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loveharlow · 1 month

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SEVEN - 006

PAIRING ‧₊˚ JJ Maybank x Fem!Reader

SYNOPSIS‧₊˚[7.4k] based on 1x06.

WARNING(S)‧₊˚ swearing, mild violence, gun violence/graphic depictions of gun use, mentions of drowning, arguing, entrapment, references to mild bullying

NOW PLAYING‧₊˚

A/N‧₊˚ Idk if y'all can tell but I be eatin the kie x sarah x reader drama up when i'm writing like it's too fun to write

˗ˏˋ series masterlist ˎˊ˗

“SORRY, YOU’RE STAYING WHERE?” Kiara asked grabbing a tray of food as John B leaned against the counter and you trailed behind her with a pitcher of drinks. The Wreck had opened for the day not too long ago.

“Tannyhill.” He said shortly, eyes wide and unexpecting as he leaned his forearms on the counter.

“So, you’re living with Sarah Cameron.” Kie said with a tight-lipped grimace.

“Look, the only reason I’m living there is ‘cause her dad bailed me out, alright?” The Routledge boy reassured, following you both out to the table where JJ and Pope were lounging inside of The Wreck. “And it’s way better than foster care which, by the way, is where I was about to go.”

“So, do you have membership to the clubs now?” Pope perked up curiously, legs kicked up on the wooden surface. Kiara sat the tray of fries down while you poured the drinks into each respective cup before taking a stand behind JJ’s chair that was next to Pope’s, leaning your arms over it as you bent nonchalantly behind him, stealing a fry from his hand over his shoulder.

“I don’t know, Pope.”

“What about those golf carts they drive around? You get one of them?” He questioned again, amusement in his brown eyes. “Does it come with a sweater vest or do you have to buy one of your own?”

“Look, you promised.” Kiara cut in disappointedly, returning back to the original topic of conversation. “You said you weren’t with her…” John B just shrugged as if he wasn’t caught in a lie.

“Bro, just own it. She’s got you.” JJ scoffed.

Kiara just ignored the blonde. “If you wanna hang out with her, that’s fine. But I’m letting you know that I’m not doing anything with Sarah.” She continued on, affirming the boy.

“Do you guys see her here?” JB cut in shortly, annoyed. “No? Right, okay. A little focus would be fantastic. We’ve got the map, right?”

“It’s out of whack ‘cause the guy was ganja’d when he drew it.” JJ piped in.

“It’s more so due to the fact that the coast has changed.” You offered, looking down at the blonde. “But it deffo looks like he drew it after ingesting a whole eddie and downing half a bottle of Everclear.”

“We just have to look for the landmarks that haven’t changed.” Pope spoke to no one in particular as he surveyed the map.

“What about the old forts?”

“Battery Jasper.” Kiara threw out with full confidence. Pointing to a clear spot on the map in the middle of absolutely nowhere. Looks were shared around the table before everyone shrugged, you all hopping up and heading outside of The Wreck and into The Twinkie.

“WE’RE IN BATTERY, RIGHT HERE.” Pope had the map pressed up against a rock, still reading it as the remaining four of you looked out at the expanse of land in front of you. Nothing but grass and trees for miles. “So if this is parcel nine, then it’s somewhere northeast of here. Over there.” He concluded, pointing ahead.

“That’s not Tannyhill,” JJ began, squinting his eyes. “That’s a subdivision.”

“Tannyhill Plantation was the entire island.” John B told him. “Over time, it got sold into smaller pieces.”

“So we’re looking for an old stone wall…” Pope pondered, heading back into the van without a word. The rest of you simply followed, loading into the van with JB as the driver and following Pope’s verbal lead. “The road should split up here. You’re gonna take a left.” He said after a few minutes of driving.

John B made an unnecessarily sharp left turn, sending the three of you in the backseat flying against the wall of the Twinkie. After a few curses and groans, you looked to see what was stone wall. “This is it.” Pope claimed.

“Are you kidding me?” Kiara exclaimed, hopping out of the van as the rest of you followed. Looking up at the house, it was immediately recognizable.

“The Crain House?” You asked incredulously, eyes wide and jaw slack.

“Worst-case scenario.” JJ quipped. “I heard that Mrs. Crain buried her husbands head on the property.”

“Honestly, I don’t really believe the stories about this place.” John B shrugged, taking the first step and leading the group through the thick mess of greenery that led up to the house itself. You were constantly swatting leaves and branches out of your field of vision as you walked.

“Which stories did you hear?” JJ inquired.

“The one where she killed her husband with an axe and that she’s been holed up ever since.” Kiara replied. “On certain nights, when the moon is full, you can see her in the windooow.” She teased, wiggling her fingers in a spooky motion.

“Okay, it’s not funny ‘cause it’s all true. I swear to God, guys, this is all real. I knew Hollis.” JJ preached.

“Hollis Crain? The daughter?” You asked, tilting your head in his direction as you dodged a branch.

“Yeah. She was my babysitter.” He told you, holding up the next branch for you to walk under, releasing it just in time to swat Pope in the forehead. “She told me all about it. About her mother, what happened in the house. As a kid, she heard all these stories about how her mother had killed her father. Hollis didn’t believe it. Until that night…” He trailed off.

You groaned at his dramatics, stopping in your tracks to cross your arms and shift your weight. “What night?” You asked, feeding into JJ’s theatrics.

“When Hollis was six years old, she heard her parents arguing downstairs. So, she goes down there to see her mom washing her hands in a sink full of blood. Her mother says she just cut her finger. Next morning? She says her father and her split up. But then, Hollis noticed something — her mother going in and out of the parlor constantly, hands full of plastic bags. Weeks pass and Hollis decides to use the outhouse. And as she’s using it, she looks down, and there, in the outhouse, is her father’s head looking straight back at her.”

“...You are so full of shit.” John B protested, throwing his head back and walking off.

“Wait! Dude…” JJ grabbed his best friend by the shoulder. “You sure you wanna do this? She’s an axe murderer and… you got a cast on.”

“I don’t give a shit, JJ.” John B said angrily. “I’ve got nothing to lose, right?” He threw the blonde’s words back at him. “You guys comin’ or what?” He spat before continuing his journey further onto the Crain property, the rest of you reluctantly following.

Stopping in what seemed to be a garden just a handful of feet from the front door, John B turned around. “Here's the plan. We need to look for the wheat near the water, like it said in Denmark’s Letter.”

“What kind of water? Like, pond water?” Pope replied.

JJ chuckled. “Bong water?” He tried to joke. John B just twisted his face and ignored at his childish tactics.

“Look, I don’t know, just look for water.” He demanded before continuing to lead the group. He crept around the foundation of the house, crouching in front of a small entrance that led under the structure. “C’mon, it’s the only place we haven’t looked.” He urged the four of you, turning on his flashlight and crawling through the entrance as the rest of you piled in, single-file behind him.

You coughed as you stood to your full height and dust filled your lungs. The crawlspace was filthy, smelly, and festering with mosquitos. You clicked on your mini flashlight, scanning the space.

“There’s not even water on the pipes.” JJ judged, rubbing his palm against the pipes that were so dry, the interaction sounded like nails on sandpaper.

“There’s not a drop of water here...” Pope said, irritated.

“Know why we didn’t find it?” Kie sighed, turning her sights to John B. “Bad karma.”

“God, here we go…” JB rolled his eyes.

“We had a good thing going. And then you decide to rope in Barbie and now, trail’s gone dry. Coincidence? I don't think so.” The brown-haired girl mouthed-off.

“This is exactly why I didn’t want to tell you about Sarah. What the hell’s the deal with you two?” Then his eyes landed on you, standing a few feet behind Kie between Pope and JJ who were also listening in on the not-so-hushed conversation. “You three.”

