Also I think he's like 25% native or something because I think it'd be funny/interesting if he's not 100% White American™)

BLU Soldier - american obv (somewhere in Virginia) (he was raised by eagles in the Appalachian wilderness, so he barely speaks coherent english)

RED Pyro - chinese (somewhere in the south, but spent most of their childhood homeless in Shanghai) (they never told anyone and it's unlikely they ever will. The only people who know are Pauling and the Spies, but none of them will tell) (I know it's a popular headcanon but I never really saw them as mexican, sorry)

BLU Pyro - irish (Dublin) (their muffled voice is made harder to decipher due to their hardcore irish accent. BLU Demo can understand it best)

RED Demoman - scottish (Ullapool) (literally canon)

BLU Demoman - scottish (Glasgow)

RED Heavy - russian (somewhere in far eastern Siberia) (his family doesn't look white, especially Zhanna, so I think they're probably some kind of siberian people)

BLU Heavy - ??? (swedish? belarusian? idk man)

RED Engie - american (Bee Cave, TX) (I hc the Conaghers as a whole to be a mix of white & latino, so the Engies speak spanish as a second language and often just switch to it to exchange praise/insults/advice without others noticing)

BLU Engie - american (Bee Cave, TX) (RED Engie's cousin although doesn't have the Conagher surname actually)

RED Medic - german obv (Stuttgart) (jewish, although his family probably converted to christianity many years ago and either way they're not particularly religious, Medic is actually the "most religious" of his immediate family but that's just because he knows Satan exists)

BLU Medic - british-greek

RED Sniper - new zealander, half-māori (born in Auckland, raised near-ish to Perth)

BLU Sniper - australian, half-aboriginal (somewhere in the outback in Queensland) (the half-aboriginal thing is also a headcanon I saw somewhere and happily adopted)

RED Spy & BLU Spy - french (Paris) (they're twins)

Edit: Dang it I forgot the tags

[absolutebl]

Hi!

As I have been watching Century of Love and Sunset x Vibes I started to wonder why DaouOffroad and MosBank don't use Hia. I know it's not a must and it absolutely depends on the person but it just got me thinking.

My question is if you could name some couples and/or series (I know of ZeeNeunew and BounPrem) where Hia is used.

I enjoyed reading your blog btw and I hope you have a good day/night!

Hia is only used on those who (are male) and have (or who's character's have) Chinese ancestry.

I don't really consume content rgr the actor's off screen (as branded pairs) BTS but in my experience in Thailand, hia is by invitation only IRL. It's comparatively rare to hear in use around and about. Even for promo I've only really heard ZeeNunew use it. I can't remember if BounPrem do. It's been so long...

You asked specifically about:

MosBank

So Bank is the elder and he's Thai/French/American, no Chinese ancestry that I know of. So I don't see how hia would come into play for them. I don't even know how they manage phi/nong, since couples who mostly portray age flipped age dynamics usually come to some kind of complex negotiation around pronouns when branding in public.

In Big Dragon I am assuming Mos's character had Chinese ancestry but they were age mates so... no hia.

IRL I have no idea on Mos's heritage, but like I said, he's the younger one so hia isn't an option. And if they were to get fuzzy with their pronouns like OhmFluke do, I suspect they would only fuck around with Phi. Hia's a bit more... untouchable? I guess that's how I'd put it.

I talk all about this kind of negotiation here (including ZeeNunew):

DaouOffroad

Okay this is a lot more complicated because these two belonged to a survivor show boy group together LAZ1 (Daou won 1st) before they started doing BLs as a pair.

Daou is Thai and of Teochew Chinese descent. He's also older so technically Offroad could indeed call him hia. But hia is kinda household intimate and a little more complicated than Phi.

Do they use it on circuit? I don't know. But my feeling is Daou would have to make it explicitly welcome, including to any publicity team (model, sponsor, actor, singer). It might even need to be discussed under that context with a whole team (including Offraod's people) because of the greater implications when balanced against a music career and family dynamics.

If I were them I'd settle on phi and avoid the whole messy business.

As for in the show, Century of Love?

Daou's character is A LOT older and def has Chinese ancestry. Offroad's character is calling him phi out the gate (cheeky).

