#v;modern take on a dying breed

[vastiitas]

// Something Plotted ... @ischaron

Heat chokes this motel room with claustrophobia. An iron-tasting humidity wells up its four-corners and threatens to burst the faux-wood wall lining that has not yet left the 80's. A man and a woman are placed naked and raw on their knees in some rotten display of prayer against the footboard of their rented bed. Purple bruises a tyrant's path along the thick-braided rope that binds their feet and hands; their eyes marred empty, stolen, and their throats scored open in a sloppy, ugly mess of a blood-letting two steps away from a Columbian Tongue. The latter is recent, the former is not, and Cole knows without looking closer that their death was a cruelly prolonged one.

Rian is locked shoulders. His rage fills up the room as much as the Death pulp that heaves its viscera all over the walls, and Cole eyes the tempest of black plumes that simmers and seethes from his skin like the twisting exhaust of a fire choking in on itself.

There is a wedding ring on their fingers. In the wallet that has been placed neatly, almost mockingly, atop the TV stand next to their folded clothes, there will be a family picture with a newly orphaned daughter.

He thinks he can hear Reaper's hooves clop restlessly outside. A horse's breath, too rough, too agitated.

A drag from a cigarette. Parted lips. A pause that anchors him, briefly, in a hesitation that he has no explanation for. But he stares down at Rian's clenched fists, the white-knuckled bone that tremors with something unbidden, and he lifts himself from where he has leaned up against the wall.

"Rian."

[vastiitas]

❝ you might- hate this question, but- ❞ contemplative in dim lighting of his apartment, save for florescent desk lamp that illuminated scattered tools and spare parts. he'd just about done it, turned the tide on formerly restrictive innovation and made it something useful. who better, than his current volunteer?

❝ ... how does it feel? ❞ peter prompted further, gentle fingers at the back of the cybernetic hand, eyes sweeping over it's palm. free hand moved to trace joints with his fingertips, tentative in case the sensation was unwelcome.

Hunkered down in Peter's apartment with all the lights shunted dim save for a single bright eye feels– is a private affair. Peeling off his prosthetic, despite the promise of innovation, despite his agreement to it, runs deep against an instinctive grain; it scabs itchy beneath the skin, catches rugburn friction that ruins him to a hypervigilance, but Cole unlatches the harnesses anyways, allows Peter to help him shrug off his device, slow and careful, and store it to the side where the harsh flourescent can no longer see it.

He listens, mostly, as Peter pursues installation; studies, distractedly, the concentrated knot that needles at the man's brow, the focused purse of lips blooming in the lowlight, before prying his attention to what is being explained, the circuitry that blinks beneath a soldering iron. A question broaches into the air, now and then – some idle-minded curiosity proving him beyond some passive passenger. But, for the most part, he listens; he watches.

Time churns, here, in a strange manner of too fast and too slow.

you might- hate this question, but- how does it feel?

And, instantly, the finger tips twitch as Peter's hands whisper over the new joints. Sensation, a ghost dancing over long-dead nerves, re-emerging without the haunt of phantom pain and he jerks in his own seat by the abrupt surprise of it; that he can feel Peter's hands cupping the back of the prosthetics and holding it.

He breathes mutedly, rolling his wrist forward, curling in the fingers. This, too, produces feedback.

"... It doesn't hurt."

It's whispered, private, an almost-confession in the dark of Peter Parker's apartment. His eyes flit up. They lock.

"I can feel your hands."

[sapphiremusings]

THE GIFT OF VENGEANCE | aemond targaryen

summary: Aemond replayed this image on a loop, squirming in his seat every time he got to the part where her eyes popped out of her skull.

Two eyes for his one, and the eight years he went without his revenge.

8.5k

cw: female!lucerys velaryon, au-modern setting, explicit sexual content, dubcon, graphic depictions of violence, sadist!aemond, obsessive!aemond, dark!aemond, choking, p in v, oral sex (fem!receiving), blood kink, biting, mentions of childhood trauma, breeding kink, uncle/niece, kinda DD:DE? not that dead though… u might be able to eat…

He hears her first, that soft tittering which haunted his childhood, piercing straight into the marred socket of his left eye, down the monstrous scar she had left him with.

She sits behind him, planked between her brothers, the only daughter of his half-sister, and therefore the most beloved. Maybe Jacaerys had whispered a joke, his lips sticky against the shell of her ear, laughter bubbling up her throat at whatever inane quip he made. A part of him, the one that dominated his childhood, leaving him cowering along the sand and crying fat tears into his mothers skirts, thinks that maybe they’re whispering about him– their stoic, one-eyed uncle, whom they once taunted and teased as children. Her amusement echoes around the corners of his mind, running along every ridge of his spine and settling deep within him, into an endless pool of festering hatred.

It had been years since Aemond had seen his half-sister and her litter of bastards, but now that he has, he’s ready to never see them again. The rift between their families is slowly starting to mend, threads of green and black pulling together to stitch up the hole that was left after Laena’s funeral, and the taking of his eye. His mother, once reverent in her hatred for Rhaenyra, now holds onto her arm with a newfound longing, fingers rubbing circles along the long scar she had given her that same night, when she had demanded an eye for an eye. It was one of his fondest memories– Lucerys crying out in terror as Alicent rushed towards her holding a dagger, her darling face twisted in fear, hiding behind her mothers skirts. Even when his empty socket was throbbing with an intense pain that not even milk of the poppy could cure, he still relished in the sight.

His father had been slowly dying for years before he finally succumbed to his illness, something Aemond had anticipated every time he walked past his room, the sour stench of rot and sickness permeating through the shut doors, along with the constant beeping of medical machinery. The funeral had been just as droll as his last days, with Aegon slumped beside him, sunglasses slipping down the bridge of his nose, stinking of the bottle he had downed beforehand. Helaena was busy slouched over, peering down at the iridescent beetle that crawled around her fingers, muttering to herself, ignorant to the snorts Aegon would give and the shushing their mother hissed. And Daeron, the youngest of his siblings, was perched between mother and their grandfather, in which he had spent most of his childhood with, a good boy who listened steadfastly to the sermon. Behind him, the Velaryon siblings sat, from eldest to youngest, hands clasped together as they mourned in a way Aemond hadn’t.

Her presence seared into him, burning down to his bones, etching itself into the very marrow of him. The gods were feeling particularly cruel this day, and he listened to the sound of his niece’s sniffling, soft sobs leaving her lips in the place of the laughter he was once used to. He had wanted nothing more than to turn around, to peer upon her darling face, flushed a splotchy pink as tears streamed down her cheeks, the tip of her nose red and her brown eyes wide and watery, eyelashes clumped with tears. He imagined himself grabbing ahold of the chub of her cheeks, squashed beneath his fingers as he plunges his thumbs into her eye sockets, the white mush mixing with her crimson blood, a beautiful concoction made just for him. The thought dizzied him, and while speeches were given and prayers were sung, Aemond replayed this image on a loop, squirming in his seat every time he got to the part where her eyes popped out of her skull. Two eyes for his one, and the eight years he went without his revenge.

He remembers how those eyes, big and glimmering with a certain mischief, would peer at him with the curiosity of a doe, as if trying to figure out what made him tick. A brush of her fingers against the back of his hand, the warmth of her breath against his jaw, her gangly limbs stumbling over his own. These small tortures she’d inflict on him, only to turn and laugh in the wake of his trauma, when their older brothers would taunt and tease him incessantly. She’d trail after them, giggling at their antics with a small hand held over her mouth, the apples of her cheeks flushed red in mirth. He had hated her for it. Her ignorance hurt more than any push or shove Aegon or Jacaerys could bestow upon him.

“D’you think mum will notice if I leave?” Aegon slurs in his ear, spittle fanning across his jaw as he leans heavily against his shoulder, already in a drunken stupor. “She seems rather occupied, right?”

Aemond has to force himself not to sneer, eye twitching in annoyance as Aegon sways on his unsteady feet. His older brother has long been the family’s drunken embarrassment, but to see him act this way in front of their half-sister and her clan irritates him more than it usually would. Aegon’s beady eyes are glazed over, partly focused on their mother, who stands at Rhaenyra’s side like a leech, mouth twisted into a pitiful smile as she hangs onto every word that leaves the silver-haired bitch’s lips.

Aemond hums. “She’d notice eventually.”

He expects Aegon to stumble off, his clipped tone hinting to an end of the conversation, but instead, he chuckles. “Our little niece has grown into quite the woman, wouldn’t you say?”

The brothers watch as she chats with Daemon, their uncle and her stepfather, his towering figure dwarfing her smaller one. As Targaryen’s, hailed from Old Valyria and of an ancient bloodline, rumored to be connected to fantastical dragons, incestuous relations were once common within their family. After the turn of the century, their house which was once full of riches and immense power, halted in this practice. That is, until Rhaenyra whored herself out to her father’s brother at a young age. Despite this scandal, his half-sister steadily remained their father’s favorite, even after her marriage to Daemon and the birth of two sons.

“Come, brother. There’s no need to play shy,” Aegon snickers in Aemond’s silence, the alcoholic stench of his breath lingering under his nose. “We are Targaryen’s after all… surely you’ve thought about giving it to her. I know I have. Especially after the… incident.”

“I have no taste for such depravity.”

His brother groans, hand slipping off his shoulder as he wobbles off, unsatisfied with Aemond’s answer. Before he can leave, Aemond reaches out to stop him, leaning down to whisper in his ear. “You’re embarrassing us, lēkia.”

Aegon merely shrugs him off, stumbling over his feet as he walks out of the room, barely making it through the archway without tripping. The sight makes him grumble, jawbone tense as he grinds his teeth, returning his attention to the window, where a mess of dark curls now sits, face hidden from view. He has only glimpsed her once, when leaving the funeral, her eyes watery and nose tinted a shade of pink, tear tracks staining her cheeks. She had smiled at him. The image has been playing on a loop inside his head, a never ending reel of her pretty face and that ringing laugh, ever since he saw it.

Lucerys Velaryon has always been beautiful, he thinks. The features he has always hated in her brother– that stubby nose, the freckles along their cheeks, their dark hair and dark eyes– sneering down at him as he pushed him to the ground, were always devastating in her. As children, he had imagined she was the Maiden reincarnated, the most beautiful creature he’d ever laid eyes on, even when she’d laugh in his misery, carrying out her small tortures with every lingering look and every brush of her skin against his. After she took his eye, her face began to haunt him for different reasons, and his dreams of her becoming his bride turned into nightmares where her laugh would echo around his head while her blade cut into his flesh once again, this time taking his other eye as well. His hatred grew into a cruel thing, festering deep inside him until it started to rot through his bones, and every thought turned violent.