“I just got bit by three fatass mosquitos, I’d like to opt out of this particular conversation-” You spoke with a snarl, swatting another mosquito that flew across your vision as Kie’s voice sounded out again, cutting off yours.

“Nothing’s the deal.” She spat, offended.

“Is it because I kissed you? Is that your problem?” John B’s head whipped to the side when Kiara’s palm made harsh contact with his cheek, the remaining three of you making simultaneous ‘O’ faces of shock from the sidelines.

“Stop treating me like I’m some girl who’s obsessed with you instead of your best friend who’s actually trying to look out for you.” She reprimanded sternly.

“Did you, uh, hit me?” John B grimaced, turning back to face her. Kiara simply held up her right hand, her backs to the three of you.

“Skeeter.” Was all she said.

“Skeeter?”

“Yeah.” Then John B was slapping her back. You threw your hands up in the air as Pope exclaimed and JJ chuckled at the two.

“Woah, hey!” Pope threw out, then John B was holding up his right hand, this time with his palm on display since he was facing you all, presenting a flattened mosquito stuck to his palm.

“Skeeter.” He retorted firmly, eyes squinted. They started playfully slapping each other’s faces and arms back and forth as the remaining portion of you went back to looking once the show had ended. You flashed your light up and down, side to side but still nothing. And the mosquitos were eating you from the inside out…

Mosquitos.

Why were there so many mosquitos in a basement?

Aiming your flashlight down, you started tapping the toe of your foot lightly against the ground, catching a certain blonde’s attention.

“Tap dancing, are we?”

“No. Mosquitos.” You dismissed him in your focus, stepping up onto a wooden platform and tapping your foot on top of it. It sounded hollow. You paused, kneeling on top of the structure and knocking on it, still hearing that same hollowed-out echo.

“Yes, princess, there are mosquitos everywhere.”

You sighed, shining your light through the crack in the planks but it was pitch black. “Mosquitos swarm near water.” You told JJ. “Still water. They need it to hatch eggs. So, why would so many mosquitos be in a basement with seemingly no water?” You almost sounded like you were talking to yourself with the way you were mumbling, looking for something small, your sights landed on a small pebble in the gravel under the house, picking it up before dropping it through a space between the wood. Planting your ear against the ground, you waited, until seconds after dropping the stone, you heard water splash.

“You find somethin’?” JJ asked, you being unaware that he was still watching you. You turned to him with your full attention now.

“Help me move this.” You whispered to him, already starting to pull the planks up in a frenzy. The other three pogues seemed to notice that the two of you had found something and started to help move the planks until a good chunk of them were out of the way.

The five of stared down as a well stared back at you, a least a couple dozen feet deep.

“Well, well, well…” Pope muttered in the ring of silence.

“That was a good dad joke.” John B told him, never taking his eyes off the well, a smirk breaking out on his features. “We’re gonna need a really big rope.”

“NO FUCKING WAY.” Kiara spat, pacing the patio of The Chateau — Sarah Cameron was sat next to John B, presenting as unbothered as ever. You sat on the farthest cushion right across from JJ and Pope. “You brought her here? So what? She’s in on this now?”

John B looked to his two guy friends for help, Pope simply shrugging his shoulders and muttering an ‘I dunno’ before JJ threw his hands out. “All I care about is her cut coming out of your share.” He directed at JB, pointing his finger for emphasis.

“This is our thing.” Kiara scolded, pointing to everyone but Sarah to further prove her point.

“I’m just a tad uncomfortable with this…” Pope added.

“When are you not uncomfortable?” John B tried to defend the blonde girl.

“I rode here on the back of JJ’s bike pretty comfortably.” The curly-haired boy sassed back from JJ’s side.

“It’s true. Most relaxed I’ve ever seen him.”

“We were all comfortable until you brought her.” Kiara shot out, not making eye contact with Sarah, who had finally had enough.

“Stop talking about me like I’m not here!” Was the first thing the blonde girl had said since her arrival.

“I mean, you could always go home. Just a thought…” You spoke nonchalantly, shrugging from your seat across the patio. Sarah eyed you meanly before looking at John B, scoffing.

“I told you.” Your eyes squinted and your head tilted to the side.

“Told him what, exactly? That your a liar?” Kiara argued before Sarah’s attention whipped around to her.

“No, that you’re a shit-talking bitch.” She told Kie, turning to you next. “And you’re a lying slut.”

Chaos broke out — voices over voices, JJ and Pope betting money as the three of you argued over one another.

“When have I ever lied to you, Kiara?!”

“You get somebody close to you for like a month and then completely turn your back on them-”

“I’m a slut? I’m sorry, how many boyfriends have you cheated on? This year alone?-”

“Everybody, shut up!” John B stopped the arguing. “Kie, Y/n, you are my best friends, right?” Both of you just looked away, giving him his answer but not the satisfaction of hearing it. “And Sarah, you’re…”

“...Say it.” She said, a sly smile on her face.

“...You’re my girlfriend.” John B proclaimed, a boy-ish grin on his face. You couldn’t help but groan and throw your head back, all eyes turning to you as you brought your angry gaze back down.

“You met her like three whole days ago, John B.” You fussed, crossing your arms over one another. “What happened to using her for information? And I quote ‘getting what we need and cutting her loose’?”

“...You said you were using me?” Sarah asked her “boyfriend” sadly.

John B shook his head in the smallest of motions, avoiding her eyes at all costs. “No.”

“Yeah, you did.” Pope refuted his claim. “You said those things...”

“Look, love just walked in, okay?” He tried to reason with you all but you couldn’t help but laugh bitterly.

“Three days!” You laughed out.

“I didn’t expect it, it just kind of happened. And I’m not gonna deny it.” He continued, ignoring you.

“Well,” you got up from your seated position, hands slapping your knees. “If Clueless is in, count me out.” You told him, hands in your back pockets.

He shrugged like a child. “I’m not choosing, if that's what you're getting at.” He stated bluntly. You nodded your head, biting the inside of your cheek and looking around before deciding to walk off, heading for the dock.

“JUST CONSIDER IT.” JJ threw out the idea from his place beside you, leaning against the wood of the pier in front of The Chateau, Kiara and Pope having a separate conversation in front of you.

“I’m not considering anything, JJ.”

“You don’t have to like it. None of us do. But John B isn’t willing to choose and we can’t do this without you.”

“John B clearly can. He knew how we felt about her and he did everything we advised him not to do.” You snarled, looking out at the water. “None of you know her, not really. You think I just up and decided to hate Sarah Cameron one day? No.” You scoffed. “She creates a false sense of security and then when you start to rely on her, she uses it all against you.”

You both sat in silence, JJ not wanting to question you any further for the moment.

“What if he chooses her?” JJ asked you after a couple moments passed. You brought your eyes back to his, wind blowing your hair in your field of vision, voice small as you spoke.

“Then he’s a worse friend than I thought he was.”

YOU DECIDED TO MAKE YOUR WAY HOME AFTER WHAT WENT DOWN WITH JOHN B. You didn’t intend on making him choose between you or Sarah but you felt as if this whole thing had spiraled out of control. Maybe the biggest part was that you felt lied to. He promised there was nothing happening between them and when it came down to it, he couldn’t even make a decision between two of his life-long best friends and a girl he met less than a week ago. Something behind his logic, or lack of, struck a nerve within you.

Opening the front door to your Figure Eight home, you were greeted with two muddy paws against your thighs.

“Aww, Marley!” You exclaimed, throwing your hands out to the sides. “What did you get into?” You shook your head, patting the stains on your denim shorts as you kicked the door closed behind you and walked to peer out of the patio door, seeing holes galore in the backyard. You looked down at the animal, hand on your hip. “You know, she’s gonna flip.” You told the dog as if she could reply back.

