long recoil

2

Madsen light machine gun

Designed c.1896 by Julius A. Rasmussen and Theodor Schouboe, adopted for Danish military service c.1902 by Colonel Madsen, manufactured c.1902~1945 by Dansk Rekyl Riffel Syndikat A/S.
8x58mmR Krag 40-round removable box magazine, long recoil automatic, air cooled.

The first light machine gun to see mass production,

anonymous asked:

How does the chauchat function

The C. S. R. G. M1915 (8mm Lebel) operates using the long recoil system and fires from the open bolt.


    When the trigger is pulled, the bolt is released, and it moves forward stripping a round from a 20rd single stack magazine. As the round is chambered, a lug on the bolt riding in a cam slot on the carrier rotates and locks the bolt into the barrel extension. When the bolt fully locks into battery the striker is able to move forward and fire the chambered cartridge. After discharging the projectile, the barrel and bolt assembly stay locked and both move backward within the receiver and barrel jacket. Expanding gasses at the muzzle also help boost the rearward motion of the action,  which is called a gas assist. When the still -locked bolt and barrel reach the rearmost of their travel, the bolt remains locked back, and the barrel unlocks and returns to its original position, also ejecting the empty casing . If the trigger is still being depressed, as soon as the barrel returns forward the bolt at the rear will be released, and the process begins again.

That is, assuming it doesn’t jam.

This description may need tweaking, it was really difficult to find some solid detailed technical information about the inner workings of this weapon.

2

American Gods Meme: [4//4] Dynamics - Bilquis & Technical Boy

I hear they blew up your altar. Darn. I have a new one to offer you.

Remington POE Model 8 rifle

Manufactured by Peace Officer Equipment co. in St.Joseph, Montana c.1935-1936.
8.9x49mm/.35 Remington 15-round single stack removable box magazine, long-recoil rotating bolt semi-automatic, Thompson submachine gun pistol grip.

POE made a few modifications to the Remington Model 8 rifle to make it into a serious display of firepower, capable of dealing with the car-driving machine gun-toting gangsters of the 30′s.
The process was picked up by Remington themselves due to its success with law enforcement agencies.

Domestic

“Why does it hurt so much?”
“Don’t move, it’ll be okay.”

Oh, Anon, you know me so well. Gosh, I love angst.

Jack finds out that Crutchie is in an abusive relationship.

I would and I have! I’m so glad that you like my writing. :)

TW: Domestic abuse


When Crutchie didn’t pick up the phone, Jack knew something was wrong. For the last few months, Crutchie had been avoiding the boys and talking to them as little as possible. He turned away in the corridor at their university and, worst of all, he refused to even look at Jack.

It had started after Crutchie had introduced them to his new boyfriend, Will, one day after school. He was a little older, a little bigger, a little stronger and he did not like Jack. It was clear as soon as he laid eyes on the paint-spattered boy that he was not fond of the way Crutchie automatically held his hand or leaned his head on his shoulder. His face twisted into a snarl whenever Crutchie wasn’t looking.

Jack quickly decided that he couldn’t leave it any longer. He missed his best friend and he was worried about him. He’d never been so distant and Jack knew that, whenever Crutchie was sad, he tried to pull his friends closer, not push them away. Something had to be seriously wrong.

Turning up at Crutchie’s apartment block, Jack just started to pray that he would be in, knowing that there was every likelihood that he’d be at the house Will shared with his friends. He decided to ignore this, trotting to the door and pressing the call button for Crutchie and Davey’s apartment. However, when no one answered, Jack remembered that Davey was leading choir at the synagogue at this time and, if Crutchie was still ignoring everyone, he’d never let him in.

Instead, Jack pressed the button just below theirs, knowing that Spot and Race would let him in. He waited for a minute before a somewhat distracted, “Yeah?” came over the intercom.

“Spot? It’s Jack.” When no reply came for a moment, Jack tapped nervously at the microphone, worried that it was broken and that he’d never get in. He needed to see Crutchie and would probably wait until someone came along, whether it took minutes or hours, to let him in if he needed to.

Eventually, a sigh of relief left Jack as he got an answer, “Jack? Yeah, come on-“ Blood rushed awkwardly to Jack’s cheeks as a low moan became audible through the speaker.

Jack stood in silence for a bit, trying to decide whether he should address it or not. Eventually, as he heard heavy breathing, Jack tentatively spoke up, “ … Are you?” He didn’t really want to know the answer but Spot still hadn’t pressed the button to let him in and he wasn’t going through this awful situation without being let into the building. There was just no way.

There was shuffling for a moment as Jack waited worriedly for an answer. He squeezed his eyes shut when he finally got one, “Blame Race. I told him I needed to answer the bell.” Jack shuddered as he began tapping his foot impatiently, just wanting to escape this conversation and make sure that Crutchie was alright.