Rhaenyra would send their father pictures of her and her bastards, and he’d hang them around the house, in every hallway and on every fireplace mantle. Every year, they’d have a new picture, and as if to taunt him, Lucerys’ was always hung on the wall across from his bedroom door. He has always suspected Aegon of this pettiness, for his brother would often catch him glaring at the portrait from his doorway, eye tracing the curls of her hair and the curve of her jaw. Her eyes seemed to follow him as he walked, up until he would slam his door shut, locking her away from view. His hatred, still burning bright, had mixed with a different feeling that left a tight coil in his stomach, one which twisted more and more each time he saw that damned portrait.

Her face is etched along the inside of his eyelid, forced to see her every time he closes his eye. He has memorized every freckle, every curve and dip, even the milky scar that sits near her hairline from an accident when they were children, when Aegon had bumped into her, causing her to fall and hit her forehead against a jagged rock. The sight of her blood along the stones had nauseated him at the time, and so did her tears, fat as they dripped down her cheeks and into her wailing mouth. Now, he thinks he would quite like to see her blood again, to hear her cries as he inflicts the same pain she had once inflicted on him. His pants grow tighter at the thought, but he can’t find it in himself to be ashamed.

The air in the room grows thick, and he watches as Jacaerys stands above her, hand resting on the crown of her head, fingers slowly caressing the strands. She looks up with a small smile, eyes glowing in the midday sun that shines through the window next to her. His hands curl into fists, knuckles turning white as she laughs again, the sound ringing in his ears like a persistent bell. He quickly makes his way out of the stuffy room, shoulders tense as he passes by his mother and half-sister, neither of whom have looked away from one another since their reunion. The hallway is empty, and so is the looming staircase, which he climbs in stride, farther away from the center room and her lingering laugh. Beneath his eyepatch, his empty socket begins to throb, a searing pain shooting through the wound until his vision nearly goes white, and he’s left stumbling into his room, collapsing on the bed.

His curtains are still closed, shielding him away from the blazing sun, leaving his room dark with only slivers of light shining along the floor. He lays among rumpled sheets, tugging off the leather patch fastened around his head, bringing a shaky palm up to cover the aching hole. He is used to this pain, which plagues him more often than not, but within the presence of the one who created it, it seems to swell over him like a tidal wave. He barely hears the knock on his door, and when he doesn’t answer, a few seconds go by, until someone barges in.

Even in the dark he can still make out her wide eyes and the sheath of curls around her shoulders, her steps timid as she comes to a stop at the edge of his bed, fingers curled together in a nervous habit. “Are you alright, uncle?”

Her soft voice rouses him, his palm pressing deeper into his empty socket, while he looks up at her hovering figure. Her eyes dart over his face, lingering on his hand which covers his wound, and he wonders if she is remembering how he had covered his eye that night she had taken it, how he screamed and cried atop the sand, blood seeping through the cracks of his fingers, a perfect match to the blood dripping from the dagger in her small hands. When she quickly averts her gaze to a corner of his room, he feels a smug satisfaction rumbling in his chest.

“I… I’m sorry to bother you,” she murmurs, voice faltering slightly in his silence. “I was asked to come check on you.”

He hums. “By who?”

She’s quiet, eyes flicking back at him as if she is surprised by the sound of his voice. He merely stares back, palm growing sweaty in its position. Like a deer caught in headlights, her mouth opens and closes, before she finally speaks.

“Our mothers wish for our families to make amends. Given the death of Viserys.”

Aemond sits up at this, dropping his hand to his lap, stare hardening as her eyes dart to the now exposed scar, to the gaping hole where his eye once laid. She swallows, but makes no attempt to back away or close her eyes. Instead, Lucerys draws closer, head leaning over to get a better look at her work in the dim room. His stomach churns, fingers inching towards the eyepatch that sits beside him, yet he stops himself from grabbing it. No, he wants her to see what she did to him.

“You want to make amends?” he pushes, voice raspy from his dry throat. He sits up farther, leaning closer to her hovering frame. She nods. “And how do you plan on doing that, riñītsos?”

She looks at him in trepidation, lips tugging downwards and her brows furrowing above her dark eyes. The black dress she wears is short, hem stopping in the middle of her thighs, the material tight around her waist, and his eye snags on the motion of one of the straps falling off her shoulder, resting above a small freckle. She doesn’t seem to notice, or maybe she just doesn’t care, her stare not wavering as she makes no move to fix it. There’s a look in her eyes he’s never seen before, something gleaming and intoxicating, drawing him into a pool of soft velvet. He wants to hold them, those delicate globes, in his hands, feel the warm slime of them like two marbles.

In a quick motion, spurred on by his vivid imagination, he grabs ahold of her jaw, tugging her face close to his. “Will you take out your eye, hm? Give me what’s been owed all these years?”

Lucerys surprises him. Instead of falling back in fear, she merely smiles. It’s sardonic in nature, and he watches in trepidation as her eyes flicker down to rest upon his lips. So quick, he barely registers it, yet the action shocks a bolt of lightning down his spine, and his grip on her jaw tightens in a mix of dubiety and fury. Her smile only seems to grow wider at this, as if she is aware of every thought crossing his mind, nestling their way into the mush of his brain.

“Is that what you want, uncle? My eye?”

It is, he thinks. And so much more. He wasn’t lying when he told Aegon he has no taste for depravity, always the dutiful son despite what has befell him. Aemond tries hard to wash away his vengeful urges, the stirring of his cock when he imagines his little niece writhing in pain, covered in bruises and bleeding cuts, her eyes wide and tearful as she squeals like a piglet, under the might of his fists and his knife. His thoughts have only grown darker, crueler than he cared to admit, with flashes of his suckling on her open wounds like his mothers tit when he was a babe, warm blood resting along his tongue instead of milk. Nothing would taste as sweet, he was sure of it.

With a tug, Lucerys topples over him, her body plush against his own, and he quickly flips them over, his knees up against her ribcage. Her face is flushed from exertion, her hands scrambling against his chest and shoulders, legs kicking out from under him, though her efforts are in vain as Aemond merely tightens his grip around her. Stubbornly, her lips pursed into a sour smile, she stops her struggling and stares up at him in defiance.

“Go ahead then,” she goads, raising her chin and bringing her hands up to rest against his back, fingernails digging through his shirt and into his skin. He hopes they leave marks. “I won’t scream. I won’t fight. I refuse to give you the satisfaction of my pain, uncle.”

A deep, twisted rage sits within him, rising in plumes of smoke like the molten lava from an exploding volcano, and as he glares down at his sweet niece, the image of their homeland flashes across his vision. Their ancestors once lived on the island of Valyria, a prosperous place that had been home to the largest mount, which erupted and destroyed the land, as well as all those who resided there. A few Targaryen’s were lucky to escape just a few years before, and he thinks about this luck now, bringing a hand up to wrap around the width of Lucerys’ neck. She keeps her word; she doesn’t fight back, doesn’t try to scream, even as his fingers tighten enough to bruise, cutting off her air circulation. Tears gather at the corners of her eyes, and Aemond finds himself groaning, arousal splashing over him like ice water.

He removes his hand. Lucerys gasps for air, nails no longer digging into his skin, hands now limp around his waist. Her gaze looks down, chest heaving as she slightly tilts her head, focusing on Aemond’s lap. With a flush, he realizes she’s staring at his erection, which is pushing against his trousers, its heaviness resting against her abdomen. Her eyes glimmer at the sight, pink lips tugging upwards into another smug smile, hands inching towards his thighs that are still wrapped around her. When her fingers press against his thighs, he jolts back.

She sits up with a small laugh. “I thought you wanted to put out my eye, Aem.”

The nickname, one he hasn’t heard since they were children, running along the beach together, toes nestling along the sand, salty waves lapping against their ankles. It makes his chest twinge, an ache forming under his ribs, and he quickly turns away, resting his hands on the wooden surface of his desk. “Get out.”

It’s quiet, with only the sound of their families downstairs, chatting and laughing, which does nothing to help the tension of the room. He hears her sigh, short legs twisting beneath her as she climbs off his bed, shoes hitting the floor softly. She lingers at the door, hand resting on the doorknob while her eyes burn holes into his back, willing him to say something, but he doesn’t. He merely waits in silence, solemn in the dark corner of his room, among his books and journals. It’s only when he hears the door open and shut, and the sound of her footsteps retreating down the hallway and onto the stairs, does he sit back on his bed, lowering himself down to press his nose against the spot where she once laid, the scent of her still fresh on his sheets.

*

She’s taunting him, eyes avoiding his own one-eyed stare, dark hair fanning over her face every time she turns to speak to her brother, as if she’s hiding from him. As if she hadn’t smiled as he sat atop her, hands around her neck, a threat on the tip of his tongue. Now, she sits across from him, at the far end of the long dining table, nothing but wood and various dishes separating them.

Perhaps he should’ve taken her eye when he had the chance, he thinks. In the moment, he had doubted she wouldn’t have screamed. He knows the pain of losing an eye all too well, searing and bone-deep. Despite her promises, Lucerys Velaryon would’ve cried out the minute his blade touched her skin, and their families would have rushed into the room and stopped him in his act of revenge. No, if he was to take her eye, he needed to do so in a secluded place, where no one could interrupt him.

Helaena, sitting beside him, mumbles something, her hand feather-light against his own. He looks over at her, and she merely lifts out her other palm, showing him the fuzzy caterpillar that slowly moves along her skin. He can’t help but smile, though his sister doesn’t notice as she keeps her lilac gaze on the small critter she holds, moving her hand from him to run a finger gently down its spine. Next to her, Aegon snorts in his cup, taking another swig before leaning back in his chair, a slimy grin on his face.

“Have you given any more thought to what I said earlier, little brother?”

His words are slurred, and Aemond decides to ignore him, lifting his own cup to his lips and taking a sip. In the middle, his mother sits beside Rhaenyra, their heads bent towards one another, lips pulled into wistful smiles, as if they are old friends, or perhaps lovers. Daemon had gone home, taking their three youngest with him, as well as his twin daughters, leaving his niece-wife and her two eldest in the hands of the woman they both once despised.