Her fur was covered in brown and black, muddy paw prints left behind by her pattering feet. You just sighed, bending down to scratch the top of her head as she leaned into your hand. “Guess it’s my fault for leavin’ you. I’d go crazy if I was stuck here alone with her, too. C’mon,” You threw your head out in the direction of the garage door. “Let’s hose you off so I can cover your tracks.”

You started walking but stopped when you didn’t hear Marley trailing behind you. You peered back over your shoulder to see her sitting patiently. “No, absolutely not.” Was your reply to her pleading puppy-eyes, a whine leaving her closed lips. “I am not picking you up, Marley. You’re a big girl, c’mon.” The golden retriever made no move. “I’ll give you a treat after. You wanna a treat, girl?”

Her ears perked up in the slightest of motions and suddenly the medium-sized dog was sprinting towards you, basically running into the garage door that was still closed. You just giggled, opening the door for her to run out and hop into the metal tub in the parking space that was bought especially for her. Tying your hair back and grabbing the length of the hose, you started to hose down your mess of a dog.

YOU WERE SOAKED BY THE END OF MARLEY’S BATH. You smelled of Pumpkin Spice pet shampoo and wet dog, strands of golden hair stuck to your arms and legs as you rinsed out the tub and let it flow down the driveway. The dog in question was probably running a muck in your room where you’d locked her so you could clean up in peace — covering up the holes in the backyard to the best of your ability and mopping the floors.

Once the dog-tub was water-free, you kicked it back to it’s original position in the corner of the garage. The sound of your mother’s SUV pulling up into the driveway could be heard as you turned the hose off and put it away. She must not have seen you in the dark of the garage as she got out of the car, heels hitting the concrete as she slammed the driver’s side door shut. Her cell phone was pressed between her shoulder and ear and she fought to get her purse up onto her arm.

“I don’t care what you do, Cameron. Or how you do it for that matter. Just do something because this is both of our asses on the line.” She spat to whoever was on the other end of the line — Cameron? Maybe it was a new hire at the office.

Her eyes shot up and seemed to finally register your presence, a look of shock filling her features for a moment before it faded into something else. Something more irritated. “We’ll talk about this later. Hopefully, you’ll have gotten rid of the problem by then.” Was all she said before hanging up.

You had turned back around at this point, focused on putting Marley’s bath supplies back into their respective cabinets and shelves.

“I didn’t expect you home.”

“Neither did I.” You replied bluntly.

“You know, it’d be nice if you could be home more often. You still have responsibilities, and that dog does whatever it wants.”

You stood to your full height, facing her now as you crossed your arms. “I could say the same for you.”

She scoffed, shifting her weight. “I have work. A job. You just run around with your delinquent friends all day and night. Your room is empty for days on end.”

You shrugged, jutting your bottom lip out. “What are you lonely, or something? We barely talk when I am home.”

“You want to talk? Let’s talk.” She crossed her own arms, staring you down.

“Not really-”

“I heard John B had a pretty nasty fall from The Hawk’s Nest last night and you and your friends were there.” You veered your neck back at her statement, a look of offense written across your face.

“What’re you keeping tabs on me now?”

She just shrugged and shifted, pointing her chin towards the ceiling as if she knew she had you cornered. “Word travels fast on the island. The real question is what were you kids doing up there in the middle of a thunderstorm? Everything I hear about that little posse of yours is dangerous.”

All you could was laugh humorlessly, pushing yourself off of the garage wall and heading for the door back inside of the house. “I’m not doing this with you.” You told the woman, shaking your head.

“Answer the question, Y/n!” She called after you, following you into the three-story house and slamming the garage door closed behind her.

“No! I’m covered in mud, water, and dog hair and you’re pissing me off!” You were practically stomping up the stairs. “Everytime I come back to this house you interrogate me. Calling my friends delinquents as if these aren't kids you’ve known for years!”

“Well, clearly I have good reason to-” You stopped at the top of the stairs, turning and staring down at your mother who was still at the bottom, making no moves to follow you up.

“Maybe it’s time I question you because I have a fair few of my own.” You spat. “How did you find about the Hawk’s Nest because there were only six of us there when it happened? When did you and Shoupe get all buddy-buddy? Or better yet, how’d you manage to scrape up the money to buy a house on Figure Eight so suddenly? And don’t think I’m dumb enough to believe my father’s life insurance was enough to cover it.”

She didn’t say anything. Anything at all. Your mother just stared up at you with a look on her face that you’d never seen before it. It was angry, dark — borderline evil. It made your heart thump out of your chest and your knees get weak. It was a look that a parent should never direct at their child.

With one last glare, you turned your back and went into your own bathroom to clean yourself up, not neglecting to slam the door behind you.

YOU SIGHED AS YOU HOPPED FROM THE HMS POGUE ONTO HEYWARD’S BOAT. After your shower, Pope had picked you up from the short pier in the back of your house with Kie lounging in the boat. He said something about JJ and John B needing a tow after conking out in the middle of The Marsh.

Approaching Heyward’s boat that was still in the middle of The Marsh, you and Kie edged towards the front of the HMS Pogue, preparing to step off. Extending your legs, you made it onto the other boat without fail, Kiara following you into the Alp where the two boys in question were.

“What did you do?” You asked annoyed, still reeling from the events of earlier — both of them.

“The alternators not…alternating, anymore.” JJ told you, throwing his hands out.

“Did you check the plugs?” Kiara suggested, stepping in front of you and approaching the boys as you leaned on the entryway.

“No, you should check ‘em. Give ‘em whirl.” They handed her whatever tool they’d been using, stepping away.

“You guys are useless…” You let the two guys walk by you, stepping further into the space with Kie. “Uh, is this a joke? There are no plugs, like at all.” She muttered.

Suddenly, you heard water splashing, turning around and walking back out to see that JJ and John B had jumped into the water and were swimming towards the HMS Pogue that was getting farther and farther away.

“What’re you-” You started, cut off by the sound of banging coming from below the deck of the boat.

“John B! John B, let me out!” Came an unmistakable voice. In a haste, you lifted the hatch in the floor, coming face to face with Sarah Cameron. Not giving her time to speak, you just huffed and ran towards the edge of the boat.

“What the fuck?!” You yelled at the three boys across the water, Kiara and Sarah on each side of you now. Both equally as angry as you. “Are you serious?”

“Get your asses back here!” Kiara demanded.

“We can’t!” Pope shrugged with a sly smile. “Not until you three work out your issues!”

“You can’t just leave!” Sarah tried.

“There’s food in the cabin and JJ rolled a blunt!” John B shouted back. The three of you ignored them, kicking off your overalls and stripping down to your bikinis.

“This is ridiculous…” The blonde girl muttered under her breath, kicking her shorts off of her ankles.

“Well, I’d rather drown than be here with you, so…” Kiara retorted, taking her shirt off.

“Fine. Be my guest. Maybe you’ll finally shut the hell up.” Sarah shot back.

“You don’t even know where you’re going.” The two girls continued arguing as the three boys drifted farther away.

“I don’t care.” Was all the Cameron girl said back before jumping into the Marsh water, just as Pope revved up the engine on the smaller boat and they sped away. Sarah cursed them before turning around and swimming back to the boat, screaming and going under before popping back up.

“Ah! I got stung by a jellyfish! Shit!” She cried, still swimming back to the boat.

You rolled your eyes and turned away from her, fixing the ties on your swim suit. “Maybe next time don’t jump into The Marsh.” You reprimanded meanly.

“Thanks for the advice, after the fact.” She retorted, climbing onto the boat and sliding against the side.

“It’s not like you listen anyway...” You shrugged, leaning against the boat.

“Kiara, you know what they say about curing jellyfish stings,” Sarah ignored you, talking through heavy breaths and looking up at the brown-haired girl. “You have to pee on me.”

The girl simply cringed. “I have a better idea.”

