gun muzzle


Fallschirmjägergewehr 42 automatic rifle - late war variant

Designed by Louis Stange c.1941-42 and manufactured by Heinrich Krieghoff c.1942-45 - serial number 02314.
7,92x57mm Mauser 20-round removable box magazine, gas operated select fire, bipod, ZF4 4x scope, spike bayonet, muzzle brake, 30mm Schießbecher grenade launcher.

An automatic rifle designed to do everything and not weighing much for airborne troops, it somehow worked and inspired small arms development in the following decades.


“2012 Alamo bullshit”

Video: 13 hours (2016)
Music: Life’s a Bitch - Nas

Crossed paths

Originally posted by coporolight

Bucky Barnes x reader

explanation: This is a kind of series. I’m going to be posting a string of soulmate au. one for each of the other avengers…and then some.

Prompt: A soulmate AU where there’s a counter on the wrist counting down. when you finally meet your soulmate it turns to zero.

A/N: Third part to my series :D As always, tags are open lovelies.

Bucky walked down the street, looking at the pavement below him and preying no one would recognize him.

The baseball cap and sunglasses hid most of his face— but it wasn’t much when you were wanted by shield, had the avengers after you and had your face on every tv in the world. In that situation there’s really no such thing as being too careful.

Keep reading


The Paris Gun of World War I,

On the morning of March 21st, 1918 a explosion was heard across Paris.  There was neither the report of a gun nor the sight of enemy aircraft.  Over the course of the day another 20 shells exploded around Paris, with no clues left as to what had fired or dropped the explosive weapons.  At first, it was thought that the explosions were from bombs dropped from an advanced high altitude zeppelin.  However, Allied air reconnaissance planes quickly discovered what was assaulting the city.

81 miles east of Paris, a monstrous rail gun was sighted firing west.  Nicknamed the “Paris Gun”, the rail gun was a creation of the Krupp factory, famous for making big artillery pieces for the German Empire since the 1860’s.  The Paris gun originally started its existence as a worn out 15 inch naval gun mounted on a battleship, which was refurbished with inserts that reduced the caliber to 8 inches (later rebored to 10 inches).  Germany had much bigger guns in it’s arsenal, however the purpose of the Paris gun was not to have overwhelming power, but extraordinary range.  To enhance the gun’s range, the barrel was lengthened from 16 meters to over 34 meters.  In fact the barrel was so long that the Paris gun had to be rigged with a crane for support, lest the barrel kink under its own weight.

The performance of the Paris gun was impressive, bombarding Paris 81 miles away with 234 lb explosive shells. Its range was so great that gunners had to compensate for the Earth’s rotation (Coriolis effect) in order to fire it accurately. The maximum height of a shell’s ballistic arc reached 25 miles, thus the Paris gun holds the record for launching the first man made object into the stratosphere. Because of its lengthy barrel, the Paris gun achieved a muzzle velocity of 1,640 meters per second, or 5,400 feet per second.  Muzzle velocity was so great that the fired shells would wear away the inside of the barrel.  Gunners noticed that the Paris gun slowly increased in caliber as they were firing it.  The Germans were even able to calculate the rate at which the barrel was being worn, and to compensate, Krupp issued the gun with progressively larger caliber shells to be fired in a specific order. Krupp also supplied 7 replacement barrels as well. Altogether than gun and railway carriage weighed around 256 tons.