Aegon, never one for taking hints, continues. “If you don’t want her, I’ll be happy to show our dear niece a good time. I have hopes she’ll be… pure.”

Clenching his jaw, Aemond finally looks over at his drunken brother, giving him the attention he seemingly craves. Aegon smirks, head tipped forward as he leans over Helaena, who is still too busy with her caterpillar. From the corner of his eye, he can see their mother looking over at her eldest son cautiously, though when Rhaenyra whispers something in her ear, she looks away.

Aemond opens his mouth to respond, but is interrupted by the sound of Lucerys’ laughter, and the breaking of glass. Him and Aegon advert their gazes to the opposite end of the table, where Jacaerys stands with reddened cheeks, holding the broken stem of a wine glass. Lucerys is hunched over, laughter bubbling out of her lips, tears dotting the corners of her eyes, reminding Aemond of when he had his hands around her throat only a few hours earlier. The thought makes him shift in his seat, a sliver of heat darting through his abdomen.

“Jace… oh my God,” she stutters out, still laughing, hand lifting up as she shows the table her palm, where a shard of glass sticks out, blood trickling down her wrist. Jace immediately darts forward, grabbing her arm, tilting her hand towards him so he can inspect the wound, eyebrows furrowed in worry. “It’s fine, brother. I’m okay!”

Rhaenyra also rounds the table, cradling her daughter's head against her chest, smoothing a hand down her curls. Lucerys continues to laugh, though it slowly starts to turn into giggles, which eventually die down until she’s left hiccupping, ruddy cheeks stained with tears from her outburst. His mother had run off, and now she returns, first aid kit in hand, which she gives to his half-sister, who puts her hand on Lucerys’ shoulder, pushing her to sit back in her chair. Aemond watches as her blood continues a path down her arm, before beginning to drip onto the surface of the table, leaving small dots of crimson.

She watches with watery eyes as her mother grabs a pair of tweezers, going for the glass jutting out her skin. “Shh, it’s okay, my darling girl.”

The shard is slowly pulled out, a bubbling of more blood rising to the surface, and Aemond watches with a hard cock. It’s placed on a napkin atop the table, next to the pool of blood that now seeps into the wood, yet no one moves to clean it up. Or maybe his mother does, her scabbed fingers wiping the liquid away with a cloth, always one for cleanliness. Aemond wouldn’t know, as his eye is trained on the cut along Lucerys’ palm, as her own mother tends to it. A wipe is swiped across, turning from white to red, and then comes the gauze, which is wrapped around continuously, until the blood ceases to seep through the material. The whole time, his little niece sits without flinching, eyes watching him as he watches her.

When she’s finished, the wound now covered, the room is quiet for just a moment, before a booming clap of thunder echoes against the walls, and the sound of pouring rain pings off the roof. Jace is on his knees beside his sister, hands holding her wrist, whispering apologies in her ear, ones which she doesn’t reply to as she continues to stare across the table. It isn’t until Jace follows her gaze that she replies, before picking up her fork and stabbing at a lone carrot that sits on her plate, bringing it up to her lips as she finally looks away, giving her older brother a smile.

Dinner continues as before, and by now, Aegon has slumped over his chair, fast asleep in his drunkenness. Their mother, surprisingly, pays him no mind, and neither does Helaena, who excuses herself to her room, eyes still focused on the crawling insect she holds. Rhaenyra continuously peeks over at Lucerys, face glossed in worry, but she merely listens to her brother talk, occasionally nodding her head or laughing softly at whatever it is he was droning on about. With nothing to distract him, Aemond is silent in his suffering as he watches her, eye flickering down to her wrapped palm every few minutes, as if willing it to peel off and show him that red slice once more.

The storm has gotten worse, lightning flashing through the closed windows nearly every second, the thunder becoming so loud that it interrupts his mother and half-sisters conversation, the both of them wondering aloud on whether it will pass or continue through the night. It is already dark out, the ticking clock reading nine o’clock, and it is his mother who proposes the idea.

“Please, Rhaenyra,” her fingers rub against her scar, eyes pleading. “Stay. It is too dangerous to leave now, in the dark while it’s storming so heavily. We have more than enough guest rooms for you, Luke, and Jace to stay in.”

His mothers use of Lucerys’ nickname jolts him. Beside him, Aegon lets out a snore.

Despite her wariness, Rhaenyra agrees to stay the night, and Aemond thinks he has never seen his mother so happy before. With a huff, he stands, and when his mother doesn’t even look at him, too busy staring at his whore half-sister with stars in her eyes, he takes that as his cue to leave. He glances over at Lucerys once more, both her and Jace now watching him, their matching eyes and noses making him want to sneer. Instead, he makes his way out of the dining room, his steps heavy as he trudges up the stairs, head throbbing in tune with the pattering rain.

*

He can barely sleep, his body restless as he tosses and turns among rumpled sheets, nose twitching against the scent of her that still lingers. Aemond swears he can feel her, even as she sleeps just down the hall, and his skin is slick with sweat, a pulse running through his swelling cock. He teases himself, brushing a hand between his thighs, coiling away when he only gets harder, silver hair sticking to his flushed face as he lays there with the heavy weight of shame bearing down on his chest. His only solace being the plip-plop of the rain against his window, the storm now passed, leaving only that soft sound in its wake, soothing along his headache.

Something wriggles beneath the skin of his chest, insistent as he sits up, looking around the dark room, a warning bell ringing within his ears. When he looks out the window, a flash of white crosses his vision, and for a moment, he thinks the storm has started again. It isn’t until he sees her curls, slightly damp and sticking to her shoulders, does he realize that it’s her, not the storm. She walks across the backyard, towards the small woods that sits behind their estate, clad in nothing but her nightgown. Without thinking, Aemond is slipping on a shirt and his shoes, his steps rushed as he sneaks down the stairs and out the backdoor, gaze trained on her retreating figure.

The rain is merely a drizzle now, yet it still dampens his clothes and hair, leaving raindrops along his skin, as he walks between trees, swiping at hanging branches and leaves, holding his breath as he stalks after her. She doesn’t seem to hear him, as she continues on, not faltering in her pace. The path she’s leading looks familiar to him, and he realizes that it’s the same path they used to trek as children. It leads to an old lake, full of tiny fish and swampy water, which they used to dare one another to jump in, all too afraid of what lurked below the muck. When they make it to the clearing, Lucerys doesn’t hesitate to walk up to the bank, standing along withered stones and tall weeds. The sight of the water stops Aemond in his tracks, a memory rushing to him like a vision.

It had been the hottest summer of their young lives that year, and they all spent it among the trees, lounging under the cool air the shade provided, playing trolls and goblins. When they had first discovered the lake, it was Aegon who pushed Aemond in. He had flailed within the dirty water, pale arms splashing through algae and brine as he gasped out for help, not yet knowing how to swim. Jace and Aegon had stood on the bank laughing, and to his horror, Lucerys had disappeared. It wasn’t until she rushed out from the trees, Uncle Daemon in tow, that Aemond was saved, laying along the grass and coughing up water and vomit, shivering under the stares of those around him, Daemon’s hand hard as it slapped his back. His mother had scolded Aegon, who swore he didn’t remember that his younger brother couldn’t swim, and he only became more cruel in his anger after she grounded him.

As he remembers the look on Lucerys’ young face, pinched in worry, cheeks flushed pink and bright eyes teary, he thinks perhaps he had just imagined that part. It was what he once dreamed most of; his niece caring for him. He knows this is far from the truth, as she spins around, arms held out in front of her, gaze locked on his lingering figure. Her lips curl into a sweet smile, and she wiggles her fingers, as if she is beckoning him over. Aemond finds that his rage has made another appearance, replacing his pondering with a rising fury as he makes his way towards her, swaying on her bare feet, her grin brighter than the full moon in the sky above them.

He reaches out for her, hands tight against her arms, and he watches with a curious gaze as her flesh pebbles beneath his touch, her damp skin dotted with raindrops and gooseflesh. Her head is heavy as she beams up at him, eyes hazy with sleep, her lashes fluttering under his stare. She whispers his name, lips plush around the word, dropping her head to rest against his thumping chest, nose nuzzling along the cotton of his shirt. For a moment, Aemond allows himself to revel in her warmth, his own nose resting within her hair, dark curls tickling his cheeks, and he inhales deeply, the smell of lavender and honey and rain intoxicating his senses. Lucerys presses herself closer, and as the minutes tick by, he realizes she has been sleepwalking.

Aemond has only heard tales about Lucerys’ supposed sleepwalking habit. Years ago, according to Rhaenyra, Lucerys had nearly walked out the top window in her room, her eyes open wide in an unwavering stare, bare feet pressed against the sill. It had taken Daemon picking her up and carrying her to her bed to get her to safety, and the next morning, when asked about what had happened the previous night, Lucerys hadn’t a clue what they were talking about. Daemon took to installing locks on all the windows around their home, and after that, Aemond hadn’t heard much else about his niece’s sleepwalking. He figured it was a thing of the past, something she has grown out of in the shedding of her adolescence.

Now, she stands slumped against his chest, breathing steady and her lips parted as soft sighs and snores escape her throat. The rain picks up, drizzling harder than before, and a rumbling of thunder is heard along the horizon, yet Lucerys looks peaceful in her slumber, even as Aemond’s grip on her becomes tighter. A twisted part of him thinks about how easy it would be to hurt her now, as she lays in the mercy of his hands, the same in which once easily wrapped around her throat and squeezed until her face was red. Another part of him, one much darker and persistent, wishes to slip the thin straps of her nightgown down her shoulders, to suckle on her pert nipples which press against the sheer satin, to dip a hand between her supple thighs and caress the hottest part of her.

Her neck is bare, and as he looks down, he realizes with sudden certainty that there is no one here to stop him. The moon is aglow, locusts buzzing within the grass, an occasional hoot from a lone owl, and they are in the middle of the woods, in a place unknown by anyone but them as children. She is pliant within his hold, lashes resting against her cheeks, heartbeat steady within her delicate chest. It is something he had once dreamed of, swathed in sweat-soaked sheets, cock spent along his taut stomach. And with a single dip of his chin, he is able to press his lips along the skin of her neck, right below her thrumming pulse.

She doesn’t stir, not even as his lips form a path down to her collarbones, the bones jutting out just enough for him to bite around, the feel of it between his teeth making him groan. His tongue slicks against the mark, dipping into each indent, before making its way up to her jaw, where he nibbles and sucks on the skin. His hands have moved to rest upon her hips, but as she starts to slip from his grasp, he wraps his arms around her waist, pressing her close to him once more, her breasts plush against his soaked shirt, nipples scratching between them.