NIGHT HAD FALLEN AND YOU WERE SURE THE GUYS WEREN’T COMING BACK FOR THE THREE OF YOU ANYTIME SOON. The night air was cool and Sarah was high off of the weed left behind, courtesy of JJ himself. She’d been laughing and talking about nothing non-stop for the last hour.

Kie was sat next to her in the cockpit of the boat while you sat on the hardtop, swinging your feet.

“Hey,” Sarah piped up, interrupting her own giggling. “Would you rather…have, I was imagining you like this just now, it was pretty funny.” She was directing the question at Kiara. “Would you imagi- would you rather…have nipples for eyes or have eyes for nipples? Imagine if you get really old and your nipples, your boobs get saggy, your nipples, if they were your eyes, you could see if your shoes were untied.”

She attempted to laugh it off in her impaired state but took the hint when Kie gave her a side glance, no humor present in her expression. “Is this like your first time smoking or something?”

“...No.” Sarah said lowly, looking down.

“Could’ve fooled me.” You muttered, annoyed by the girls incessant laughter and talking.

After a couple moments of tense silence, Sarah attempted to speak again. “Hey, Kiara…”

“Oh my God.” She cut her off. “Enough the ‘Hey, Kiara’ bullshit.” She turned her entire body to face the blonde, a hard look in her eyes. “Why’d you do it?”

“...Why’d I do what?” Sarah played dumb.

“We were best friends.” Kiara started solemnly. “We stole beers from your dad’s fridge, we watched movies together, we cried about boys...” She reminisced. “And the next thing I know, the entire school thinks I have a crush on you because you started a rumor that I did.”

“It was just a joke.” Sarah tried to dismiss, rolling her eyes.

“To who? Because it wasn’t funny for me. And when it spun out of control? When it went from people saying I had a crush on you to saying I tried to kiss you? To saying I was stalking you? That I had a shrine? Was it still just a joke then?” She reprimanded. “You never even bothered to clear it up. Just fed into it. You just cut me off like nothing happened. I mean, really, what did I do?”

You continued watching the interaction happen from the hardtop of the boat. “You liked me.” Sarah blurted. “...When people get close to me, I feel trapped. And…I bail. And then I blame them for it.” She got out, turning to look Kiara in the eyes. “I’m really sorry…And I miss you.” Then her eyes were on you. “Both of you. Do you think there’s a chance that we could be okay again?” She was looking at Kiara again.

“Honestly. I don’t know.” Sarah simply nodded and bit her lip, accepting the answer before turning her sights to you once more.

“Y/n?” She called. You assumed she was waiting for your answer to the same question, all you could manage was a huff of air to leave your lips.

“What a bunch of bullshit.” You breathed out, an incredulous smile on your face as you looked away for moment. You could hear Kiara sigh.

“Y/n-”

“No, Kiara. If you want to forgive her, by all means be my guest. But me and you?” Your eyes were on Sarah, glaring at her. “We will never be ‘okay’ again.” You mocked.

“What do you want from me?” Sarah spat out. “I apologized-”

“You apologized to Kie. Not me.”

“Well, I’m sorry. For…whatever I did.” She slurred, slouching further against the inside of the boat.

“Whatever you did?”

“You were the one sneaking around with my brother, Y/n!”

“And you're still downplaying the situation! That’s not what happened nor is it why our friendship ended and you know it.” You disputed, anger filling your tone.

“Our friendship ended because you tried to make the situation into something it wasn’t.”

“You never even considered the possibility that what I told you was true. You called me a liar, turned me into the school slut-”

“He’s my brother.”

“That doesn’t mean he’s not a bad person, Sarah!” You said with finality in your voice. “And if you can’t see that, then maybe that makes two of you.” Was the last thing you said before hopping down from the top of the boat and disappearing around the corner, away from the two girls.

THE THREE OF YOU SAT ON THE EDGE OF THE BOAT, WATCHING THE BOYS ARRIVE AS THE SUN CAME UP. You’d slept in the helm of the boat while Kiara and Sarah slept out in the open. You hated to admit how lonely you felt hearing them giggle in the middle of the night but it was quickly overshadowed by the memories of what was said between you and Sarah. A small part of you wondered how Kiara could forgive her so quickly. So easily.

“Let’s not give them the satisfaction of thinking this worked.” Kiara whispered to the blonde next to her. You simply kept quiet. Because for you, it didn’t.

“So, did you guys, you know…” Pope led on as the smaller boat parked next to the bigger one. You said nothing as you hopped off the edge, from one boat to the other.

“Reconcile our differences?” Kie finished for him.

“Nope. Not even a little.” Sarah shook her head. “But we’re…willing to work together?” She said, turning to Kiara who nodded in agreement as they both stepped onto the HMS Pogue.

“You know what? That’s victory.” JB cheered, dapping up Pope. “You guys ready to jack some loot?”

YOU ALL WAITED UNTIL IT GOT DARK ONCE MORE TO RETURN TO THE CRAIN PROPERTY, FULL PREPARED THIS TIME. Rope, pulley, flashlights. You were equipped with the gold-mine starter kit and ready to throw John B down into a well beneath a murder-house.

Parking in front of the house but still out of sight, John B hopped out of the driver’s side to round the van and open the side door, pausing. “I wanna say thank you guys. Seriously.” He told the five of you whole-heartedly. “It means a lot to me that you’re here tonight.”

“Of course, man.” Pope assured him softly, giving him a special handshake.

“All right, we done with this circle jerk?” JJ cut in. “Can we go do this?”

“Let’s go get that wheat in the water.” Pope exclaimed, jumping out of the van first, followed by Kie, then Sarah.

“Weed? I’m up for weed.” JJ said, letting you get out before him. You rolled your eyes, a small smile breaking on your face as you climbed out of the van. The first one in hours.

“Wheat, J. He said wheat.” You corrected. You all formed a sort of single-file line, hopping the fence one by one. You all walked as quietly as you could through the tall grass and bushes, sticking as close together as possible. Out of the blue, a light in front of the house lit up your frames, the six of you scrambling to duck and hide, turning your flashlights off.

“Why would a blind lady need motion sensor lights?” You hissed frustratedly confused.

“Let’s throw a rock at it.” John B offered. You all looked at him stupidly.

“That’s a really good idea. Let the axe murderer know that we’re here.” Kiara said sarcastically.

“Do any of you have a better idea?”

“What about the breaker in the circuit box on the porch?” Sarah asked. “We used to play hide-and-seek here as kids and if we were brave enough, we’d go all the way up to the porch.”

“No, no, you’re not going into the house alone.” John B protested.

“I’ll go with you.” Kiara volunteered herself before turning to you. You simply raised a brow as if to ask ‘what?’. Only then did you notice that the rest of the group was staring at you as well, then you got the hint, smacking your teeth.

“Christ, fine, I’ll go, too. Just… stop looking at me like hungry orphans.” You mumbled, getting up and walking towards the house, slightly crouched.

“We’ll wait for your signal!” Pope whisper-shouted as the three of you disappeared into the thick of the bushes. You let Sarah lead the way, seeing as she had an idea of where you were going and what you were looking for.

“She must have a generator plugged into the main power supply.” Sarah informed from the front of the line. The three of you crept up the porch steps, the wood creaking ever so slightly as you did. You aimed your flashlight at the circuit box in question, using your empty hand to open it. You quickly noted a problem.

“Where are the breakers?” Your face twisted in confusion, visually following the wires that were connected to the box. “It goes inside.” You said annoyed, pushing the circuit box door back closed. You turned back to the two girls behind you, a weary look shared amongst the three of you before Kie took it upon herself to carefully open the gate in front of the back door, twisting the knob quickly but quietly.

Pushing the door open, the three of you slid inside swiftly as the door creaked, making your face twist. You all treaded carefully through the dark home. You nearly jumped out of your skin when a cat yowled beside you.