Sighing, Jack rolled his eyes when he still didn’t hear the beep from the door to tell him that he was allowed in, “I don’t want to know, alright? Just let me in so I can see Crutchie.”

More shuffling came through the speaker before Jack heard Race’s laughter. He must have pushed Spot out of the way because his protests were muffled and quiet, as if further away, “Wanky.” Just from his voice, Jack could tell that he was smirking and rolled his eyes as he knocked his knuckles lightly against the speaker.

“I’m not taking any of that from you right now, Antonio, you’re disgusting.” Jack sighed as he only got more laughter but let out a quiet, “fucking finally,” when he heard the buzz to signify that the door was unlocked. He just left the speaker, not even bothering to thank Race and just deciding to leave them to it, thankful that Crutchie’s apartment was far away down the hall that they wouldn’t need to hear anything.

Jack raced up the stairs, barely avoiding slipping and cracking his head open every other step in his haste. When he reached the floor, however, he slowed down. Crutchie’s apartment was right at the very end but he could hear the shouting from the stairwell door that opened in the middle of the corridor.

Knitting his eyebrows together, Jack stepped tentatively down the corridor, growing increasingly more worried as the noises only got louder. Except it wasn’t just shouting, anymore. There were crashes of broken glass and thuds of bodies slamming against furniture. When Jack was eventually outside of Crutchie’s door, he froze, listening to the screaming and the crying and thinking, ‘that can’t be Crutchie,’ because the Crutchie he knew would never break anything or shout at anyone like that. Only, if it wasn’t Crutchie, that was so much worse to think about.

He reached into his back pocket quickly, pulling out the key that Crutchie had given him for if he ever wasn’t there and fumbling to fit it into the lock. The slowness from his movements was gone as Jack struggled to unlock the door and get to his best friend as quickly as possible.

When he eventually managed to get the door unlocked, he swung it open to see Will, Crutchie’s stupid fucking boyfriend, lifting him high into the air and slamming him onto the glass coffee table in the centre of the living room.

Without even thinking, Jack launched forwards, grabbing Will by his shirt and yanking him as far away from Crutchie’s cowering body as possible. He wasn’t even thinking; he just swung his fist back and let go, feeling his knuckles crack against Will’s cheekbone before hauling him out of the front door and as far away from Crutchie, his Crutchie, as possible, “Get the fuck out of here, you asshole! In fact, don’t ever come back! How dare you lay a finger on him?!”

After locking the door behind him, Jack turned to Crutchie, who had managed to crawl from the broken remains of the coffee table and huddle himself tightly into a ball in the corner of the room, “Charlie? Oh my god, are you okay?” Jack rushed over quickly, immediately kneeling in front of him and reaching forwards to touch his cheek.

When Crutchie flinched away, however, Jack’s heart broke. He watched the boy he’d loved and pined after for three long years recoil from him, simply nodding to his question, even though Jack knew it wasn’t true. His bad leg was twisted at an even worse angle than usual and hot tears streamed steadily down Crutchie’s cheeks, worse every time he tried to move.

Jack fished his phone out of his pocket, immediately dialling for an ambulance and, despite Crutchie’s fear of hospitals, instantly knowing it was the right idea as he saw his blood-matted hair, “Hello? Yes, I need an ambulance, quickly, please. My friend’s boyfriend’s attacked him and he’s bleeding quite a bit.” Jack gave the operator the address and his phone number, answered all of the long and boring questions and eventually asked if he could hang up to call his friends to go outside and flag the ambulance down.

“Race? I need you to go outside and wait for an ambulance to arrive, okay? Crutchie’s hurt. I’ll tell you later, I just need you to do this right now.” Without even waiting for a response, Jack hung up and threw the phone down. He looked to Crutchie, tapping his cheek gently to keep him awake and carefully positioning himself next to him.

When he tried to touch him, this time, Crutchie accepted it and leaned gently against Jack’s shoulder. His eyes almost fluttered closed but Jack made sure to keep him awake, “Hey, Charlie? Has he done that a lot?” Crutchie didn’t give an answer at first, so Jack turned to look at him and caught sight of an almost minuscule nod, “Oh, Charlie.” Jack’s broken words were mumbled into Crutchie’s hair as he tried not to think about the blood staining his shoulder.

“Jack?” Crutchie’s voice was small and pitiful as he drifted vaguely around the line of consciousness, “Why does it hurt so much?” He turned his head slightly, looking up at Jack with unfocussed eyes.

Carefully turning his head back so that his neck wasn’t twisted, Jack gave a sigh of relief as he heard the ambulance sirens and saw the flashing of blue and red through the window, “Just- don’t move. It’ll be okay.” He bit his lip, holding Crutchie carefully against his body.

karen page, before.