He barely hears the gasp. “A-Aemond…?”

Her hands come up to his shoulders, pushing frantically as he bites down on the skin of her jaw, the sharp ache making her yelp. When he tastes blood, he finally softens, lips now wrapped around the skin, tongue lapping over the small wound. As Lucerys continues to squirm, fingernails now digging into his skin, he wrestles her to the ground, hands squelching in the mud beneath her as he holds himself above her, lips stained with a single drop of blood.

“Where are we? How did…” she trails off, realization clicking as she takes in the dark sky and the pajamas she still wears. Her eyes are glossy as she gazes up at him, the mark on her jaw shining like a beacon, encouraging him to press himself against her again. This time, she doesn’t struggle, still confused as she looks around the clearing, catching sight of the familiar lake.

His cock is pulsating as it rests between them, and he barely notices as he cants his hips to rub along her clothed cunt, white-hot pleasure shooting up his spine, making him close his eye and press his lips to her throat once again. Her breath hitches at his movements, her own legs unconsciously spreading wider, opening herself up for him to rut against her like a hound in heat. Shame twinges within his brain, yet Lucerys wraps an arm around his back, as if encouraging his ministrations, and he forces it to the back of his mind as he digs his fingers into the slick mud, hips rocking faster. She whines out, “Aem.”

In a frenzy, he brings a hand up to paw at her dress, tugging down the straps until he bares her breasts, mud staining the fabric and her skin. His lips are quick to wrap around them, going back and forth between the two, before slipping a pert nipple into his mouth, groaning at the taste of her. He imagines them swollen with milk, her stomach round with his child, her hands smoothing down his hair as he nurses from her, her sweet liquid warm as it pools in the pit of him. He grows harder at the thought, teeth nibbling at the bud, his body weight crashing atop her as he brings his other hand over to caress her other breast, fingers tweaking the lonely nipple. Her back seems to arch beneath him, her own hips matching the rhythm of his, her breath hot against his head.

“Please,” she whispers, tugging at the strands of his hair. When her pulling becomes harsher, he allows her to tug him up, her mouth agape as she tilts her chin, searching for his lips. She kisses him, wanton as she juts out her hips against his, hands frantic as they run down his shoulders and under his soaked shirt, nails scratching along his skin. Her tongue slips over his, and he thinks she tastes like the sweetest poison, of cherries and arsenic.

He pushes himself up once more, knees digging into the earth beneath him, and he doesn’t think as he rips off her dress, pulling it down her legs in one swipe. Her underwear is purple, a pretty shade of lilac that reminds him of his own eye, with a little rose in the middle, now stained with mud and grass as she writhes, trying to hide the patch of wetness that seeps through the dainty fabric. Aemond is quick to lean down, pressing his nose against her navel, the smell of rain and sleep tainting her flesh, and he gives her a small lick, from her belly button to the hem of her underwear. She whines, bare chest heaving as she looks down at him, eyes pleading underneath a cloud of wariness, brows furrowed as if she is fighting a battle within her mind. When he comes face to face with her clothed cunt, he doesn’t hesitate to press his tongue against the spot of her arousal, the cotton soft along his tongue as he laps at it, trying to taste her slickness.

“Iksan jāre naejot qogralbar ao,” he grits out over the rain, his cock aching as he lays flat against it, head still between her thighs. “Yn jaelan naejot sylutegon ao ēlī.” (I am going to fuck you. But I want to taste you first).

He doesn’t ponder over whether she knows High Valyrian, the language of their ancestors, but when she lets out a moan, her head nodding against the ground, a sense of pride settles within him. He pulls the last remaining piece of clothing off, bringing his hands to her thighs, which he pushes up so that her knees are pressed against her chest, leaving her wide open for him. A groan leaves him at the sight of her wet cunt, and when he lays his tongue flat against her pearl, he nearly creams his pajama pants at the pulsing of her and the taste of her arousal. Like a man starved, his tongue laps over the whole of her, licking and sucking as she writhes and moans, a flush starting from her chest to her hairline washing over her like a veil. His hips grind into the earth below him, his eye focused on her wet face, strands of her dark hair stuck to her cheeks and across her gaping lips. He thinks she might look even prettier like this than when she cries.

She’s wanton in her moans, head lolling back and forth, eyes squeezed shut as Aemond presses a finger into her wet cavern, his own eye fluttering shut at the tightness, a ring of soft muscles clenching down. His tongue focuses on her pearl, which throbs as he flicks and presses against it, engorged in its pleasure, and as he crooks a finger up inside her, her hips buck up in a spasm, though the grip he has on her legs, which still press up to her chest, stops her from moving. A loud whimper leaves her lips, and her peak comes quickly, her arousal gushing around his finger. When she finally calms down, going slack under him, he pulls his finger out and immediately licks her cream off it, before going back in to clean up her now sensitive cunt.

Her fingers tangle within his hair, tugging to pull him off her as she wriggles under his licks, and when he finally pulls away, her grip is strong as she whines before he gives in and rests his weight above her, lips hovering her own. Her tongue comes out to lap at them, small kitten licks that grow more greedy, until she’s slipping between them and pressing him close to her. She groans, perhaps at the taste of herself on his tongue, her hips already jutting back up against him, brushing over his aching cock, desperate for more like his own ravenous whore. His hands are quick as they push down his muddied pants, cock springing up against his soaked abdomen, bringing the head to rub along the seam of her. Lucerys seems to tense under him at the feeling, but he pays no mind as he presses the tip against her tight hole, still slick and warm even after her peak.

“Aem-“ she gasps out, hands against his shoulders, eyes wide in fear at the feeling of his cock pressing into her. “I…”

He slams his hips flush against her with a grunt, a yelp escaping her quivering mouth, fingernails digging deep into the cotton of his shirt. Tears immediately start to stream down her flushed cheeks in rivulets, soft sobs building up within her closed throat. Aemond has never felt such dizzying pleasure, white hot and shooting through every nerve in his body, until he feels like he’s aflame. He doesn’t falter as Lucerys cries, his pace fast and deep, pulling out until just the tip of him remains, before slamming back in, his sack slapping against her ass. When he looks down, he can see her blood on his cock, and the sight of it, as well as the confirmation of her virginity, makes him grow frenzier, tongue running along her salty cheeks, moaning at the taste of her tears. He wants to bite her, to draw blood, to taste the very marrow of her.

A growl leaves him as he bites down against her wet cheek, the chub of it soft between his teeth. Her hands are quick to shove at his chest, though her moans and the sounds of her slickness, sticky against him, makes him believe his sweet little niece likes it just as much as he does. When he pulls away, he revels in the sight of the marks he left, bright pink and sure to turn a purple-blue after. Her sobs slowly turn into hiccups, which turn into moans that she tries to hold back with a bite to her lips, but when Aemond wraps one hand around her throat, they turn into gasps. He squeezes hard, holding for just a few seconds, before slackening his grip, letting her breathe if only for a moment, hips digging painfully into the back of her thighs with every thrust.

“You’re h-hurting me, uncle,” Lucerys cries out, doe eyes red from her tears, peering up at his grunting face above her own flushed one. “Kostilus.” (Please).

“Mazemilā ziry hae se sȳz byka līve iksā,” he sneers, bringing his body down to rest against her shivering frame, arms wrapping around her back, slick along the mud. He presses her flush to him, and she is quick to hold onto him, legs curling below the crook of his arse. “Mirre ñuhon.” (You will take it like the good little whore you are. All mine).

Her moans are sticky against his neck, lips brushing along the damp skin every time she opens her mouth, the sounds ringing in his ears above the pittering of the rain and the grumbles of occasional thunder. His fingers scratch down her back, hips stuttering as her cunt squeezes around his cock, warm and slick and unwilling to let him go. When she pulls her head up from its spot against his neck, hands scrambling to rest along his jaw, bringing his face up to look at her, eyes zoning in on the empty socket where his left eye once sat, it is then that he realizes he didn’t put on his eyepatch. He nearly shrinks into himself, jerking his chin away from her grasp so he can sink his face back against her hair, but she doesn’t relent. Instead, her fingers trace along the jagged scar, lips open in awe as she admires the work of her own hand.

Lucerys presses her lips right below the gaping hole of his eye, tongue gentle as she licks up the length of his scar. With her mouth resting just above the dark cavern, she whispers the words he has always wanted to hear, “I’m sorry, Aem. Iksan vaoreznuni.” (I am sorry).

He pushes her down to the wet ground once more, head slamming into the slush below, and she lets out a squeal, hands scrambling to push herself up. His hips snap into hers, palms tight against her wrists as he holds her down, vision a red haze. It isn’t enough. Her apology means nothing to him now, all these years after. Years spent mourning the loss of his eye, ruminating in the humiliation and injustice of that night, listening to the whispers of his classmates as they pondered over what sight sat beneath his leather eyepatch. Years of sharp pain shooting through his empty socket, of headaches that never went away, of dreaming of the one who caused this agony, her pretty face and that ringing laughter. Nothing she can say will ever be enough.

Tears stream down her pink cheeks, repainting the tracks left previously, her moans now gasps of pain and pleasure. He sits on his knees, her ass across his thighs, hips lifted upwards as he fucks her pliant body, like his own little doll. Her hair is matted with a mix of rain and mud, lips quivering and her eyes squeezed shut, a flush of shame and arousal settling across her bare chest. She looks so beautiful, so much like that young girl who has haunted his dreams since they first met, when she was just a babe and he a little boy who couldn’t yet form a sentence.

One of his hands slides up her bruised wrist, to rest along the gauze-covered palm, drawn to the wound that will scar her. His fingers dig beneath the wrap, lifting it up until the cut is bared, and as he feels her clench around him again, a breathy moan leaving her lips as her release washes over her, he leans his head down to lick along the seam. Dried blood flakes away, and as he presses his wet muscle harder, the cut reopens, blood blossoming out of it like a stream of water, which he doesn’t hesitate to lap over. His own release hits him like a tidal wave, the taste of her blood intoxicating him as he presses into her with one final thrust, his other hand going to grab onto her waist, thumb brushing against the bulge of his cock in her abdomen. She lays motionless as he uses her, until only small dots of blood remain along the reopened wound, and his cock has softened inside her, his seed hot against her womb.