I would expect (and be grumpy if it doesn't happen) this pair to have a linguistic negotiation at some point. We shall see if hia comes into play but rao/ter or something even more old fashioned is more likely. Hia could happen, but it just doesn't feel right for these characters.

More on Thai pronoun use in BL:

In general, like gu/mueng, hia is something you mostly only hear in Thai on screens. But for entirely different reasons.

Hope that helps.

I should add, a foreigner should never use hia unless it's explicitly offered. It's an honorific, but that still would be quite rude. ALSO if you use the wrong tone, it's a VERY bad word.

[paganimagevault]

Tomb of Yu Hong 592-598 CE. Link to my blog at bottom with more sources and description of individual images.

This is probably a Sogdian tomb. Interestingly, the man has a haplogroup that was widespread amongst the blue-eyed Mesolithic/Neolithic Western Hunter Gatherers (WHG are probably where blue eyes originated from) and the haplogroup is found today most prominently in Sami, Finns, and Estonians. His wife has a haplogroup found prominently amongst East Asians. Based on her East Asian origins and the inclusion of some Turkic-looking people in the tomb's artwork I would assume she was probably a Turk, herself. The long-haired men without halos (e.g. panel 4) are probably Turks, that was a typical appearance for them during this time period. Men from other surrounding populations such as the Sogdians, Huns, Tocharians, etc. typically kept shorter hair that didn't go past their shoulders. More info:

"The man buried in the tomb went by Yu Hong (Chinese: 虞弘; pinyin: Yú Hóng; Wade–Giles: Yü Hung; 533–592 AD), with Mopan (莫潘) as his courtesy name, who was a Central Asian, probably of Persian or Sogdian origin, and practiced Zoroastrianism. He had settled in Early Middle Period China during the Northern Qi, Northern Zhou and Sui dynasties. This tomb is so far the only archaeological find in the Central Plains region that reflects Central Asian (Western Regions) culture. The epitaph found in the tomb records that he was a noble of the city of Yü-ho-lin / Yuhelin (尉紇驎) in the mysterious Yu country (魚國), assumably for which he is named, because the two characters 虞 and 魚 are homophones.

According to the epitaph, Yu Hong started his career in service of the nomadic tribe at the time, known as Ruru. At the age of 13, he was posted as an emissary to Persia by the Khagan of Ruru, as well as Parthia, Tuyuhun and Yuezhi. Later he went on a mission to the Northern Qi, Northern Zhou and Sui dynasties. He served as chien-chiao sa-pao fu / jianjiao sabao fu (檢校薩保府, lit. “acting director of the office of Zoroastrian affairs”, or “Sogdian affairs”) during the Northern Zhou period. The term sa-pao / sabao (薩保) comes from the Sogdian s′rtp′w, means a “caravan leader”.

He had later served as a provincial governor in the Sui dynasty government, a chieftain of the Central Asian people who had settled in China during that period. Yu Hong died at the age of 59 in 592 AD. His wife survived him by six years, and was buried in the same grave in 598 AD.

A study on ancient DNA reveals that Yu Hong belonged to the haplogroup U5, one of the oldest western Eurasian-specific haplogroups, while his wife can be classified as haplogroup G, the type prevalent in East Asia.

The age of U5 is estimated at between 25,000 and 35,000 years old, roughly corresponding to the Gravettian culture. Approximately 11% of Europeans (10% of European-Americans) have some variant of haplogroup U5.

U5 was the predominant mtDNA of mesolithic Western Hunter Gatherers (WHG) [this is where blue eyes probably originated from].

U5 has been found in human remains dating from the Mesolithic in England, Germany, Lithuania, Poland, Portugal, Russia, Sweden, France and Spain. Neolithic skeletons (~7,000 years old) that were excavated from the Avellaner cave in Catalonia, northeastern Spain included a specimen carrying haplogroup U5.

Haplogroup U5 and its subclades U5a and U5b today form the highest population concentrations in the far north, among Sami, Finns, and Estonians. However, it is spread widely at lower levels throughout Europe. This distribution, and the age of the haplogroup, indicate individuals belonging to this clade were part of the initial expansion tracking the retreat of ice sheets from Europe around 10,000 years ago.