…three.

He dies on a Tuesday, beneath a cloudless sky. 



…five.

She’s three weeks from the end of the semester when she drops out and moves back home. Her family has connections and she takes odd jobs here and there throughout the summer. People mention it, at first, when they recognize her or her last name. She smiles politely and accepts their condolences and imagines strangling each of them with her bare hands.

The range is open late during the summer, so that’s where she spends most of her evenings. The .22 is an unfamiliar weight in her hands, but it feels natural, almost, something she can control.

It feels good.



…one.

She learns to shoot from her brother. He takes her to the range that’s just off the highway, past the Fagan Corners town limits sign, and starts her off with a .22 long rifle. “Less recoil,” he explains, showing her where to stabilize it against the meaty part of her shoulder. She’s only half-listening, thinking about the park across the road where she’d smoked her first cigarette. She remembers the rain, ducking beneath the slide with Lindi Harris to avoid getting wet, laughing even as her lungs burned, sharp and stinging. (She is nineteen years old, now, and thinking about Lindi, wondering if she’s still in town and remembering her half-moon smile, moisture beading on her lips.

She is nineteen, and in half a year her brother will be dead.)



…four.

“We’re so sorry for your loss,” people tell her at the funeral, and, “If there’s anything you need, let us know,” and, “There was nothing you could have done.” Karen nods and nods and chews her cheek until she tastes blood.

(Later, she unpacks her brother’s rifle and slides her hand along the stock. The wood is cold, beneath her fingers.

There was nothing you could have done —)



…eight.

(In her nightmares, she only pulls the trigger once.)



…six.

“We’re worried about you,” says Paxton. Karen is careful not to look at him, focusing her eyes just above his shoulder on the spot where the ceiling meets the wall. He’s been doing this more, lately, checking up on her, giving a shit. It only took twenty-five years and one dead child.

“Karen.”

Her gaze has gone blurry; she blinks. “I’m fine,” she says.

She packs her bags that night.



…nine.

After a while, she has trouble remembering the color of his eyes. That’s the worst part, she thinks — that this is what she forgets, and not the goofy faces he used to make at her across the dinner table, or that horrible music he would blast on the morning drive to school, so loud it made her teeth vibrate. (Blue, she’ll tell herself, sometimes, definitely blue, like mom’s, like mine —)



..two

“You don’t have to do this, Kare.”

She glances up from her classic lit notes. “What?”

Kevin isn’t looking at her. There are shadows under his eyes, she notices. He looks exhausted, more than a fifteen-year old should.

“This,” he finally says, gesturing absently. “Coming home. Pretending you want to.”

Something twinges just beneath her ribs, but shoves the feeling down, deep. “Kev, c’mon, I’m not…I’m not pretending. I miss you, I miss hanging out with you, you know that.”

He flinches, a twitch of his jawline that happens so fast she thinks she might have imagined it. Talk to me, she wants to say, please, just talk to me —

She doesn’t. She doesn’t say anything, just waits for his lips to quirk in an approximation of a smile like they always do, so the two of them can both go back to pretending.

“Yeah,” he says, his eyes just a little too bright. “Yeah, I know.”

She turns back to her notes.



…seven.

The city is nothing she expects and everything she wants. It swallows her whole.

(That was the plan.)



…ten.

There was nothing you could’ve done —

Karen steps over Frank Castle’s red hospital tape and thinks, watch me.




(formatting inspired by this beautiful fic by notbecauseofvictories)

Together- Drake x MC

Note- I wanted to get a quick little imagining of the balcony scene with Drake out after the last chapter dropped. But honestly, this went so angsty on me and it was really, really hard to pull it back to the happy moment I wanted for them. This could have stretched out into an even bigger, wordier mess, but I did my best to rein it in somewhat. I hope you enjoy it!

Rating- T


Originally posted by painfulblisss

They leant against the railing of the balcony, overlooking the bustling city. A chill whipped through the night air and Riley wished she had Drake’s arms around her for warmth. But there were more pressing matters at hand. She spoke first.

“Liam broke off his engagement to Madeleine.” She swallowed hard and forced herself to look him in the eye. “And then he proposed to me.”

Drake clenched his jaw and stared at her for a long moment before he spoke, his voice smaller than she had ever heard it.

“What did you say to him?”

Riley felt tears prick at the back of her eyes as she looked at him with utter disbelief. “Drake… I turned him down. Of course I turned him down.” She reached out and cupped his cheek with her hand, an intimate gesture from which he would have previously pulled away. But this time, he didn’t resist. He leant into her hand slightly, allowing himself the moment of vulnerable intimacy. The simple sight of it made her heart swell.