Aemond rolls off of her with a grunt, hissing as her spent cunt seems to grasp at him as he pulls out. Between her thighs is a mess of blood and semen, a mix of their essences wet along his cock, and he almost hardens at the sight. He brings his fingers up to gather the pooling of the liquid that seeps out from her hole, roughly pushing it back in with a groan, her whimper sending another wave of arousal down his spine. She twitches beneath him, and when he is confident that his seed has stuck, he removes himself from her, rolling over onto his back and gazing up at the full moon, no longer covered by storm clouds. Beside him, Lucerys is quiet, only an occasional sniffle, and it seems like they lay there for hours, not speaking, not moving. Just waiting, three eyes focused on the night sky above them.

When she finally gets up, he watches with a hazy eye as she pulls on what remains of her nightgown, now a tattered, muddied mess of silk. She starts to walk off on shaky legs, but she pauses, turning back to look down at him.

“It was an accident, you know,” her voice is raspy, throat sore from the moans and cries that left her lips that night. “We were kids… I thought you were gonna kill Jace. I didn’t know. I’m so sorry, Aemond.”

He doesn’t say anything. She waits a few more moments, before finally walking off, her figure disappearing among the trees, leaving him alone by the still lake. He brings his fingers up to his lips, still wet from their mixed concoction of semen and blood, and takes his time licking them off. The taste is enough to slowly fill the gaping cavern in his chest, one full of rage and violence, images of his niece's body beneath him, naked in the moonlight, flushed from head to toe, racing through his mind in a kaleidoscope of memories.

Perhaps it was enough. Her apology, those saccharine words that dripped from her tongue like honey. He thinks maybe he can forgive her.

An eye for her innocence, for the blood that stains his cock and teeth.

*

a/n: this is crossposted to ao3 (user finalgrls)! kinda the darkest thing i’ve written so far, but it’s definitely the work im proudest of. i’d LOVE any feedback, even if it’s negative <3 i hope u enjoyed!

[vastiitas]

@guttcrson pulls up a photo of his old man. it's a stony portrait: All grave, grass, and body buried where nobody but the earth can see it. Says the old man's busy.

The smell of whiskey ghosts after Cole's breath as he snorts, shaking his head as he leans back into the chewed-up upholstery of his seat. He rattles out a breathy sort of laughter that has all of last week's exertions rumbling awake in his bones. He tells Tim that there's a resemblance. Can see where the looks come from, he says. His eyes grin, raked with crow's feet, as he spies stone-carved letters spelling out: Clive Gutterson.

"yeah i hear that a lot especially from my veterans support group. they're all real worried i'm gonna end up right where he is sometimes"

"Shit, Crack-shot Ranger," The exhale sags out of him, rounded out on amusement. It slips between a complacent smile and sleepy eyes; floats. He lifts his drink, tips the rim towards Tim, "I hear there's lotion for that."

[vastiitas]

Enmity churns from Charon like the smoke that seethes and roils in the erupting wake of a forest fire. Cole remembers the oppressive weight of this, in a hotel room lathered in blackened blood and gutted viscera, and a poorly concealed, wincing grimace clips into his face as he watches that menacing lasso manifest with the snapping bark of thunder. A hand like this is a hand that's simply shit out of luck.

And then: A break in the storm, Rian ripping himself through the clouds with Cole's name shattering off his lips as Charon cripples to his knees. A flickering window, a kaleidoscope crashing into itself as Rian's face folds between two souls and Cole tries hard to not think of that quiet moment in that hotel room from another place, another time, and the singular light from outside punching through its wall and splashing that face between light and shadow and light and shadow and the valleying press of Rian's knuckles hard but tender beneath his lips.

Cole chokes on it, body grappling onto this meager inch and desperate to trample it out into a mile. He slams his revolver into the hug of his holster and slings the boy's head into his shoulder with the one arm he has left, cradling what he can and shambling off from this wretched lake of a crime scene, from Rian's keeled-over silhouette.

His voice is ragged, rasping and unheard, as he salvages his motorcycle. Misshapen, a prayer to nobody, as the tires set on tarmac amidst cracked carbon fiber and chips of a shredded prosthetic: something apologetic, something eaten up by the wind and motor roar.

THE SCOFF THAT PULLS FROM THE COWBOY'S chest is one he would never emit if he were himself, bitter in tone as though MOCKING the man in front of him. Charon sees a soul born for destruction, tossed into the heaping pile of shit at the bottom of a pit that he is destined to reside. Rian rolls within him like a PEST, twisting in a cage of his own creation, and the demon before Cole now wants to teach him a LESSON.

The lasso cracks like a whip behind him, coiling in familiar fingers that hiss as though snakes. A snarl appears on his lips, not uncommon for this creature, and then he stumbles. It's a SHOCK, even with the unnatural quick-healing of beast undefined. Where crimson blooms across ripped fabric, pours an ichor unlike one of the living. Rian shifts underneath the veil he has been placed, clawing his way back to the forefront for the rough form before him covered in someone else's blood.

❝ Cole — ! ❞

Knees slam into the ground beneath him, smoke coiling from his body as though of his own CREATION — but it's Charon who lifts his head, and then Rian, and then back in a merry go round of rights and wrongs. A shaky hand finds his chest, palming over the bullet holes as he attempts to breathe — to speak. ❝ Please. ❞

[vastiitas]

@chronal-anomaly

"Don't touch it." Lena hissed, the sound an escaping wind of worry and barely-masked frustration. Awe ran undercurrent, coloring the tone slightly impressed if not annoyed at the man. Getting hustled at game of darts was hardly a reason to start a bar fight. Besides, she had been beating them both. In the aftermath of the ruined bar and shouting tender, with the cool night creeping into their bones, Lena wrapped the bloody hand in another layer of dyed cotton - the best they could manage, given the circumstances. "It's bad enough you got us kicked out, if you get this infected, I'll beat you up myself." And as if to punctuate the topic, Lena jerked the knot right enough to pull against the torn skin sharply.

The cotton snaps tight, lancing a free-shot into split skin. Cole winces, and the shoulder-jerk response is dallied by a one-second stall. He inhales and the taste of it is gritty, copper-flavored. "Sorry, Birdy," and he means it, for the incovenience he's caused her, but then it stops there. If there's any regret to be had for calling that ballsy motherfucker out after getting too comfortable with his shitty, half-baked plays, it's none to be found here.

Maybe they call this relapse. Criminal fails rehabilitation, is taken back to jail bar cells to wait out his dying day.

He huffs, tired, post-adrenal wipe incoming and saddled on the decline slope of shoulders. "Y'mind if I asked you for some help gettin' my prosthetic off?" Too much chafing. He thinks the damn stump's bruised, aching from a half-thought out punch.

[vastiitas]

continued from [x.] @ischaron

Rian's laughter's is the sound of spring rain, pitter-patter joy that'd bring a desert back from drought. How do you tell this to an Omen? Reaper-man, there's life that blooms in the kiss of your smile - You ain't so Grim when your cheeks push up all giddy, eyes like whiskey sunshine. Tragedy would trip over its feet, dizzy, made love-drunk stupid from a face like that.

Rian jabs a light-hearted challenge and Cole tuts, gravel growl mimicking dry thunder, rolling on coyish plains, canted coyote lips, "Ain't no stoppin' you, ain't no stoppin' me."

And while the world winds back on, VHS back on play, Cole kicks the script, dance cue balled to paper scrap. His knuckles fist a white as he drags Rian closer, lips pressing firmly, sweetly, onto his. Bourbon bitters, tobacco tint, everything dancing on that liquor thrum but it's got nothing on Rian. And it's just so damn easy to slip into something deeper, to sink and to chase and to consume, and it feels like he could wrestle the whole world by the horns. Jesus, he thinks. Tragedy should run for the fucking hills.

[themistressofdolls]

White genocide conspiracy theory and the danger of “Dog Whistles.”

Content warning: Touching on hate content and neo nazi conspiracy theories.

So I've found myself in a lot of unwanted debates lately with reactionaries online many of which claim to be liberal moderates

(Through if I had any opinion most are borderline far right with liberal windowdressing)

A problem I feel is a lot of ugly views and ideologies that should have stayed dead decade ago have been dug up, repainted and normalized thanks to the colorful groups we have crawling online now a days.

But a point I've heard from a few hashtag moderate liberals is the topic of “White genocide” and most of the time someone brings it up I've chased them away and wanted nothing to do with the topic. Not that I'm not willing to have a reasonable discussion about differences in ideology me and friends have but I refuse to normalize and give credit to what is pretty much a neo Nazi conspiracy theory with roots in Nazi Germany itself. This also stems from how as modern neo nazis say "Hide their power level" as they put it in order to infiltrate spaces across the political spectrum and sell their talking points to "Normies." http://rationalwiki.org/wiki/White_genocide https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/White_genocide_conspiracy_theory https://debunkingdenialism.com/2014/01/11/white-genocide-eurabia-and-other-white-supremacist-nonsense/ https://whistlinginthewind.org/2017/05/04/the-white-genocide-conspiracy-theory-and-why-its-nonsense/

“Oh but everything you don't like is a conspiracy theory.”

Hey you remember fact checking? That thing people used to do? Yeah that's something I do from time to time, try it once in a while it might enrich you and make you a better person.

(Orgins)

Here's the man who came up with the theory originally

https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Walter_Frank

These where detailed in his books "Are the White Nations Dying? The Future of the White and the Colored Nations in the Light of Biological Statistics" as well as pamphlet he wrote for the "Research Department for the Jewish question"

In the modern era the term and conspiracy was popularized by white supremacists David Lane

https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/David_Lane_(white_supremacist)

https://tinyurl.com/l7vloze (Warning hate site)

Along with white nationalist and neo nazi Bob Whitaker as detailed in his infamous Whitaker mantra which you can hear in every garbage youtube comment section.

http://rationalwiki.org/wiki/Anti-racist_is_a_code_word_for_anti-white

The theory itself in most original cases believes the Jewish people are secretly plotting to send in “Lower races” to white nations to out breed white people through the means of mass immigration and force race mixing on us(Because loving a non white person and starting a family with them is bad I guess?) And therefore we must create a pure white state and have more white babies to fight this etc. One more disturbing fact to add is these people don't care about all whites ether but advocate a certain type of "Whiteness" whereas sub human whites are classed under untermensch Eg: inferior whites(state enemies, the disabled, the jewish, even the Irish long ago etc)

I'd also say if whites fear being a minority it must say something about how minorities have been treated in the past eh?