U5 was the main haplogroup of mesolithic European hunter gatherers. U haplogroups were present at 83% in European hunter gatherers before influx of Middle Eastern farmer and steppe Indo-European ancestry decreased its frequency to less than 21%.

Today, haplogroup G is found at its highest frequency in indigenous populations of the lands surrounding the Sea of Okhotsk. It is an East Asian haplogroup. Haplogroup G is one of the most common mtDNA haplogroups among modern Ainu, Siberian, Mongol, Tibetan and Central and North Asian Turkic peoples people (as well as among people of the prehistoric Jōmon culture in Hokkaidō). It is also found at a lower frequency among many other populations of East Asia, Central Asia, Bangladesh, Sri Lanka, and Nepal. However, unlike other mitochondrial DNA haplogroups typical of populations of northeastern Asia, such as haplogroup A, haplogroup C, and haplogroup D, haplogroup G has not been found among indigenous peoples of the Americas."

-taken from Wikipedia

[tokyosmega]

my headcanons for dndads feat. fanart i've done (flag explanations under cut)

*every character was raised in america, but their families have been here for varying amounts of generations*

SCARY:

veronica is czech and polish and her family has been in amercia for about 3-4 generations. samantha is african american and does not know where her african ancestors are from (fucking slave trade not documenting people and leaving generations of black americans without any semblance of a family history) but her family has been in america for a long time. ron is polish and german and his family has been in america for 3 generations.

TAYLOR:

cassandra is chinese and greek and she is 2nd generation. morgan is thai and she is 2nd generation. glenn and jodie are both han chinese (even though jodie is also a demon lol) and they are 3rd generation.

NORMAL:

rebecca is mexican and is 3rd generation. mercedes is ecuadorian and is 1st generation. henry is ... an elf? only like 1 of his grandparents was a human from earth and idk how human ethnicities in the forgotten realms work.

LINCOLN:

sooo my headcanon is that lincoln was probably born ON the titanic to a white woman who had had an affair with a black man and her white husband was Not happy that she cheated, which is why she was trying to get rid of her child and marco and grant were able to adopt him <3 marco is malaysian and his family has been in america for a long time. darryl is american with irish ancestry and his family has been in america for a long time. carol is american and british her family has been in america for a long time.

(not pictured but meryl is a chinese immigrant, stud is a polish immigrant who mostly grew up in nyc, hildy is german and 3rd generation, and robert is irish and 2nd generation)

[atlaculture]

hi, i don't know if you answer these types of questions but i wanted to ask that is there a way i could make my oc who's ethnically (african-american, afro-bahamian and ashkenazi jewish) a bender? i first thought of her as a waterbender, but because the water tribes are based on arctic communities i don't think it works. is there any option that would work in this case?

Personally, I'm of the opinion that our OCs can be from any nation, regardless of where we draw our cultural inspirations from. With this current Avatar renaissance, the franchise is taking in even more varied sources than the original 2000s show.

@jasmine-green-t has an amazing post about how the four elements system would coincide with different African cultures and beliefs:

https://www.tumblr.com/narrativelysignificantturtleduck/744626586736869376/this-is-a-really-cool-post-and-ive-had-this

I suppose my approach to introducing new cultures into the series would depend on the nation...

Fire - One of the Fire Nation islands has a culture that's more isolated/unique compared to the Chinese/Thai culture we see on the "main" island. Example in canon: The Sun Warriors.

Earth - Similarly, the Earth Kingdom is such a large landmass that an isolated area with its own distinct culture separate from the rest of the EK makes perfect sense. Examples in canon: Kyoshi Island, Song's Village, the Si Wong Desert, etc.

Water - The Water Tribe has settlements all over the globe. The settlements end up developing cultures that are very different from the arctic traditions of the poles. Example in canon: The Foggy Swamp.

Air - The Air Nomads take inspiration from different Buddhist traditions and religious sites, rather than a specific country's practices. However, your character could be an airbender with Air Nomad ancestry, without necessarily being involved in the Air Nomad culture/practices. Example in canon: Korra Season 3.

Like what I’m doing? Tips always appreciated, never expected. ^_^

https://ko-fi.com/atlaculture