“I let him know I couldn’t marry him because I… I’m in love with someone else.” She smiled at him as her vision blurred with tears. “I told him about us, Drake. I told him I’m in love with you.”

Her words hung in the air. After a long moment, he recoiled from her touch, a palpable nervous energy emanating from him as he raked a hand through his hair and paced back and forth along the balcony. “Jesus, Johnson, I was supposed to be the one to tell him! Or at least do it with you eventually, when the time was right!”

She pressed her hands together, imploring him to hear her words. “I know that, Drake! But I didn’t feel like I had much of a choice when Liam was down on one knee, telling me how much he loved me and asking me to marry him!”

Drake stopped pacing and fixed his gaze on her, his expression unreadable. “Why would he ask you?”

Riley’s head was spinning. “I- wait, what are you talking about?”

He stood in front of her, his body held stiffly as he kept a cold distance between them. “I’m talking about why. What would have given him the impression that you reciprocated his feelings? Why would he ask you to marry him?”

His voice was raised, and Riley saw the flash of vindication in his eyes- that his inability to accept that she truly wanted him was, in his mind, finally backed by evidence.

Riley squeezed her eyes shut, pushing back the previously happy tears that quickly threatened to morph into something else. She spoke softly and pleadingly, attempting to quell his sudden rage. “We have been over this so many times. I have never felt anything for Liam. You’re it for me, Drake. This is it.” He looked away from her and she threw her hands up in exasperation. “After everything we’ve been through- my name has finally been cleared, Liam knows about us… the only thing still standing in our way is you, Drake. Is this really what you want?”

She closed the distance between them, clasping her hands over his and searching his eyes desperately, her brow furrowed.

“No matter what happens next, I need you to hear this. I am so in love with you, Drake.”

She held her breath as he dropped his gaze to the ground and waited for this stubborn, complicated man to again tell her that he couldn’t offer her anything and that she was crazy to choose him over an entire kingdom. She steeled herself, ready to fight back- to fight for him- for the thousandth time. But he was silent.

“Drake?”

Finally, he lifted his eyes to hers. Her heart clenched at the look he gave her. His expression was filled with emotion- warm, a little tentative, but undoubtedly filled with love.

She smiled encouragingly and gripped his hands in hers as he cleared his throat and found his words.

“I’m overwhelmed by you. I have been since the day we met. I won’t pretend to understand why you chose me, but I’m not going to question it anymore. Because I am completely in love with you, Riley Johnson.”

She felt her face instantly break into a mega-watt grin, her entire body flooded with relief and pure happiness that the months of anticipation and set backs had finally delivered them to this moment. She threw her arms around his neck as he drew her into him by the waist and kissed her hard, with all of the pent-up passion of their journey so far.

He drew back first, leaning down to murmur in her ear. “I’m sorry I’m such a pain. But I plan on spending a long, long time making it up to you. Starting tonight.” He pressed a kiss to her neck and she felt a shiver run through her entire body. This was going to be fun. Unable to hold back, she captured his mouth with hers again, never wanting to let go.

They eventually broke apart and Drake leant back, holding her in his arms and studying her face as though he still couldn’t believe this was really happening. “Did you ever think we’d get here, Johnson?”

She laughed and nudged against him. “I always knew I would get here. You, on the other hand…” He tried to scowl, but the smile playing at the corner of his mouth betrayed him.

“Yeah yeah, I get it, I moved at the pace of a snail.”

Her expression softened and she lightly scratched her nails against the hair at the back of his neck. “That’s definitely true. But I understand why you did.” He nodded solemnly as she continued. “So we’ll talk to Liam tomorrow, ok? Together?”

He smiled broadly and she melted at the sight. He held her tighter against him.

“Together.”

2

Madsen M46 semi-automatic rifle

Converted by Midwest Metal Creations from a Chilean contract 7,92mm Madsen light machine gun - serial number 171.
7,62mm Nato 30-round single-stack removable box magazine, long recoil sem-automatic.

A 1896 vintage, the Madsen machine gun served for a good century all over the world. This is certainly due to it looking so cool.

So I go looking in my cupboard for snacks, and I don’t find any cookies. What I do find is these, a bag of potato chips. Salt and vinegar, my favourite. But not the usual brand. No, no Lays or ruffles or anything of the sort.

What I found was this; Uncle Ray’s chips. With their goofy, cheap packaging. With a dairy stamp on it? With Simulated Flavors boldly presented. And with a promise of Chapter 15 of a story on the back.

Naturally I mocked the packaging. Chapter 15? Of the chips history? Why 15? Where are the other 14? Does it need that many to tell the history of off brand potato chips? I had a good ol laugh.

And then I opened the bag and ate one.