The white genocide conspiracy theory also inspired Anders Behring Breivik to go shoot a bunch of people up in the infamous Norway attacks of 2011 which he also detailed in his manifesto 2083: A European Declaration of Independence.

This shit does not deserve a debate because that's what nazi scumbags want, they want their ideals and shitty theories to be normalized and given some form of credibility like it was “Just another point of view.” It is very easy for the apolitical and center to be duped into these form of beliefs because they are sold in a way that makes them seem appealing, even the very thought of the what if nightmare presented in the conspiracy theory coming true to be frightening. The far right relish selling these ideas to moderates and even have many debate manuals that are written to aid people in selling far right ideas to moderates in order to push white nationalism into the mainstream https://tinyurl.com/ycnszxzs (Warning, far right terrorist site)

Philosophy Tube and contrapoints tackles a lot of these conspiracy theories and white nationalist myths in his video which I will link below, please give it a watch(Sadly one of the videos are falsely flagged by nazis, so much for free speech eh?)

Contrapoints did a great piece on the theories and ideologies of the groups that spread this junk along with the ever changing dog whistles to sell these things to liberals, conservatives, the center and even others on the far left.

Philosophy Tubes piece on antifa is really eye opening and combats a lot of myths that have been seeded about them over the years but even if you don’t see eye to eye with antifas actions there are a lot of good points made here.

And speaking of contrapoints again, she did some great take downs of the ideals the far right stand for and why they are wrong.

But if you are a liberal and spouting white genocide theories, sorry but you’ve become a smegging nazi sympathizer and I'm fine with a lot of political views and differences but the line should be drawn if you spout this kind of junk and can't be bothered to fact check your “conspiracy theories.” But for those who realize they have been duped and want to get better at guarding themselves against it then kudos, I know it's hard to deprogram that crap. Just remember you can be better so train your mind, guard yourself against the dog whistles, propaganda and fear tactics.

And remember no matter how much they change the names of groups, call signs, attempt to water down the more hardcore aspects of the program they are still fascists and if the shoe fits.

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=zcoYKuoiUrY&t A note worth remembering is a few fascists have reworded the white genocide conspiracy theory to now be called "The great replacement." As noted in contrapoints video this is them changing the dog whistles in order to try and drip feed the toxic idea to "Normies." But yeah go watch the skeleton man, listen to the skeleton man.

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=VUbxVfSqtt8

Also with how messed up youtubes algorithm is, the conspiracy theory content out there, alternative news and more which is fuelling the far right along with the right wing tabloids in the mainstream media who planted the seeds for this. It is vital you consider building yourself and those you care about an “Internet truth kit”

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=QXFsPLCuPNA

Extra Citations:

http://www.rawstory.com/2016/12/white-genocide-debunking-the-latest-breitbart-promoted-right-wing-racist-paranoid-buzzword/

http://jezebel.com/there-is-no-such-thing-as-white-genocide-1790500883

https://debunkingdenialism.com/2014/01/11/white-genocide-eurabia-and-other-white-supremacist-nonsense/

https://abolitionjournal.org/white-genocide-and-the-myth-of-white-victimhood/

https://www.adl.org/education/resources/backgrounders/alt-right-a-primer-about-the-new-white-supremacy

https://www.revleft.space/vb/threads/183621-anti-racism-codeword?t=183621

https://whistlinginthewind.org/2017/05/04/the-white-genocide-conspiracy-theory-and-why-its-nonsense/

https://www.adl.org/resources/glossary-terms/white-genocide

https://www.snopes.com/fact-check/muslim-demographics/

https://theoutline.com/post/4486/the-creeping-spectre-of-white-genocide?zd=1&zi=wry5uapn

http://afropunk.com/2018/04/white-genocide-hoax-south-africa-stop-madness/

[vastiitas]

"No," he agrees to the finer print that's unspoken of, tips his head in the concession. Firelight coasts off his hatbrim. He stamps the beat of silence with a brief consideration, continues, "But there's more roads than death's door." Visit, he means, when there is more air than blood in my lungs. All work and no play makes for one hell of a flat-line existence.

An EMT comes home from a roadkill scene; A detective can close the vanilla folder nesting the grisly photos of a murder. Images haunt, stain the subconscious. But there is a home to come back to for these folk; warm light cloystered like a pearl beneath a roof, in the embrace of family, friends. It seems easy to teeter off a wagon, when the uniform has become you.

And for that, Cole worries for him.

"Best not be an IPA," A warning delivered on a tipped grin; crow's feet firming in sincerity. "What's the sell?"

HE COULD GET LOST IN THE FLAMES, mind going numb, eyes glazing over, if it were not for the man sitting next to him. When he was younger, the cowboy would wander into the woods at night when hope was LOST. He'd set up a makeshift fire among the wolves and other critters of the night, Reaper by his side. It wouldn't be until the embers turned to cold, that he'd rise to his feet and head back to a house that loomed over him like a monster with too many teeth.

Yet Cole speaks, and while Rian could say quite a LOT to his comment, he BITES on his tongue. Keeps silent. There was a something about the small peace of the crackling fire, the few bugs roaring in the air around them, and the breeze whispering past his ear — There is relief that washes over him, a cool bath in the river on a hot day where the sun is hanging low.

❝ No' tha' y'got much choice. ❞ That was the MISFORTUNE of their arrangement, of their frequent visits to each other's side. The cowboy would always be there for him, whether he wanted to be or not. But still, his promise instills a tinge of relief among his chest. ❝ Wan' a drink? ❞

[sussex-nature-lover]

Monday 30th November 2020

Trees!

♦ bold type contains an external link to a site not affiliated to this Blog

Our lane this afternoon 

It’s our National Tree Week in the UK. I saw Prince Charles talking about it

THE Prince of Wales has thrown his support behind a Countryfile campaign to plant 750,000 trees in an effort to tackle climate change.

He is joined by stars including actress Dame Judi Dench, Queen guitarist Brian May and model Twiggy in backing the BBC One programme's two-year initiative, called Plant Britain.

Viewers will be encouraged to help grow trees at various sites across the UK – one for each child starting primary school this year.

In Sunday's special launch episode, Prince Charles says: “Planting a tree means leaving a lasting legacy, one that my and your children and grandchildren will be able to enjoy long after I am gone.

“I know that so many people during this terribly difficult year have had their appreciation of trees and other green spaces around them deepened, and therefore it is our duty, given how long it takes for a tree to mature, to plant trees now for future generations to enjoy and for the immense benefits, particularly in towns and cities, from their shade, in an ever more overheated climate.

“There are so many opportunities for us all to plant more trees, to protect green spaces.

“As someone with a passion for planting trees, I can only encourage you all to get planting for Plant Britain.”

Hear Hear! Although I think we already did our bit with planting in our garden. We did lose one of the new Mountain Ash trees, no idea what happened there but it wasn’t Ash Dieback disease because the Mountain Ash tree is in fact a Rowan.

The most damaging tree disease since Dutch Elm

Ash is the third most common broadleaved tree in Britain. There are an estimated 60 million ash trees outside woodlands in the UK. Ash dieback disease was first officially recorded in the UK in 2012 and has spread rapidly, with only a small fraction of trees proving resistant. Since the arrival of ash dieback, The Tree Council has led research into the early responses and coping strategies of public landowners to this new disease.

But there is some hope

Scientists say there is new hope in the fight against a disease that is devastating ash trees.

A study has identified the genes that give trees resistance to ash dieback, which arrived in the UK in 2012 and has now spread to almost every part of the country.

The discovery suggests that trees could now be bred that are unaffected by the epidemic.

The research is published in the journal Nature Ecology and Evolution.

Prof Richard Buggs, from the Royal Botanic Gardens Kew, said: "I hope this work will lead to us safeguarding ash populations for future generations."

Ash dieback is caused by the fungus Hymenoscyphus fraxineus, which originated in Asia.

In its native range, it causes little damage to trees, but when the fungus was introduced to Europe about 30 years ago, it caused widespread destruction.

Recent estimates suggest that the disease can kill up to 70% of ash trees.

In the UK, this means 70 million trees could be lost, which would cost the economy £15bn, according to an analysis published this year.

In a bid to halt this seemingly unstoppable disease, scientists have been studying the DNA of hundreds of ash trees.

A small number of trees are showing some natural resistance to ash dieback - and the researchers have identified the parts of their genome that are helping this fightback.

"We've discovered about 3,000 locations in the DNA of these ash trees that are contributing to the resistance," explained Prof Buggs.

Knowing this will help the team to monitor how quickly ash trees are evolving a tolerance to the fungus in the natural environment, but is also crucial for any future breeding programmes.

Prof Buggs said: "We hope to bring together all of the genetic differences that are contributing to resistance into a single population of ash trees that will have higher resistance than any of the ash trees that we currently have."

He added that this will not save the trees that are currently dying, but if this project is successful, it could mean they could eventually be replaced and ash could live on in the countryside.

But ash is not the only tree that is in trouble.

So alongside this study, a team from Kew has also been collecting seeds of 70 woodland species.

Since 2013, some 15 million seeds have been amassed as part of the UK National Tree Seed Project. They are now stored at -20C at the Millennium Seed Bank in Wakehurst.

Dr Alice Hudson said: "We don't know what's around the corner for our woodlands. There are threats from climate change, from plant health, from pests and diseases, and from land-use change… but banking the seeds here, we have them out of the environment, they are away from the threats - and they are a back-up."

BBC

We’ve been to Wakehurst Place (which, as it happens, is reportedly home to the country’s tallest living Christmas Tree ) and gone inside the publicly accessible part of the Millennium Seed Bank. As you would expect, it’s very clinical and futuristic looking and what a project it is.

Our garden is surrounded by trees

This afternoon’s wildlife spottings were a Buzzard, a large one, on top of a tall telegraph pole right at the edge of the road and a large number of Deer in a field. They were a great spot because wearing their winter colourings now, they were quite well camouflaged. Sorry no photos, but I did get a pic of the said telegraph pole on the way back! ha ha. Take my word for it.

It was a horrible day again. We woke up to fog and it was reminiscent of last night’s football at some of the smaller grounds competing in the FA Cup, where it was hard to know how they were following the ball. By the time we were on our way home it was dropping again.