Since it was originally a naval gun, the Paris gun was manned 80 German Imperial Navy sailors who were experienced in operating similar naval guns.  Between March 21st and August of 1918, the Paris gun fired 367 shells at a rate of roughly 20 a day.  As a result of the shelling 250 Parisians were killed and another 620 wounded.  The worst of the shelling occurred on March 31st when a shell hit the St-Gervais-et-St-Protais Church, collapsing the roof and killing 91.  While the Paris gun had a long range, it was not very accurate, firing shells at random places all over Paris.  Thus, the Paris gun was employed as a terror weapon.  In terms of its effectiveness, the Paris gun was found wanting. Excessive amounts of resources and time were needed for the gun’s maintenance. In addition, the Paris gun’s 234 lb shell was not that powerful, there were many guns in German and Allied arsenal’s which were much more destructive.  Of the 234 lb projectile, only 15 lbs of explosives could be fitted into the shell.  Thus the explosive power of the shell was minuscule compared to its weight.  While the Paris gun was a wonder to behold, or a terror weapon to be scorned, it did little to turn the tide of the war.  In August the Paris gun was withdrawn as Allied forces advanced towards Germany.  After the war the gun disappeared, although it is thought to have been destroyed for scrap metal.  


Colt M1822/54 conversion rifled musket

Manufactured c.1816-1820′s at the Harpers Ferry and Springfield arsenals as flintlock smoothbore muskets based on the Charleville Mle1777, bought and converted by Samuel Colt during the Crimean war - multiple serial numbers.
.69 ball, single shot caplock muzzle loader, leaf rear sight.

One of the rifles ordered by the Russians at the beginning of the Crimean war, provided by Colt’s 1854 patent caplock conversion. 

I Died in the Dark (I Died in Your Arms)

Previously posted on AO3. Warnings for non-consensual blood drinking and other dark themes. 

It occurs to Newt somewhere within the span of a minute - in the sixty seconds needed to breath, focus, process where he is - that he is staring down a killer. With his spine up against an ancient tree, as wide as Newt is tall, and darkness closing in, Newt succumbs to a terror he’s never felt before.

Graves stalks towards him in a slow, measured fashion, a wicked grin on his ghostly features. He’s like a wraith in the fading light, a spirit come to whisk Newt away and make sure he is never, ever found again. His pupils encompass the entirety of his eyeball - they’re pitch black and hungry. That smirk playing on his lips is feral.

Somewhere beneath the thundering of Newt’s heart, he can hear Pickett whimpering. The German Shepherd lays low on the forest floor, his ears pinned against his head, teeth bared, eyes wild with fear. Newt’s never seen him react like that - never seen any animal react like that. His own heart is going so fast he’s afraid it might stop, blood pounding through his ears. The man is still advancing on him, the smile hiding his teeth but promising something unholy. Inhuman.


Newt’s instincts are screaming at him to get away, get away, get away, but his reasoning, hanging on by the skin of its teeth, tells him it’s no use. He’s well and truly fucked. The man, monster, chuckles before halting twenty paces from Newt. He inhales deeply, nostrils flaring in a way that reminds Newt of an apex predator bearing down on its prey. Newt’s heart misses a beat.

He clutches at the gun he normally keeps strapped to his thigh, panting, trying to dispel the primal terror and focus. The gun is metal and plastic, smooth and cool beneath his panic-flushed fingertips.

“I know how to use this,” Newt warns, cocking the trigger.

Graves’ smile grows wider, lips curling back over teeth and Newt swallows. That something Graves’ grin hinted at before reveals itself in all its horrible glory. There are fangs - honest to god fangs in the man’s mouth, glinting in the dusk.

“Do you?” He husks. He sounds amused.

Graves maintains his measured pace, eyeing Newt with a certainty that comes with confidence. Years and years of practice. The monster is maybe ten paces away now and getting closer.

Newt waves the gun, crying out, “Stay back! I will shoot you!”

Graves doesn’t flinch. Instead, he throws back his head and laughs, pupil-dark eyes closing with merriment. Then there’s a blur and suddenly a cool hand is pressing to Newt’s throat. Fingers which are more like claws caress either side of his windpipe in a gentle fashion, belying an otherworldly strength just beneath the surface. It thrums like a song, eager, excited. It’s a threat, barely concealed by a gentle stroke. Fear, syrupy and frigid drips down Newt’s spine. Graves, as if sensing it, breathes in again, ducking his head to nose a line along Newt’s jugular. His other fist, fingers calloused and work and worn and cold, close around Newt’s gun. He presses the muzzle of the thing into his own flesh, twisting Newt’s arm at an awkward angle so the butt of the gun rests against the agent’s ribs.