It was like a god damn cobra had snapped up and bit me in the fucking tongue. Sharp, piercing, INTENSE sensations assaulted my mouth with the most extreme flavor blast I’ve had in a long time. I physically recoiled at how powerful these chips were.

 I looked at the next one, these things have like, solid crystals of flavouring like heavy grains of salt all over them, but it wasn’t a pure salt flavor, it was a perfect salt / vinegar mix. Intense, but not off balance.

I had to eat more of these things one chip at a time. They are so damn powerful to dare put three or four in my mouth like regular chips would be tastebud suicide. I’d go into shock. But I can’t stop. The flavour is so powerful and good. Nothing like the handfuls of lays you cram down while the sharp edges slice your mouth corners to hell, trying to get the weakening flavor powder from the bottom.

Colour me impressed, “Uncle Ray’s”. You may have some goofy and cheap alternative brand packaging, but your product apparently fucking delivers.

I believe art is a collaborative effort between heart, mind and inspiration. Art is vulnerable. I also believe we don’t know what we’ve written until it’s interpreted by the reader, what we’ve painted until it’s perceived by hungry eyes, or even what we’ve composed until a particular emotion is awakened in a longing heart.

Dear artist, don’t recoil. Create. Don’t question it. Don’t define it. And above all, don’t let this world drain the humanity out of you. Allow your light to enter other souls like sunshine beams through a cleave in the forest’s curtains. Illuminate Spirit’s details like a detective and let all else go. Let the beholder, behold. There’s a natural order at play and you are but a conduit, an instrument in this divine orchestra. Play.

Maritza Alvarez, Our Journey to Balance

Wildthing - A Fenrin/Astrys fic

I have this headcanon that Asterin uses casual sex to hide her pain, and that she would never risk having sex with anyone she might actually have to talk to after. So this is partly that and partly Fenrys growing out of his boyo/I’m a lone wolf/I like pretty things phase. It’s a lot more Asterin though. Also this happens alongside my Elorcan fic “It’s Been Three Weeks” and my Manorian “The Beloved One” - so if you’re confused feel free to check those out on my Ao3 (link in my profile). YES, this will get smutty - same variety as my Elorcan fic. XD

[Wildthing - Part 1]

The first time he’d seen the blonde-haired witch, Fenrys had thought her an enemy. She’d flown in out of nowhere on a sky-blue wyvern and had landed on the prow of the ship. Fenrys had been on deck with Gavriel, guarding the captain’s quarters where Rowan was taking care of what was left of Aelin. It’d been a little over a week since they’d rescued her, and his instincts hadn’t given him a chance to think. He’d immediately shifted and attacked the witch.

But she’d been ready.

Keep reading

3

Browning Auto-5 shotgun

Designed by John M. Browning c.1898 and manufactured c.1902-1998.
12 gauge 4+1 shell tubular magazine, long recoil semi-automatic, shortened stock and barrel.

One very long-lived Browning design that still looks mazing to this day, along with the Colt M1911 and the M2 machine gun.

Like  A Virgin

Summery: with a dragon hunt afoot, the reader needs to confess a secret to the Winchesters, one that might change their view on her.

Sam x Reader

Word count: 1682

Warnings: none, readers a virgin ( although that’s not really a warning)

A/N: anonymous asked: Hi, could you please do a samXreader where they are crushing on eachother and dean just sees y/n as a sister b/c she is young compared to him (but old enough so sam isn’t creepy) and they go on a dragon hunt and she has to say is a virgin. Thanks :)


“What’s up squirt?” Dean said walking into the library and ruffling your hair as he passed causing you to grumble and swat his hands away angrily.

“My god you and Sammy need haircuts!”

“Do not!” you and Sam yelled at the same time, looking across the table at each other with a small blush on your faces. You were both trying to look for cases with, surprisingly, no luck.

“Awh Sammy, look at Y/N blushing! What are you, twelve?”

Your eyes narrowed at the eldest Winchester.

“I’m a year younger than Sam you doorknob!”

“Doorknob? So young, so innocent.” Dean laughed as he ruffled your hair once more.

“I am not innocent, I killed a guy!”

“That’s your job you idiot.” Dean said as he left the library to go scavenge the kitchen.

“Still killed a guy.” you grumbled which caused Sam to laugh.

God did you love that laugh. You couldn’t help but notice how cold the bunker was and rubbed your arms in a poor attempt to warm yourself up. Maybe you should go put some socks on or something-

“You cold?” Sam asked looking up form his book, eyes locked onto your bare arms.

“Just a little-”

“Here.”

You didn’t expect Sam to take off his own sweater and give it to you, but here you were, wrapped in Sam’s warm, oversized sweater, flapping your arms to get comfortable.

“Thanks.” you murmured, breathing in the all too familiar smell that accompanied Sam.