We’d only gone out as Crow had to have some dental treatment and I accompanied him just in case he wanted me to drive home. I was thinking he might feel a bit rough, but actually he said it was absolutely fine and how techniques have improved. To be honest, I haven’t had anything done at the Dentist for about 30 years (good, strong hair, teeth and nails you see/Purrs) so I am way back in the last century when it comes to modern dentistry.

I had to wait in the car of course, due to the Covid restrictions, but I was very well wrapped up, including a thermal T shirt under my jumper, walking socks, scarf, a beanie hat and some fingerless mittens. On the off-chance anyone is feeling clever, yes, I did also have trousers, boots and my ‘big coat’ too - it wasn’t like appropriate-only-above-the-waist-Zoom-call fashion. Not taking any chances I also took two hot water bottles and a blanket just to be on the safe side and that worked out well because it was a long treatment, but I was perfectly snug despite the weather.

There wasn’t much to look at and it started raining. What a glum Monday, but the High Street was being brought to life for the ending of Lockdown on Wednesday (I say the ending of Lockdown, but it’s the start of the new Tier System) and look what we have here. I don’t think it’ll rival the Wakefield Place one, but it’s going to be very pretty in the dark nights.

I normally ban any mention of the festive season until the month’s changed over, but I’ll make an exception this year because it did make me smile. Usually it’s

Explanation for the Uninitiated

That was Monday then, now we’re in, snug, the world’s shut out and it’s going to be supper time soon. Fishcakes with a big bowl of salad and because he’s been a brave boy, we’re having chips tonight (Ms NW tE will like that) ♥

Football Update: 

The FA Cup draw has called Villa at home -v- Liverpool.

You know what this means? Household TENSION and <gnashes teeth> A score to be settled!

The last Remembrance Poppy for November 

(not my photo)

[vastiitas]

@chronal-anomaly: "I don't think you're bad. A little stupid, maybe, but not rotten."

"S'ppose it was one of those things that got me into prison," His grin cocks wry. He tosses her an apple, waxy finish whiting out in the sunlight as it spins and catches air-time. Still, Cole's shoulders crash down, sloping off a metaphorical chip, and his spine presses numbly into the cold, crumbled tiling of brick wall. His side protests, skin freshly laddered by the stitching of a bullet wound.

Distantly, a church bell rings. A spire pierces over rooftops, looming, dove-white like a cauterization. A shove of an exhale sends his head to a hang, chin to his chest. His fingers twitch for a cigarette he isn't allowed to have. "Reckon jumpin' front of that bullet was pretty damn stupid."

[vastiitas]

"Sure," The vowel swoops, rolling in that drawl. He shuts the mouth of the cooler closed, one hand still secured to August's ankle and the soggy cotton that weeps ice water against the boy's skin. "Was 'bout your age, out some place like this." The heel base of his palm shoves against the plastic and the cooler wheels clitter clatter clitter clatter, skittering, into the stomach of the trunk bed.

"Unless you start feelin' worse, it'll come t'pass in a day." He lifts one of the boy's hands, gentle, and leads it over the bindle, "You keep that on for me, and I'll settle you into the car."

hang you out to dry. (it would prove a hassle. however, he’d have his life at the end of it.) the boy was relieved that cole had found him. no telling what could have happened. should august had been alone, scared, frozen by pain.

“ you get bit before? ” inquiring murmur. “ what, um. what’ll happen to me? ” someplace, within far reaches of his mind, he wonders whether the scorpion would render him ill. bed bound. stuck.

[vastiitas]

❝ you remember the last time we did this. it didn't go well. ❞

"Ah, well," A conspiratorial snicker like a cymbal, a rattlesnake's tail, shambling out between the reeds of his teeth. Cole knocks his heel into the kickstand, centers the bike body upright and perpendicular to the tarmac, "Ain't easy riding when the perp's knocked a bullet into you."

A crooked grin notches his cheeks as his fingers grip the throttle: "Hang on, now, Harker. Second time's the charm."

[vastiitas]

"Bad nights happen," He presses a cold prosthetic knuckle over her forehead, as though intending to flick it, but, instead, it lingers between and above her brows like a mishappen halo; searching, maybe, for some straggling shade still left of her nightmare haunts. The curled joint hooks a portion of her bangs fallen out of place in the dishevelled dawn, and he slides it towards her temple, over the pale, thin line of a scar. "Not your fault."

He retracts his hand, glancing briefly to Chikadee who slides her stomach over Lena's legs with the meat of her warmth, the stomach of her weight. His gaze meanders a lazy slide back towards the window slats. Sallow morning, pink and blushing in all the ways of a newborn, has begun to spill through. Dust motes dance, languid, in the wash of it.

"If it's under the same ownership since my time, they'd be ready t'open doors by 4:30." A chuff as he brings coffee heat to his lips. His attention splits back to Lena, scrutiny packaged in a veil of something casual. He reaches over and palms the dome of Chikadee's head, itching fingernails against the short fur between her ears. "Diner ain't goin' nowhere. Still time t'settle, or take a drive."

There was something reassuring in the mundane - the drab curtains and the peeling pale paint, the cracked painting of a pretty meadow in some dead-end nothing motel inspiring hope and maybe a bit of wanderlust, the worn cotton of the sheets and grit of dog hair between calloused fingers. Simple luxuries of life, foundational, relaxing.

Lena knuckled herself back into an unsteady calm. Heavy canine weight draped over her legs, waiting, watching, reassuring, until dull knock knock knock of salvation in a paper-thin cup and something close to partner announced itself. Chickadee responded, needing no instruction to nose the door open and let him sidle in.

With a silent groan - body older than age allowed, knees aching with undue stress - Lena rose to her feet and accepted midnight-stale dripped coffee with a grateful nod. It was too hot to drink but that doesn't stop her, the physical burn a welcome salve over emotional and mental scabs picked raw by wayward nightmares.

"Sorry." Came the quiet apology, tense night sounding the alarm for both of them. "Didn't mean to wake you up. Most nights are usually fine."

Without command, Chickadee draped herself over Lena's legs, falling back on training silently. Lena scratched along her ears as she spoke again, easing past the abrupt wakeup call. Look ahead, not behind. "Well. I'm awake. We passed a diner a few miles back, wonder if they have an early bird special? Four A.M might be a little too early, but we can try in a bit."

[perksofwifi]

The Least Boring Cars, Trucks, and SUVs Under $45,000

You’ve got money to burn. Say, enough to jump over the roughly $35,000 average transaction price for a new car in America and buy a car, SUV, or truck for less than $45,000. Fortunately, the market is flush with exciting new vehicle options that fit your highly specific budget. If you’re looking to tackle off-road trails (or look like you do), take to the track (again, or look as though you will), or simply to enjoy the day-to-day commute without sacrificing driving engagement or character, then we’ve got you covered with this group of vehicles that come in at less than $45,000. Considering spending less? Then be sure to check out the cars and trucks we deem the least boring for less than $25,000.

2020 Dodge Challenger R/T | Base Price: $36,090

In theory, the Dodge Challenger is little more than a Dodge Charger coupe. In practice, though, it’s much more. Credit the two-door model’s standard six-speed manual transmission (an eight-speed automatic is a $1,595 option) that blesses the 375-hp Challenger R/T with additional driving engagement (plus an extra three horsepower compared to the automatic-transmission model). Those in search of even more power can opt for the $5,400 Scat Pack, which notably trades the trim’s standard 5.7-liter V-8 engine for a 485-hp 6.4-liter V-8.

2020 BMW 230i | Base Price: $36,295

The BMW 2-Series is arguably one of the German automaker’s last great cars. That’s not to belittle the rest of the BMW lineup, but in a world (and BMW showroom) that favors technology over driving engagement, the 2-Series is shamelessly driver-focused. Alas, six-cylinder models, such as the M240i and M2 Competition, sell for north of $45,00, but there is no shame in opting for the four-cylinder 230i. While not as powerful as its six-pot siblings, the 230i is anything but slow, and it is available with a six-speed manual transmission, which makes corralling the turbo 2.0-liter engine’s 248 horses that much more fun. The only downside? BMW forgoes the stick in the 230i Convertible and instead limits buyers of the $42,095 model to an eight-speed automatic gearbox—a no-cost option in the coupe.

2020 Genesis G70 2.0T | Base Price: $36,475

At $45,675, the 365-hp Genesis G70 3.3T just crosses the $45,000 line for this list. That’s fine, though, because the four-cylinder, $9,200 cheaper G70 2.0T is a fine machine in its own right. Sure, the 2.0T’s 252-hp turbocharged 2.0-liter inline-four lacks the 3.3T twin-turbo V-6’s power and refinement, but it also offers an available six-speed manual gearbox. Opting for that feature, however, adds $3,050 to the bottom line. Credit the six-speed model’s additional kit, which includes items such as 19-inch wheels wrapped in summer tires, a limited-slip differential, heated and ventilated front seats, and more. While we respect Genesis for its commitment to the stick shift, we’d argue the transmission’s notchy engagement and additional costs make the cheaper, entry-level G70 2.0T and its eight-speed automatic transmission just as good a choice for buyers interested in this small sports sedan. Regardless, every G70 variant is impressively exciting to wheel about. After all, there’s a reason we named the entry-level Genesis model our 2019 Car of the Year.

2020 Ford Mustang GT | Base Price: $36,825

Sure, you can get a Ford Mustang for as little as $27,865, but doing so means living with the car’s standard 310–332-hp turbocharged 2.3-liter four-cylinder engine. It’s a fine-enough mill, but the boosted four-cylinder is nothing compared to the GT’s burly 460-hp 5.0-liter V-8.

2020 Toyota 4Runner | Base Price: $37,240

The old-school Toyota 4Runner is among the last of a dying breed: The traditional mid-size SUV. With its truck-like body-on-frame construction, the 4Runner is a formidable off-road companion–although you’ll need to fork over an additional $1,875 to add four-wheel drive to the entry-level SR5 trim. While the 4Runner certainly drives like the ancient SUV it is, the 2020 model adds modern touches such as a standard 8.0-inch touchscreen infotainment system with Apple CarPlay and Android Auto compatibility, as well as active safety features such as automatic forward emergency braking with pedestrian detection, lane departure warning, automatic high-beam headlights, and adaptive cruise control.