“Shi- get out of here you mangy thing!” You whispered, pushing the feline away with the toe of your shoe. You follow the wires on the ceiling to the location of the breakers, Kiara wasting little time in switching the generator off, the house and surrounding areas going pitch black as she did.

You all let out sighs of relief, small victorious smiles breaking out on each of your faces. “We should probably get out of here now.” You advised, the other two agreeing. You hadn’t even lifted your foot to step away before a whirring sound echoed throughout the house, the three of you throwing yourselves against the wall and out of sight of whatever was around the corner.

You could barely hear one another breathing, contemplating whether you should stay put or make a break for it. It wasn’t long before you heard the sound of heavy-breathing and what sounded like a cane hitting the floor accompanied by delayed footsteps.

You could feel your heart in throat as you tried your hardest not to move a muscle, the footsteps growing closer by the second. Fear rushing through your veins when you heard a voice call out.

“It’s late, Leon.” An old, raspy, elderly voice spoke — Mrs. Crain. “Too late...” She coughed, cane still hitting the floor ferociously with every step. You swore you could’ve cried when the woman in question rounded the corner, standing right in front of you three with no clue. “I can hear you, Leon. I’ve been waiting all night!” She screeched, whipping her head in your direction so fast you were surprised her neck didn’t snap in the process.

Her teeth were yellow, her hair was dead and gray, and her eyes were white. Pure white. The three of you screamed simultaneously before booking it in the direction you came. You don’t know how you ended up splitting from each other but you did. You ended up in some old dusty study-type room, the only exit being a window. You ran over to it, using all your strength to pull it up but it wouldn’t budge.

“Where are you, Leon?!” Her voice scratched your ears with the way it echoed. You cursed as you continued pulling at the window, eventually giving up and running out of the room. Fortunately, you ran in just time to find Mrs. Crain swinging aimlessly at Kiara with a fire poker. You took the opportunity to grab the object when she swung it back once more, snatching it and throwing it across the room.

Sarah entered just as the old lady turned around and gripped you by the arm, the blonde grabbing Kiara as you pushed Mrs. Crain off of you and ran into the room with the other two. Sarah closed and latched the door shut, Mrs. Crain banging from the other side.

She’d managed to find the stairs the led under the house where the guys were, you and Kiara following her down in a hurry.

“Guys!” All three of you called, sprinting through the crawlspace.

“Woah, what’s goin’ on?” JJ asked as you accidentally ran into him, the blonde stabilizing by your upper arms.

“Mrs. Crain is up there. She’s trying to kill us with a fire poker.” Kiara breathed out.

“We locked her in the parlor but we have to go. Like, now.” You said frantically.

“Okay, code red.” JJ said, releasing your arms and heading back towards Pope. He leaned over the well, shouting down. “John B! Get back on, man!” The rest of you grabbed the length of the rope, using all of your man power to pull the boy back up when the you all fell, the rope pulling up nothing.

“Where is he?” Kiara panicked, crawling to the well to lean over it. “John B?!” His voice came back up but no one could tell what he was saying. It was just a faint echo. His next words were clearer, however — he was calling your names.

“He’s drowning! We gotta pull him up!” Sarah assumed the worst as you scrambled to grab the rope again.

“John B? Get back on the rope, we’re gonna pull you up!” Pope called down into the well. Once JB affirmed that he was secured, the five of you began pulling once more, much more synchronized this time. You were using all the strength you had to pull him up when a gunshot made your ears ring.

You ducked, as did the rest of the group, your grip on the rope loosening. Pope and JJ hurried to tie the rope so it wouldn’t drop any further as you all scurried around the crawlspace, hoping the blind woman would think you were gone.

Only problem? None of you knew how to shut the hell up. Another shot rang out and that’s when you all decided you had to make a run for it. You saw John B’s muddy hand gripped the edge of the well before you bolted, knowing he’d be a little behind but just fine. You sprinted out into the yard, practically launched yourself back over the gate and threw yourselves into the van.

JJ started the van without John B inside as more gunshots sounded, the boy running behind his own van for dear life.

“John B, come on!” The boy caught up, launching himself into the back of the van and sliding the door shut as JJ sped off.

“Everyone okay? No bullet holes?” JJ questioned from the driver’s seat.

“I think I’d know if I was shot, right?” Kiara asked, hands patting her frame.

“You look disgusting.” Pope breathed out, the statement directed at John B who looked more like a mud-man than a teenage boy.

“And you smell even worse, my God.” Your face winded with disgust.

“What the hell just happened?” Sarah ran her hands through her hair, throwing her head back.

“All-time Pogue Hall of Fame, baby!” JJ cheered, giving you a high-five as you basically sat back to back as he drove.

“That bitch is possessed.” Kiara said.

“How can she move that fast?” John B breathed out, and you wondered how he could talk without minding the substance all over his face, including his lips.

Suddenly, John B pulled something from his pocket or under his thigh, it was hard to tell when he was the same color all over. “What is that?” You asked, squinting your eyes as he used his thumb to wipe away the debris on the object, revealing the unmistakable color of gold. “...No motherfucking way.” You scoffed.

“We did it, baby!” He whooped, holding the gold bar up in the air. “I did it!”

“Oh, my God!” JJ supported him as he drove, eyes looking back when they should on the road. The van was filled with cheers, so loud you were sure any houses you passed on the road could hear.

“You guys were gonna be rich!” Kiara broke through the cheers. “Like Kook rich!”

“Full Kook!” Pope started, the rest of you joining in joyously. The Twinkie had never been more lively or celebratory. After days of being chased, shot at, arrested, jumped, and targeted — you all had done it.

You had found the gold.

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probablyasocialecologist · 1 year

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The far right aren’t the only ones showing up armed. Across the country, marginalized individuals are forming groups like the John Brown Gun Club and Socialist Rifle Association that claim to be devoted to the idea of community defense. Their rationale is informed by the massacres at Colorado’s Club Q and Florida’s Pulse nightclub, and tempered by a long cultural distrust of the police, who they say have repeatedly failed to protect them from — and in some cases even perpetuated — right-wing hate.

Many sources interviewed for this story — particularly those who conceal their identities at protests — asked to use pseudonyms, in fear of being targeted or doxxed by the far right. Others were happy to share their names, judging that their public presence — or concealed-carry permits — shield them from harm. All of them, however, agree on one thing: The other side has guns and is willing to use them. The only answer is to be prepared to shoot back.

[...]

“My community, the South Asian community, has been dealing with this shit for 30 years,” Azad says. “Every year, some dude throws a Molotov into a temple, or spray-paints swastikas on our houses.”

Gato chimes in. “I don’t want to own guns and do this,” he says. “But I also don’t want someone coming after my wife because she’s a person of color.”

But in Texas, Azad and Gato say, guns are a necessity — the right wing has them, the law allows them, and being armed is the only way to stay safe.

“This is the Wild fuckin’ West, man,” Azad says. “We kinda do what we gotta do.”

#guns #gun control #militia #fascism #lgbt

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johnwickb1tsch · 4 months

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Young!John Wick x Model!Reader Imagine

Imagine you are the love of John Wick's life...

You meet in Paris when he’s a young man. You spend a mind-blowing night together, and watch the sun rise from Sacré-Coeur. He disappears, and you’re devastated because no one has ever made you feel that way, and you’re certain you’ll never see him again. But throughout the years he keeps finding you as you travel for work. He kisses you silly in the Gamla Stan of Stockholm, makes you cum on his fingers in a dark club in London, and when he leaves you utterly wrecked in Rome you know that you’re in love with this man. You don’t know exactly what he does for a living, but you’re not stupid. You’ve memorized every inch of his body, and you notice as his collection of scars multiplies over the years. You are half convinced he's a spy, but then there are the tattoos...ominous as they are captivating, they suggest membership in a darker world than the shadows of international espionage. You cannot reconcile it. How can this sweet man, this man who makes you laugh, who brings you joy and such exquisite pleasure, be a part of such a violent occupation? When you finally get up the courage to ask him he just shakes his head, and says it’s better you don’t know before kissing you in that way that utterly scrambles your brain cells.