“You should wear my clothes more often.” Sam smirked as he looked back down as the book in hand, watching your from his peripheral as your face turned a deep red.

“Did’ya guys find anything?” Dean questioned as he pulled up a chair to the table, shoving papers and books away much to Sam’s protest.

“Well, we have a major dragon situation-”

“A dragon?” you questioned nervously, fidgeting with your fingernails suddenly.

“Uh- yeah, the town-”

“Are you sure it’s a dragon? I mean, aren’t they pretty rare to run into?”

“Well sure, but seeing as all the women two towns over are going missing, and they were all virgins-”

You let out a soft groan as you nodded.

The boys didn’t know. Why tell them anyways? Dean would just make fun of you and call you ‘innocent’ and Sam? You knew about Sam’s pervious hook-ups, you knew he wasn’t a virgin. But you? Oh boy were you a virgin.

You never thought it was a big deal, besides, you were a little busy hunting monsters and saving people to ever… ‘get it on’, plus you wanted to wait for someone you cared about…. Even if that did sound incredible cheesy and dumb.

“Y/N? Sam said, drawing you out from your train of thought.

‘Uh-p- pardon?”

Sam let out a soft chuckle that made you smile. He was always doing that, making you smile for no reason. But that was love, wasn’t it?

“I said is there a problem?”

“Oh- its… I just-”

What if Sam thought you were too innocent too?

“Um-”

What if he didn’t want to be with someone so inexperienced?

“I’m, you know…”

He didn’t want someone who had no clue what they were doing.

“I’m excited! Yah dragons.” you said letting your voice drop at the end and punching the air.

“Um… alright?” Dean said walking away and giving Sam the ‘she’s crazy’ eyes.

You should’ve told them. You should have told them you were a virgin, you were putting yourself in so much unnecessary danger. But you couldn’t tell them, how awkward would that be?

‘Hey Sam I’m a virgin but I still wanna jump your guns even though I have no clue what I’m doing!’

Awesome, that would totally make him want you then.

“-Y/N?”

Dang it!

“Um, pardon?”

Sam turned around in his seat to look at you, another smile playing on his lips

“Do you ever listen?” he questioned with a laugh.

“Your hair must act as a sound barrier, its too long.”

Sam gasped and recoiled, a hand pressed to his chest in mock offence.

“You’re mean.”

“I’m too cute to be mean.”

“Fair point-”

Sam paused realizing what he said.

“Uh- anyways, I wanted to go over the game plan-”

“We need to find where they’re keeping the virgins, we know they’re sacrificing-”

You started to drown Dean out as your mind wandered.

If Dean and Sam knew how much danger you were putting yourself into…

Let yourself be open to dragon kidnapping, mess up the hunt and/or be sacrificed for some unknown purpose or tell Sam and Dean you’re a virgin….

“Guys… I cant… I cant go, you need to drop me off somewhere.”

You saw Sam and Dean exchanged glances, eyebrows both knit in confusion.

“What wrong? don’t wanna hunt a dragon? You seemed so excited?” Sam questioned.

“No- you don’t understand… Its not that I don’t want to go… I cant go.” 

“Y/N I don’t-” you saw Deans eyes widened, finally catching on.

“No.” He breathed out shocked, like it was this unthinkable, unimaginable thing. “Shut it.” you growled, sinking lower into Sam’s sweater that you were still wearing.

“Wait- you’re… you’re a-”

“Yes!” you yelled cutting Sam off quickly.

You all sat in awkward silence for a few minutes, your embarrassment dragging you down like an anchor as you continued to sink lower and lower into the comforts of Sam’ way to big sweater.

“Why-”

Sam paused, thinking of his choice of words.

“Why didn’t you tell us?”

“Why didn’t I tell you? You both are so experience with… that. What was I suppose to say?”

“How about ‘hey Sam and Dean this hunts dangerous for me, I’m a virgin’ then we could have kept you a home, you would have been safe at the bunker.” Deans voice was calm, no more evidence of shock. But you could still see it in his eyes.

“Maybe you should drop us off at a motel, you can take care of a dragon, right?” Sam said turning to his brother.

“No! I’m okay, you can go-”

“I haven’t seen a motel for a while, maybe just hang around town?”

“Guys I’m fine-”

“Yeah, just drop us off at a café or something, I’m sure we can keep busy until you finish up.”

“Alright, I’ll text you when I’m done.”

Dean pulled the car over and Sam got out to open your door.

“Come on, we can go for a meal and then, I don’t know, shop or whatever.”

You raised an eyebrow at Sam’s outstretched hand, eventually taking it.

“I’ll be finished up soon.” dean shouted as he drove away, leaving you and Sam on the sidewalk.