2020 Dodge Charger R/T | Base Price: $37,890

The Dodge Charger R/T offers all the old-school charm of its eight-cylinder Chrysler 300 cousin at a $3,300 discount. Sure, it lacks the more stately looks of the 300, but the Charger R/T makes up for that deficiency by offering an extra seven horses from its 5.7-liter V-8 engine. Why settle on the Charger R/T’s 370 horses, though, when you can drop a mere $3,600 for the 485-hp Scat Pack. Those extra ponies come courtesy of the model’s mighty 6.4-liter V-8 engine, which–like the 5.7-liter V-8 of the R/T–pairs exclusively with an eight-speed automatic transmission. Alas, the more menacing Wide Body package pushes the Scat Pack’s price up to $47,490. It’s narrow-body or nothing if you’re trying to keep your Charger Scat Pack’s sticker price below the $45,000 threshold.

2020 Subaru WRX STI | Base Price: $37,895

If the Mini Clubman John Cooper Works isn’t your style and the Honda Civic Type R’s lack of all-wheel-drive nixes it from your shopping list, then the Subaru WRX STI might just be the hot compact car for you. With 310 horsepower from its turbocharged 2.5-liter flat-four engine and a six-speed manual transmission, the WRX STI is the closest thing to a road-legal rally car you can buy.

2020 Honda Civic Type R | Base Price: $37,950

The Honda Civic Type R gets better for 2020 thanks to some suspension improvements, upgraded brakes, and additional active safety technology. The core of Honda’s hot hatch remains the same, though, and power still comes courtesy of a 306-hp turbocharged 2.0-liter inline-four that mates to a six-speed manual gearbox, the combination of which took the Type R to 60 mph in 5.0 seconds in our testing. Yet, the whole of the Civic Type R is greater than the sum of its parts, which explains why it took top-spot in a four-way comparison test in 2018 between the now-defunct Ford Focus RS, Volkswagen Golf R, and Subaru WRX STI Type RA.

2020 Chevrolet Camaro SS | Base Price: $37,995

Yes, the Chevrolet Camaro suffers from large blind spots and an ergonomically questionable cabin, plus it looks almost exactly like the previous-generation model. But look past those flaws and you’ll find the bow-tie brand’s sports car is an absolute gem of a driving machine. Credit the Camaro’s communicative Alpha architecture (shared with Cadillac), which blesses it with docile dynamics. The Camaro SS (as well as the sub-$35,000 LT1) features a powerful 455-hp 6.2-liter V-8 and either a six-speed manual gearbox or a 10-speed automatic (a $1,595 option). For a lot more money ($43,995), Chevy offers the Camaro SS in convertible form. If it were our money on the line, then we’d say stick with the base Camaro SS coupe and add the 1LE performance package; a $7,000 option that brings the total price up to $44,995 and includes a set of sticky Goodyear Eagle F1 Supercar 3 rubber, adaptive dampers, and Recaro seats.

2020 Tesla Model 3 | Base Price: $39,990

The Tesla Model 3 is not the most fun-to-drive car out there, but it is arguably one of the most exciting vehicles available for less than $45,000 today. After all, this is a bonafide long-range electric car that’s capable of traveling 250 miles on a full charge in Standard Range Plus form. If you have more than $45,000 to spend, then you can nab a Model 3 Long Range or Performance, both of which offer a driving range of up to 322 miles, per EPA estimates. In fact, an all-wheel-drive Model 3 Long Range model managed to take the top spot in a recent three-way comparison against traditional entry-level sports sedans, the Genesis G70 2.0T and BMW 330i.

2020 Jeep Wrangler Rubicon | Base Price: $40,120

Jeeps are made to go off-road, and there’s no better option for hitting the rough stuff than the Wrangler Rubicon. Compared to lesser variants of our 2019 SUV of the Year winner, the Wrangler Rubicon sports heavy-duty Dana 44 axles, a shorter final-drive ratio, electronic front and rear diffs, a set of knobby BFGoodrich all-terrain tires, and more. While the Rubicon comes standard with two doors, the four-door Wrangler Unlimited Rubicon is available for $3,500 more. No matter the door count, the Rubicon features a 285-hp 3.6-liter V-6 engine that mates to a six-speed manual transmission or, for $2,750, an eight-speed automatic. A smooth and punchy 270-hp turbocharged 2.0-liter inline-four with electric assistance and an eight-speed automatic gearbox is a $1,500 extra. It’s also the only powertrain choice available on the special $44,875 Rubicon Recon edition.

2020 Mini Clubman John Cooper Works | Base Price: $40,250

At $40,250, the Mini Clubman John Cooper Works is arguably a smidge overpriced. Nonetheless, this Mini is not boring and it is available for less than $45,000. After all, how many other wagons are available at this price point with the sort of performance capabilities of the most powerful Clubman model? Credit the car’s improved powertrain for the 2020 model year, which offers an additional 73 horsepower from its turbocharged 2.0-liter four-cylinder engine relative to the prior year’s Clubman John Cooper Works. With 301 horses in its stable and a standard all-wheel-drive system, the Clubman John Cooper Works is capable of rocketing to 62 mph in 4.9 seconds, per Mini. It looks adorable doing so, too.

2020 Kia Stinger GT | Base Price: $40,535

With its rear-drive chassis, hatchback body, and 365-hp twin-turbocharged 3.3-liter V-6 engine, the Kia Stinger GT offers the right ingredients for a spicy recipe. This svelte-looking Kia is impressively quick, too, with our long-term vehicle making its way to 60 mph in an impressive 4.7 seconds. While the Stinger GT has performance and style down pat, it falls somewhat short on the technology front. That’s not to say you can’t get a six-cylinder Stinger with features such as adaptive cruise control, automatic high-beam headlights, automatic emergency front braking, lane-keep assist, or a lane-departure warning system; it just means you’ll need to drop north of $45,000 on a higher-spec trim.

2020 Alfa Romeo Giulia | Base Price: $40,640

Our 2018 Car of the Year, the Alfa Romeo Giulia, is better than ever thanks to a slew of updates for the 2020 model year. Notable updates include a standard 8.8-inch touchscreen infotainment system, a 7.0-inch gauge-cluster display, a new steering wheel, and a revised center console with a new gear shift, control knobs, larger cup holders, and additional storage capacity. A 280-hp turbocharged 2.0-liter four-cylinder engine remains the only engine choice in this price range. That means no 505-hp Giulia Quadrofoglio for you. No worries, though, as the standard Giulia is an absolute joy to drive.

2020 Jaguar XE | Base Price: $40,895

The Jaguar XE is a jack of all trades and a master of none among small sport sedans. Its chassis is competent, its turbocharged four-cylinder engine is peppy enough, and its refreshed-for-2020 interior is now segment-competitive, if still not class-leading. Most importantly, the smallest Jag sedan looks far more expensive than its $40,895 price suggests.

2020 Chrysler 300 V-8 | Base Price: $41,190

The Chrysler 300’s age is both its best and worst quality. Although its last significant update dates back to the beginning of the previous decade, the chunky, weighty-feeling 300’s old-school charm remains a decidedly endearing quality when paired with its available 363-hp 5.7-liter V-8 engine. A $3,000 extra in the sportier $38,190 300S trim and standard in the more luxury-oriented 300C, the big bent-eight gives this rear-drive sedan a distinct character found in few modern cars sold today.

2020 Chevrolet Colorado ZR2 | Base Price: $42,495

If the $55,150 Ford F-150 Raptor is either too pricey or too large for your off-road pickup truck needs, the Chevrolet Colorado ZR2 might just fit your bill. Compared to the run-of-the-mill Colorado, the ZR2 boasts an additional 2.0 inches of ground clearance, 3.5-inch wider front and rear tracks, knobby Goodyear Wrangler Duratrac off-road tires, front and rear electronic locking differentials, trick Multimatic spool-valve dampers, and more. A 308-hp 3.6-liter V-6 engine comes standard, although a torque-rich, 181-hp turbo-diesel 2.8-liter inline-four is a $3,500 extra.

2020 Alfa Romeo Stelvio | Base Price: $42,640

Think of the Alfa Romeo Stelvio as a Giulia in station wagon form as opposed to a regular compact crossover SUV. Like its sedan sibling, the athletic 2020 Stelvio benefits from a number of interior improvements, which includes a new 8.8-inch touchscreen infotainment system, a 7.0-inch cluster display, a new steering wheel, and a revised center console with a new gear shift, control knobs, and additional storage capacity. That’s all nice and certainly makes the Stelvio easier to live with, but the real joy comes from pushing this rear- or all-wheel-drive crossover through corners and enjoying its light, accurate steering. Power comes courtesy of a 280-hp turbocharged 2.0-liter four-cylinder engine. Unfortunately, the 505-hp Stelvio Quadrifoglio’s $82,040 price tag puts it way over budget. Nevertheless, if you can live without the Quadrofoglio’s extra horsepower, you’ll find a lot to like about the run-of-the-mill Stelvio.

2020 Audi S3 | Base Price: $43,995

Think of the Audi S3 as a Subaru WRX with a Juris Doctorate degree. Beneath its handsome bodywork, the S3 hides a 2.0-liter inline-four that channels 288 horsepower to all four wheels by way of Audi’s Quattro all-wheel-drive system and a quick-shifting seven-speed dual-clutch automatic transmission, the combination of which rockets the sports sedan to 60 mph in less than five seconds. Factor in its high-quality interior and the S3 makes for a surprisingly sophisticated small sports sedan.

The Least Boring Cars, Trucks, and SUVs For Less Than $45,000

2020 Dodge Challenger R/T – $36,090

2020 BMW 230i – $36,295

2020 Genesis G70 2.0T – $36,475

2020 Ford Mustang GT – $36,825

2020 Toyota 4Runner – $37,240

2020 Dodge Charger R/T – $37,890

2020 Subaru WRX STI – $37,895

2020 Honda Civic Type R – $37,950

2020 Chevrolet Camaro SS – $37,995

2020 Tesla Model 3 – $39,990

2020 Jeep Wrangler Rubicon – $40,120

2020 Mini Clubman John Cooper Works – $40,250

2020 Kia Stinger GT – $40,535

2020 Alfa Romeo Giulia – $40,640

2020 Jaguar XE – $40,895

2020 Chrysler 300 V-8 – $41,190

2020 Chevrolet Colorado ZR2 – $42,495

2020 Alfa Romeo Stelvio – $42,640

2020 Audi S3 – $43,995

The post The Least Boring Cars, Trucks, and SUVs Under $45,000 appeared first on MotorTrend.

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[teesturtle]

Im A Wine And Doctor Who Kind Girl Shirt

Im A Wine And Doctor Who Kind Girl Shirt

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