-It all started in Paris with a broken heel... You nearly fell into traffic, but a strong arm around your waist snatched you back from death.

You hid against his chest for a long moment, even though he was a total stranger, because he felt so safe. You were in Paris for your first Fashion Week—and you were so lost. It’s the 1990s, a dark age in which we didn’t have handheld computers to pleasantly tell us where to go, and we used archaic documents to find our way known as paper maps...And you’d left yours in your hotel accidentally.

You look up to see kind brown eyes fixed down on you. “Are you alright?” You hate to think it, but you are so relieved to hear an American accent. You have been yelled at no less than three times in French that day, and even if you totally deserved it, you're a bit gun shy now.

“Yes. Thank you. Jesus, I...” You look at the traffic barreling by at breakneck speed, a chill running down your spine. “Thank you,” you say again. You look up at him, really look at him, and realize you're in the arms of the most handsome man you've ever seen—and you work in fashion.

“You're welcome.”

He seems as taken by you as you are by him, and for a stretch of long moments you just stand there staring at each other like moon-eyed idiots. He looks down, suddenly shy. It's totally endearing. “Sorry,” he apologizes, releasing you slowly. You teeter on your broken heel, and you can tell he is ready to grab you again if he has to. This protectiveness makes a surprising warmth bloom in your heart.

“Do you...need help getting somewhere?” he asks. You wonder if it’s that obvious you’re lost. Usually you'd be wary of that question from a stranger. You've dealt with so many creeps throughout your life. But somehow you sense that he’s sincere.

“I guess I'd better get back to my hotel.”

Sebastiano was going to kill you. You broke a $600 pair of heels...well maybe Gucci should have made them better, the lazy bastards.

“Can I get you a cab?”

With your broken heel, you guess you’re not hoofing it back. “Sure.” He hails one down, and you’re delighted when he climbs in with you, speaking to the driver in perfect French, bless him.

“Where are we headed?” You give him the name of your hotel, and he repeats it the way it’s supposed to be said. Oh. No wonder the previous drivers gave you such contemptuous looks… You took Spanish in high school, ok? You can read French but have zero experience speaking it.

When you arrive at the hotel your savior thrusts a wad of Francs through the window before you have a chance to even open your purse, and helps you out of the cab. You are totally leaning against his arm more than you have to. You can feel the hard curve of his bicep beneath the fine fabric of his suit, and it makes you a little giddy. Only once you’re safe in the lobby does he seem willing to release you, though somehow your hand has ended up in his, and you find you don’t really want to let go. “Are you doing anything later?” you ask boldly, before he can disappear back into the bustle of Paris and you’ll never find him again.

He pays you a melancholy smile that squeezes your heart for some reason. “Unfortunately, I have to work,” he says. You make a pouty face that draws his attention to your lips. The intensity in those dark eyes is thrilling. “Maybe if I finish early…I could join you?”

You know you grin like an idiot at this suggestion. “I’ll be at the Versace afterparty. I could…have your name put on the list?”

This seems to amuse him for some reason, his mouth twisting in a smirk. “I can find you,” he says, and your heart flutters. In fact, when he presses his lips to your knuckles, your heart attempts to flutter right out of your chest.

He turns to go but you call, “Wait!” He pauses. “What’s your name?”

The smile he pays you is heart stopping. “Jardani,” he answers quietly. “But everyone calls me John.” You bite your lip, nodding, very pleased with this new bit of information, sensing that maybe he’s told you something just for you. “I hope I get to see you later.”

He nods too, touching your cheek lightly. “You will.”

It sounds like a promise.

-You should be beside yourself with excitement because you’re walking your first runway in Paris, and this could be the moment that makes or breaks your career, but the real reason for your nerves is the hope that you’ll see him again.

-The show goes great. You kill it. Sebastiano, your friend and the designer you’d modeled for, can hardly contain himself. But you find you’re just watching the clock ticking down the seconds until later.

-John does find you later. You have a drink, and you dance, and from the adoring way he looks at you, you feel brave enough to ask if he wants to go someplace quieter. You go for a little walk, and even though it’s the wee hours of the morning you feel perfectly safe with this man. He kisses you on the Pont Alexandre, his hands in your hair, and your fingers curl in the lapels of his jacket to hold him to you. You ask if he wants to go back to your hotel, and he agrees. This man looks at you like you are something irreplaceably precious, and you don’t know how you’ll let him go.

-He is strong. In your hotel room he picks you up by your thighs and presses you into the wall, kissing you senseless before carrying you to the bed. His hands are calloused, but he’s so gentle with you. He touches you like you were made for him, like he was born knowing how to make you see stars. He claims you with his hands and his mouth and his big, beautiful cock deep inside you, and you know you’ll never be the same after this. You’ve been disappointed so many times that you almost don’t know how to handle an encounter going this well.

-When he stirs in the blue light of pre-dawn your arms tighten around him. You’re not even awake yet, but you don’t want him to leave. He kisses you behind the ear and you practically purr. “Want to see the second most beautiful sight in Paris?”

“Yes,” you agree.

“Bring your camera.” You’d told him about your interest in photography. Maybe modeling was paying the bills, but you’d actually majored in fine art, and minored in literature. Naturally, your interests make for shit at paying bills.

Sleepily you get dressed. It takes a little longer than usual because you can’t stop kissing each other between pulling on garments. Soft, slow kisses that curl your toes. You sense deep down that every one of them is infused with apology, and goodbye. It breaks your heart, but greedily you’ll take every second with him you can get.He takes you to Sacré-Coeur in the heart of Montmartre, the very roof of Paris. You sit on the steps and watch the sun rise over the city, fiery oranges and pinks painting the sky and rendering the buildings aglow. It truly is beautiful, but you don’t lift your lens to try to capture it. You sit with your arm linked with his, and experience this moment with him as fully as you can. You want to remember everything.

“You didn’t take a picture,” he teases once the sun has cheerfully risen above the horizon.

You pull out the camera and frame him in your lens, his sleepy smile and bed-mussed hair. You feel something shift in your heart as your finger depresses the button. Click. You’re not sure if it’s the camera in your hand, or something settling into place in your heart that has always belonged there.

“Now I have the first most beautiful sight in Paris,” you say.

He laughs at that. “I meant that was you,” he insists, lacing his fingers with yours, kissing the back of your hand. He takes you to breakfast, and you enjoy dark coffee and delectably crafted pastries with your legs tangled together under the table. Afterwards he takes you back to your hotel, and in the gilt-appointed lobby somehow you know what’s coming.

“I have to go,” he says sadly. You actually believe his regret isn’t an act.

You nod, leaning into his large hand on your cheek.

“I’ll never forget you, y/n.”

A shuddering sigh escapes you, and you close your eyes. You are not going to cry.

“Likewise, I promise you.”

You don’t exchange any further information. You know that if it was possible to see him again, he would have offered it to you. There is something mysterious about this man. Something almost…forbidden, and a part of you knows that the little time you stole together was a precious gift.

He kisses you one last time, a passionate, soul-rending thing that leaves you utterly weak in the knees. He says nothing more, pressing his forehead to yours one final time before turning to go. You watch his tall, dark form exit the hotel into the Paris morning, and you know he’s taking a piece of your heart with him as he goes.