“Sam Winchester… wants to go shopping? With me?” your voice was filled with disbelief and doubt.
“What’s wrong with wanting to shop with you?”

“Well first off, you hate shopping and second I made you miss the dragon hunt because I’m a stupid virgin.” you didn’t mean to sound bitter, you didn’t think it was a big deal, being a virgin and all. But you were upset you made Sam miss the hunt.

“I don’t care about the hunt if it means you’re not safe.”

You looked up to Sam as you both walked down the street, confusion drawn into your features.

“Don’t give me that look.”

You continued to give him the look.

“What? Why are you looking at me like that?”

“You care if I’m safe or not? I literally go on every hunt with you guys.”

“Yeah, and I worry.”

You gave him another look.

“I do! I don’t know what I’d do if- if I lost you.”

“You’d get over it.”

Sam stopped suddenly.

“You cant believe that.”

“Sam,” you sighed “You’d get over it, its just me-”

“Exactly, its you. Who else would always take my sweaters? Or keep me up all night talking about dumb tv shows? Or bug me to make them breakfast?”

“Sam-”

“You should have told us earlier Y/N, why didn’t you?”

You shrugged as the two of you continued walking, occasionally bumping shoulders.

“I was embarrassed.”

“About what? That you’re a vir-”

“Yes!” you said laughing nervously, you lowered your head and started picking at your nails.

“Why would you be embarrassed about that?”

“Are you kidding me! You and Dean have so much experience, I thought you would think-”

You stopped realizing what you were about to say, ‘I thought you would think of me like Dean does, as just a little sister’.

You didn’t want to be Sam’s little sister, or Sam‘s friend, you wanted more.

“You thought I’d think what?”

“Never mind.”

“No, tell me.”

Your heart started pounding, where were you going to go with this? Were you going to tell him the truth? Were you going to brush it off? Crap. Would it be better if he knew your feelings? It couldn’t possibly be worse, he already knew you were a virgin. Here goes nothing.

“I thought you would think of me as just a friend Sam, I thought you’d think of me as your little sister and I don’t want to be your little sister or your friend, I want-” you swallowed roughly, mouth suddenly becoming dry.

“I wanted more-”

“Wanted? Past tense.”

“Well I know you don’t, that’s not how you feel-”

“How do you know how I feel?”

You both stopped once more, each facing one another.

“I don’t- I don’t understand-”

Sam took a step closer to you, chests almost touching.

“I don’t think of you as my sister, that would be awkward.”

“Why would that- oh.”

Sam pressed his lips to yours gently, his gigantic hands cupping your face.

“But I’m a virgin.”

This caused Sam to laugh, a shoulder shaking, hunched over, deep hearted laugh.

“Don’t laugh at me.”

“I’m not laughing at you,” Sam said smiling “I’m laughing because you thought that would matter.”

“But, I’m so… inexperienced.”

A sly smile grew on the Winchesters face as he looked down at you, eyes wandering over your features, lingering on your lips.

“That can be fixed.”

Korea

Please read this after you read this (X)

-Admin Kat

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3

Remington Model 11

A licensed copy of the Browning A5, the Remington Model 11 is a semi-auto 12 gauge shotgun. It employs a long recoil means of operation where the bolt and barrel both move rearward in the receiver. This gives it a bit rougher recoil than what most people would expect if they’ve fired more modern semi-auto shotguns. The one in the photos has been modified; normally you have a full length barrel, often times with a compensator installed. You can still find Model 11′s for around $300~ or so. (GRH)

Madsen Model 956 light machine gun

Designed c.1896 by Julius A. Rasmussen and Theodor Schouboe, manufactured post-WW2 by Dansk Rekyl Riffel Syndikat A/S for Portugal.
7,92x57mm Mauser 30-round removable box magazine, air-cooled long recoil automatic fire, mounted on a Danish tripod.
It’s pretty insane how little this gun changed in its almost century of service.

4

Was the Chauchat Really That Bad?

The Chauchat has a reputation as the worst light machine gun of all time, however is such a reputation deserved?  After all, the Chauchat has some pretty stiff competition, such as the Breda 30 and the Japanese Type 11.  Was it really as bad as its is supposedly claimed to be?  The short answer is both a resounding yes and a conservative no.  The long answer is much more complicated.

When it comes to the Chauchat, there were two dominant models, the Mle 1915, which was used by France and 8 others nations during World War I, and the Mle 1918, which was used by the United States at the end of the war.  The Mle 1915 was invented by Colonel Louis Chauchat between 1903 to 1909 and first manufactured by MAS, and later Gladiator and Sidarme.  It was first produced in limited numbers in 1913 and entered full production in 1915.  Fed from a 20 round detachable magazine in 8mm Lebel, it utilized a long recoil action based upon the designs of John Browning.  When the Chauchat first hit the battlefields of World War I, its design flaws and limitations immediately became apparent.  The Chauchat only had one major mechanical flaw; it tended to overheat very quickly, which caused it to seize up until it cooled.  A minor problem was its long recoil system, which was not really intended for fully automatic firearms, thus giving the weapon a stout recoil.  The Chauchat’s overheating problem was solved by reducing its firing rate to 250 RPM, while French soldiers were encouraged to fire short, precise bursts, to save ammunition mostly.