“Do it,” Graves murmurs, pressing his smile into Newt’s skin, “Do it.”

Fingers on the trigger. Somebody squeezes. Then, there’s a bang and both of their bodies jerk violently. The butt of the gun drives right between Newt’s ribs and his breath leaves him in a ragged gasp. The agent slumps to the forest floor, wheezing, his nose filling with the rich, earthy scent of rotting loam and the heavy, cloying stench of blood.

Graves’ worn combat boots are the only discernible thing in Newt’s direct line of sight. When the agent manages to roll onto his back, the monster is staring down at him. Blood oozes from his white dress shirt, but he appears unbothered. Newt realizes the bullet would have missed his heart. Something tells him that’s important, but he can’t remember why. Newt is too busy getting his hands behind him and scrabbling back through the loam, palms scraping against dirt and wet leaves and ouch -

He brings his hand to his face, squinting to make out the shallow gash in his palm. A droplet of blood - more black than crimson now when the sun has sunk below the trees, trickles down his palm. Graves sucks in a breath and falls to his knees, grabbing the hand without a word. He inhales again, taking a deep lungful of air and then releases it in a heavy groan. It resonates through both their bodies as he brings Newt’s hand to his face. A perfect, pink tongue emerges from between those wicked canines, lapping at the droplet. The monster groans again, nuzzling his face into Newt’s hand, pressing his mouth to the wound. The feeling of flesh knitting together beneath his lips sends a gush of cold terror through the agent.

“Perfect,” Graves whispers, looking up. “So perfect.”

He yanks Newt close, until the cool, hard expanse of his chest presses against Newt, until the slighter human is so near he has no hope of getting away (if he ever did). Newt realizes he’s trembling, realizes he’s crying, but there’s nothing he can do.

In that moment, fear is just as much a murderer as Graves; it leaves him paralyzed in the face of oncoming doom.

Please god - oh please oh please let it be over soon. I don’t want to die - I don’t want to die - I don’t want to die -

“Shh…” Graves holds one clawed finger to Newt’s lips, “You’re alright.”

He tilts his head, lips parting in that half feral smile again. Newt shudders. A sob breaks through his ribcage like a searing banner of defeat. Graves hushes him again before he dips his head - this is how it ends, oh god let it be quick - and presses his lips to Newt’s. The kiss is slow, gentle, filled with a smouldering and predatory passion. It tastes like blood and longing. Then it is over.

Graves smiles again, something softer, bordering on fond. He reaches up and rakes a hand through Newt’s dirt crusted, leaf ensnared curls, which were once auburn but now muddy brown.

“Perfect,” Graves whispers again, “Absolutely perfect.”

He lets go of Newt, placing the quaking agent down in the wet earth and begins to pile dry leaves over him with tenderness.

Newt can’t move, his limbs feel odd and heavy, like they belong to someone else and were grafted onto his body. He wants to sit up, wants to reach for his gun, to end the nightmare, but he can’t move. He can’t even see Graves anymore.

Shock, Newt thinks. I’m going into shock.

The thought is loud in his head, accompanied by the retreating sound of footsteps.

Newt lies there, through the night and well into the dawn, as the world spins dark and then the sun returns. It is peaking though the tree trunks once more when Newt hears the dogs. It has crested the tops of the Sitka Spruce by the time they find him.

“Newt! Oh god! What the hell happened?”

That’s Tina, falling to her knees beside him, ripping off her own coat and throwing it over his half frozen body.

“Where’s Graves?”

Newt flinches at the name. If one cares to look, as Tina does, they will notice his eyes are vacant, hollow, miles away. She frowns and places a warm hand on his arm, trying to rub some warmth back into his skin through the fabric of their clothing.

“He’s gone,” Newt says, more to himself than anyone else, “He’s gone.”