-------------------------------------------------------------------

tbc because goddamn this got long...

part deux >>

#john wick #john wick x reader #john wick x you #john wick x y/n #ok so maybe you are helen?#but its written from your pov so you're welcome lol #john wick x helen #keanu reeves #keanu x you #keanu reeves x you #keanu reeves x reader #ernff i just saw JW4 last week #that sunset tho #fucked me up

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trans-girl-nausicaa · 10 months

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On “An Anarchist Anti-Gun Manifesto.”

Preface:

I am not an Anarchist, I am a Marxist, however, I think you will find that my disagreements with this piece are mostly compatible with an Anarchist position. (And if not… well… I don’t care.)

Full text of the piece may be found here.

I will be examining excerpts, while skipping over parts of the manifesto that repeat itself or are just not relevant to the points the author is trying to make.

(Side note: I do not mean any ill-will towards the author and I have nothing against them personally. I simply think that this text has very bad ideas that I strongly disagree with.)

The text begins:

“Before I begin in earnest, let me be clear: this is not a call for pacifism.”

This is an important distinction. The author does not want pacifism, they simply want to lose the revolution.

“I believe in fighting back with anything and everything we can get our hands on, however, I have grown tired with the continued fetishization of guns in radical (specifically anarchist) spaces.”

Please keep in mind the phrase “fighting back with everything we can get our hands on,” because it is contradicted many times in the rest of the piece.

I find their assertion of “fetishization of guns in radical … spaces” weak. Does it exist? Maybe, but they provide no examples of such, nor any descriptions of what it might look like.

(I can provide an example of a type of gun fetishization by leftists. Many American leftists have an affinity for guns originally designed in the Soviet Union and other socialist countries, manifesting, for example, in an irrational preference for AK models rather than the much more reasonable choice of an AR. But that is not touched on by this author and is a topic for another post entirely. Please do not buy a Makarov for self-defense purposes.)

Part I: “Illusions and Delusions”

They begin this section with a description of how Things Sure Are Getting Bad In America.

From the second paragraph:

“With each law passed, each drag story hour threatened, each captured display of violence on film, I see many with whom I find affinity echo some version a similar refrain:

‘This is why you need to buy a gun’

Every time I see this refrain, I pause and sit with the unease that rises from my guts into my throat and out my nose. I sit in the unease until a question formulates ‘What do you think a gun changes?’”

I’m going to legitimately answer their question.

A gun multiplies your capacity to do violence.

I don’t mean metaphorical violence or structural violence or figurative violence, I mean physical violence.

The oppressed peoples of America see that there is some kind of tide turning against us. And we are arming ourselves because not only is violence inevitable, it is already present.

I saw in the news how there was an armed standoff between the Elm Fork John Brown Gun Club and right-wing ‘protesters’ at a drag show. Many of the EFJBGC members were armed with AR-15 rifles. It is indisputable that they were a lot more intimidating than if they were unarmed. Some of the ‘protesters’ were armed as well, but the armed EFJBGC members outnumbered the armed ‘protesters.’ At that stage, in that context, intimidation was clearly a desired outcome. Sometimes intimidation is a necessary weapon against your enemies. We are “fighting back with anything we can get our hands on,” right?

“I’ve been around guns my whole life. I learned how to shoot at a young age, first a shotgun, then a rifle, then a handgun. I learned how to clean and care for a gun.”

I will refrain from casting any aspersions as to the author’s skill with a firearm. The problem is not their familiarity or skill, rather their errors in judgement.

Next we come to a real declaration.

“In no subtle words, believing that gun ownership is a meaningful answer to the violence enacted on marginalized peoples is to reify the illusion that to possess a gun is to increase one’s proximity to “safety”, and that to possess more guns is to become even “safer”. Owning a gun will never make you safe, because there is no such thing as safety in this world for the marginalized, for the Black, the targeted nonwhite, for the poor, the visibly queer,”

And they go on with a list of marginalized demographics, but I wanted to stop it at “the visibly queer,” because I find that significant.

I think it is incorrect to tell someone at risk of being gay-bashed that they should not have a means of exerting more violent force in a fight.

I am visibly trans and have been harassed on the street by random aggressive people many times. I’m lucky to have escaped such encounters through various means but I eventually decided that I was done taking chances. If you don’t have a need for self-defense, that’s cool for you I guess, but my life experience has been very different. I carry a 9mm Glock loaded with hollow-points in a concealed holster. I train regularly.

I wasn’t “safe” in the first place.

The next point they make makes me really wonder who they think they are arguing with.

“If you wish to continue breathing, there is no gun you can possess to prevent the sheriffs from carrying out an eviction. There is no gun you can possess to turn your heat back on.”

Nobody thinks this. It’s an irrelevant thing to bring up. Moving on.

“If someone really, truly, wants you dead, no gun will keep you alive, unless you turn yourself into a machine of pure vigilance, sacrificing living for the hope of survival that can never be guaranteed.”

This is literally not true. If someone really, truly, wants you dead, and tries to kill you, and you shoot them until they stop moving, they’re gonna have a much harder time killing you.

It seems that the author here is taking the nihilist point of view where there is nothing you can do to give yourself better odds in violent altercations where the other person wants to kill you.

Regardless of political ideology I never tolerate nihilism.

In their next paragraph they are truly self-contradictory.

“If there is to be a path towards anything resembling “safety” it will not come from individually arming ourselves, even in large numbers. It will come from a generalized culture of antagonism towards both formal and informal institutions of power. It will come from a culture of spontaneous resistance, from insurrectional potential. Guns may be a part of some explicit actions within that culture; however, they are neither necessary nor sufficient for bringing it about and may (as I will touch on later) hinder its continued existence. The only chance we have at protecting each other is gaining ground in the social war of our time.”

Let’s put aside the “generalized culture of antagonism” as that is within the purview of social movements overall and is therefore beyond the scope of what I can write about here.

There is a contradiction between their assertion that we should not individually arm ourselves and their assertion that guns may be necessary for social change. Ideally you should not spontaneously take up arms at a flashpoint of social change without previous experience and training with firearms, and the best way to have experience and training with firearms is to already have firearms so you can actually train with them. Their idea of a “social war” that apparently does not include firearms is ludicrous and unimaginable in the United States of America. If there is to be an actual “social war” with genuine insurrectionary activity, the right-wing and capital-owning opposition to those insurrections will be shooting at you. ‘Don’t bring a knife to a gunfight,’ as they say.

“Rather than taking an offensive position of articulating worthwhile actions and carrying them out, many revert to a defensive (even reactionary) positioning of arming themselves and simply waiting for the coming genocide, for the coming collapse. They may have other projects that they take part in but they are mostly ways to kill time. They don’t attempt to gain ground and so they don’t risk losing ground. Still, they are convinced of their own radicality because they armed themselves, they have primed themselves to defend the marginalized (potentially including themselves), the most radical thing one can do.”

What can I say other than ‘citation needed.’

Sure, if all you do is buy a gun and nothing else, then arguably you’re not a part of a revolutionary force. But that’s not what I see. I see people unionizing their workplaces, taking part in mutual aid projects, or, in fact, merely surviving.

What, in actual fact, is so bad about left-wing individuals increasing their capacity for self-defense?

The next paragraph is almost laughable coming from an Anarchist.

“We can’t shoot our way to liberation, not if liberation means the ability to determine for ourselves what a life worth living would be. A few shots may help, but they will never be the sufficient form of resistance against a world built upon the logic of concentrated power, of which guns are a primary mode of expression.”

Aren’t y’all supposed to be insurrectionists?!

Aren’t y’all supposed to desire the literal downfall of the State?!

Why are you struggling against your own means of fighting back against Power?

Or…

“…concentrated power, of which guns are a primary mode of expression.”

Perhaps the author believes that guns themselves are bad because they ARE a form of increasing one’s power.

This is a ridiculous point to take. If guns are bad because they increase an individual’s power, then you can logically proceed to the position that ALL forms of individual power are bad. Are we to conclude that individuals should not even learn how to fight hand-to-hand, because that skill and physical prowess is a form of individual power? How about physical fitness in the first place? How about owning a car? How about owning a home? Where does it stop?