The biggest issue with the Chauchat was not it’s mechanics, but its magazine.  After a review of Chauchat performance commissioned by Gen. Petain, it was determined that 75% of malfunctions were a result of it’s magazine.  While the gun itself was well made, manufacturers really skimped on magazine quality.  They tended to be very fragile; bending and warping easily.  They also tended to have faulty or defective springs which exerted too much tension, often causing first round failure to feed.  As a result, French gunners tended to load the magazines with 18 or 19 rounds instead of topping them off.  Generally French soldiers tended to only use the best magazines of the batch, discarding those with bad springs or flimsy construction. The biggest problem with the magazine was that it had open sides so that the soldiers could see how much ammo was left. However this feature made the Chauchat susceptible to dust , dirt, mud and other particulates.  French soldiers mitigated this problem by improvising coverings over the magazine, and sometimes over the gun itself.  Later canvas coverings were issued. 

By 1916 most of the problems of the Chauchat were resolved or minimized.  What resulted was a light machine gun that was functional and practical.  It wasn’t awesome, but it wasn’t bad either.  It could be best described as adequately mediocre.  Keep in mind that during most of World War I, there were only two light machine guns, the Chauchat, and the Lewis gun.  Light machine guns were new technology that were in their infancy. The Browning Automatic Rifle wouldn’t be invented until 1917, and wouldn’t really see a lot of action until the closing months of the war.  There were a handful of other designs, but none in appreciable qualities.  So really, the Chauchat was one of only a few options when it came to light machines guns.  Comparing it further to the Lewis gun, it was much lighter at 20 lbs, and much more compact and easier to wield by one person.  Throughout the war, the French used the Chauchat to great effect.  The most common tactic was the “walking fire” maneuver, where light machine gunners armed with Chauchats would fire while moving, providing covering fire for advancing infantry.  Such tactics would become a staple of WWI trench warfare.  It must also be realized that the Chauchat was very new, and like most things new had many bugs to be worked out.  While the Lewis gun is regarded as one of the best light machine guns of WWI, it too had its problems in its early years.  Designed in the US, it was rejected in US Army Ordnance Trials after it suffered 260 malfunctions, then completely broke down.  It was only after some trial and error that the Lewis gun became what it was. Even the BAR had some hiccups early in its production history.

So overall the Chauchat Mle 1915 was an all around decent light machine gun. Not necessarily a fantastic design like the Mormon magic that was the BAR, but not necessarily the piece of crap that it is generally thought to be. Then came the Mle 1918.  The Mle 1918 is what gave the Chauchat its shitty reputation. It truly was a steel turd of epic proportions.  They should have called it the Chaushit instead. When the American Expeditionary Force landed in France in 1918, it had few tanks, airplanes, artillery, heavy machine guns, and light machine guns of its own.  Thus, such weapons were mostly supplied by the French.  The Mle 1918 was a variant of the Chauchat chambered in the American .30-06 cartridge and manufactured by Gladiator.  The .30-06 was a very powerful cartridge (7.62x63mm).  While the Chauchat’s overheating problem  was manageable in 8mm Lebel (8X50mmR), the new powerful cartridge exacerbated it, causing it to overheat and lock up rapidly.  The French knew little about manufacturing firearms in .30-06 dimensions and manufacturing was rushed. As a result there were many dimensional defects of the chamber which caused jams and failure to feed.  With its long recoil action combined with the powerful .30-06 cartridge, its must have kicked like a jackhammer when fired.  Essentially, the Mle 1918 was almost completely non-functional for practical combat use, and as a result most American soldiers discarded them as worthless junk.  When the problems with the Mle 1918 became apparent, the French issued Mle 1915 models to the Americans instead. By the end of the war, most Chauchats issued to the AEF of either model were replaced by the Model 1918 BAR.

Courting Delirium

(Note: It. Feels. SO GOOD. To write again. I’ve had this on my computer for a year, and only just got around to finishing it. I’ll upload it to FF.net and DeviantArt tomorrow–tonight, I’m being a lazy bum.)

~~~~~~

I knew he would be utterly gone even before I entered his private chambers, knew he had resolved to court delirium the second he had departed the khanum’s quarters. And somehow I knew with a weighty sense of dread that this time, he meant to surrender to it body and soul.

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