I will provide a quote here that is better than anything in this manifesto.

In the words of Mao Zedong,

“Political power grows out of the barrel of a gun.”

Part II: “The Concentration of Power and the Reproduction of Daily Life”

“I think people acquire guns because of the fantasy of possessing hyper concentrated power. We live in a world of incredible alienation and disempowerment. We look outside and believe ourselves broadly incapable of affecting our surroundings. In this context, a machine that, with the push of a button, can irreparably alter our existence is easily fetishized.”

I understand what they are saying here, but it isn’t actually an argument against the necessity of the ownership of guns, so it’s irrelevant.

”These power fantasies inevitably blind the radical from recognizing the experimental space opened before them, and so these radicals actively repress the experimentation and insurrectionary potential of others in those spaces. I saw far too many such ‘radical’ policing forces in 2020 to ever trust a person who shows up to a riot carrying an AR.”

This is actually something referencing real life that I wish they would expand upon. They don’t really go into detail as to what “policing” they observed, so I’m left without an ability to meaningfully comment.

I myself was left with disillusionment in the wake of 2020. What I saw was a lack of organization that created power vacuums that were easily exploited by opportunists, whether that meant self-proclaimed ‘organizers’ or ‘security’ forces or just highly charismatic grifters. However I don’t see the problem as being guns. I see the problem as a lack of power structures. A highly organized group of people is empowered to resist bad actors. I have observed that masses of people with no plan and no organization are highly vulnerable and, in a sense, weak regardless of how large their numbers are. This is why huge masses of unequipped, disorganized protesters, even violent ones, can be cowed, kettled, and dispersed by much smaller numbers of well-equipped and well-organized police departments.

It is the organization of human effort that multiplies our efficiency and power.

I will provide another quote that is better than anything in this manifesto.

In the words of Ralph Chaplin,

“When the union's inspiration through the workers' blood shall run, There can be no power greater anywhere beneath the sun; Yet what force on earth is weaker than the feeble strength of one, But the union makes us strong.”

Part III: “Fetish as Smokescreen”

This part is interesting because, although I disagree with it, I have never seen this kind of argument before.

“Perhaps the consequence of the continued fetishizing and fantasizing that feels most pressing, is how it alters our relation to the arms manufacturers themselves. I rarely, if ever, see these manufacturers recognized as viable targets of direct action even at the height of anti-police mobilizations despite the fact that the only reason the police are able enact violence on the scale that they do is because these manufacturers supply them with near infinite arms.”

The interesting thing about this is that they are almost onto something here. Yes! It is true that the police get their power not only from their organization but also from their arms!

There is an entire military-industrial complex that arms American police and military forces! In fact, American manufacturers of CS gas see their products not only used on American protesters domestically, but also supply their gas canisters to the (essentially) American client state of Israel so that the IDF can continue to violently enforce a settler-colonial apartheid state.

However, it might be a misstep for the revolutionary-minded left to indiscriminately target arms manufacturers.

Rather, targeting arms manufacturers other than the ones that exclusively supply the american & international militaries seems like a bad idea.

As anti-imperialist action, it would certainly be a wonderful thing to stifle the American nation’s exports of violence and terror on the international community. (Especially if said revolutionaries were able to seize some such arms for themselves!)

However, I do not think that reducing the amount of arms able to be brought to the American civilian market is a wise move in 2023.

The American right-wing, American police, and American military are all three enemies of the American left-wing, and they are all better armed than us. Until we can raid factories and armories and seize military-grade arms for ourselves, we may take to heart this old quote…

“The Capitalists will sell us the rope with which we will hang them.”

Anyway, I shall finish up this section with another defeatist quote from the author.

“…we will never be able to match the police or military in the arena of arms procurement, and even if we could, the only way we’d be able to match them in an arms-focused conflict would be to turn ourselves into a military of our own with all the loss of autonomy and life that entails.

I refuse to admit defeat, and I refuse to fulfill some dutiful role within a misnamed revolutionary military. I desire life, I desire a life worth living.”

The author here declares that the left-wing should not form a revolutionary military in the case of a revolution.

I guess they hate winning.

Part IV: “Expropriate, Use, Destroy”

The author here flip-flops again and outlines a way in which the revolutionary left may ethically use guns.

“…guns may serve some purpose within specific actions and so it feels worthwhile to throw out a potential way of relating to them in the moments we deem them useful.

We expropriate (both individual armaments and the means by which to produce them) in order to break away from participating in the profiteering of the gun manufacturers while simultaneously dispossessing our enemies of their means to brutalize us.

We use what we have expropriated in the ways deemed worthwhile when we have deemed such actions necessary.

We destroy what we have expropriated to the best of our ability.

Most importantly, we destroy the means by which these arms are produced. So long as there exists a way to quickly mass produce arms, there will always be a timebomb waiting for the next police or military to emerge.”

This is a ridiculous proposition. They are outlining a post-revolutionary world where the dominant order (whether that is an Anarchist one or a Communist one) voluntarily disarms itself rather than consolidating and solidifying its power… leaving itself vulnerable to easily-concealed clandestine arms manufacturing!

What are you going to do, destroy every CNC machine? Every 3D printer?

At this moment, rebels in Myanmar are fighting against the military junta, and apparently a popular choice of firearm among the rebels is the FGC-9, a semi-automatic 9mm carbine that is made of both 3D-printed and simple metal parts.

The FGC-9 was specifically designed to be easy to manufacture, and as 3D-printing and other manufacturing methods become more advanced, surely people will produce even more designs for homemade guns.

Hell, the assassination of Shinzo Abe proves that even in a nation where personal firearms ownership is all but abolished, it is still possible for a determined individual to make a doohickey and exert an act of political power.

Anyway. Next comes a myopic and, frankly, liberal statement from the manifesto author.

“At its most simplistic, a gun is a machine designed with the specific purpose of killing. The majority of handguns and rifles produced today are designed with the specific intention of killing people. I refuse to accept the normalization, and fetishization, of such a machine within anarchist spaces.”

Wow! Guns are for killing people! Amazing! Nobody ever known that before! And you say killing is bad?! Truly groundbreaking stuff here!

Next comes a little bit of creative writing, I guess.

“While I’m not so naive as to believe there will be some idyllic future in which no one harms anyone else, I am certainly idealistic enough to believe a world without these machines is possible. If you disagree, fine, you can stand in defense of the gun factories, maybe even point one at me as I light the match.”

So they… envision a future where they will be gunned down for trying to destroy all gun factories? What is this amazingly nihilist imagination that can conjure something so divorced from material reality?

“Winning, to me, looks like the ashes of every precinct and prison mixing with the ashes of every factory, the ones that make guns included.”

Every factory? EVERY factory? At the risk of misinterpreting this piece… It seems that is person is not just against manufacturing guns, but rather, no industrial manufacturing whatsoever? So no trains, no pacemakers, no computers? Sounds like a pretty bad future to me. No thank you.

The piece ends with a few repetitions of their already established points.

I want to take this person seriously, and I want to empathize with them, but I just truly think these ideas are terrible.

At the end of the day, I think that individual capacity for self-defense for leftists and marginalized demographics is a good thing.

I also think that to win a revolution you are gonna want to form militias.

Of course, in the current tenor of America, forming leftist militias is prohibitively risky due to the power and hostility of the State.

I think that this will change in the future as the American empire seems to be decreasing in power. As its international influence wanes, it will increase its depredations on its residents, which will accelerate its own collapse into civil disorder.

I can’t predict how long this will take, of course. But a breakdown of civil society would include a lot of interpersonal violence, and perhaps even civil war.

#long post #an anarchist anti-gun manifesto

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