#M1911 Pistol

[goodjohnjr]

M1911s In The City & College

File:A sailor prepares to aim an M-1911 .45-caliber pistol during a security drill aboard the frigate USS Hepburn (FF-1055), part of PACEX ’89 – DPLA – 9bd9b93554041cb9e6694b329dd0996a.jpeg In this dream, I was going to college in a Lake Charles-like city. This city was more dangerous than Lake Charles, with several incidents throughout the dream, at least one a day. Each incident involved one…

[rhk111sblog]

An Anti-Corruption Watchdog has found a couple of Issues with the Plan of the Department of National Defense (DND) to acquire 36,000 Service Pistols for the Armed Forces of the Philippines (AFP), saying it could be overpriced and made to favor certain Suppliers

[nocternalrandomness]

"Fighting Tools"

[gun-gallery]

Colt M1911 - .45 ACP

[nano-core-weaponry]

Semi-Futuristic MK45 Pistol

Semi-Futuristic MK45 Pistol Commission work

[ubernaut]

Do more of what you love I guess (if and when you can)

First plinking sesh with the 1911 Air Gun 😊

My pistol accuracy is as bad as my hand tremors 😂

[lupinshanshin]

[attactica]

Colt M1911 US Army pistol Restoration

[northropi]

i bring a sort of "well if you want larger cartridges at the expense of magazine capacity then why aren't we talking about Magnum/Action Express calibers" vibe to the conversation that M1911 fans don't really like.

[captain-price-unofficially]

A GI of the U.S. 1st Army compares his M1911 service pistol to the 12.8cm gun of a knocked out Jagdtiger in the woods of Offensen, Germany. April 1945

[rallamajoop]

An absurdly detailed analysis of That One Soldat Photo

Hang around wintersberg fandom long enough, and you'll likely run into a popular crack-theory that, since Heisenberg obviously thinks that building a set of huge, yellow-painted signposts is a good way to point Ethan to the Stronghold, maybe it's Heisenberg who's been leaving all those handy, yellow-painted supply crates all over the place for Ethan to find! It's exactly the kind of fun nonsense I'd enjoy if it didn't feel folks are starting to take it a little too literally (by which I mean I have now read multiple fics in which it's played completely straight ‒ and, like, people do get that it's just a crack theory, right? Like, why would Heisenberg have left so many yellow crates around his own damn factory? Look, you don't have to explain every last game mechanic, not everything is lore!)

But as anyone reading my own fic would know, I'm guilty of echoing the idea that Heisenberg-was-leaving-stuff-for-Ethan myself ‒ just not because of any yellow-striped crates. No, I'm way more interested in this one weird soldat-photo you can find in the village ‒ long hours before you'll ever see your first Soldat in the flesh...

Very creepy. And if you turn it over, you'll find a clue to a puzzle you'll have to solve in order to progress.

(And of course, when you do look out the window, odds are you'll get jump-scared by a lycan just when you're focused on the numbers, because RE8 loves that sort of misdirection ‒ but I digress.)

Anyway, the code you can see out the window will open a safe containing a jack handle you'll need to move a vehicle in the village, as well as the M1911 pistol (which will very likely be your go-to handgun for the rest of the game). The game is full of conveniently-helpful clues like that (heck, most games are), often with no obvious Watsonian justification. And there are other photos around the village ‒ Luiza has a whole photo album ‒ but photos of experiments created by Miranda and her lords don't generally turn up outside their own territory.

For a player exploring the village for the first time, that photo is a lovely little bit of foreshadowing, hinting at monsters and factory stages to come. But on replaying with full knowledge of Heisenberg's later attempts to get Ethan on his side, that Soldat photo is just enough to make you go, huh... did Heisenberg leave that for Ethan? Like, on purpose?

You can find another copy of that photo later, in Heisenberg's factory, along with his notes on his early series Soldat experiments. Which doesn't really prove anything beyond the fact that assets exist to be reused... but it does at least make it pretty canon that Heisenberg has photos of his Soldats sitting around.

Possibly also significant: both the clue photo and the factory documents are tagged 'geekmemo' in the game files. Most everything related to Heisenberg in the files is labeled 'geek'-something ‒ it seems to be an early nickname for his character that lasted well into production. Everything in the factory is geek-something, even the model for the passageway from the altar to the bridge is labeled 'pathtogeek'. Considering that so many soldat-related assets are already labeled 'geek', maybe that 'geekmemo' tag doesn't really tell us anything we don't already know ‒ but it certainly doesn't work against the idea that Heisenberg wrote that 'memo' himself.

Besides, it's not like there isn't precedent for this kind of thing. RE7 had a whole mechanic where you'd have to find 'treasure photos' pointing out the location of a few rare and useful items, all with "I hid something here" written on the back. We're never explicitly told who left those photos lying around, but it's obviously Lucas: he loves playing games, he loves taunting prisoners with the possibility of escape, and who else would it be? The complete population of the Baker mansion is like 6 people and a bunch of semi-sentient mould.

Over in RE8, there are a lot more village resident who might have left that clue lying around. Like it or not though, Heisenberg is very much RE8's equivalent of Lucas: the family's wildcard show-boater who loves making Ethan jump through hoops for his amusement. So how does the game let us know it was Heisenberg who left this particular clue? Well, who else would leave a message on the back of a Soldat photo?

There's may be additional supporting evidence Heisenberg could be involved ‒ most notably the location, being a locked-off cul-de-sac labeled 'Workshop' on signs and maps. The area is full of metal junk very much like you'll later see lying around the factory.

The workshop location does have other relevance ‒ it makes sense that you'd find the jack handle in the village workshop, whether Heisenberg was involved or not. But it also stands to reason that if there's anywhere in the village proper where Heisenberg might hang around and leave clues for Ethan, the workshop is it. And you have to admit that leaving Ethan useful stuff in a safe along with an easy clue that will likely get him jumped by a lycan is 100% more in-character for the guy than just leaving useful stuff out in the open, even if it doesn't really prove anything either.

There's one more weird-little does-this-mean-anything detail: there are three dead crows near the safe too.

It's not the first time in the game you've seen dead crows (there were a bunch outside the village, and I've talked about what that might mean in the context of Miranda's cult before). But I don't remember finding any others around the village itself, other than in this one spot. And instead of being hung from trees like a ritual sacrifice, these ones are just dead ‒ messily, and with blood everywhere.

Now, maybe it doesn't mean anything, but is there anyone in the village more likely to vent his frustrations by violently killing a few of Mother Miranda's avian avatars than Heisenberg? I'd think not.

In conclusion: I still don't think all those yellow crates have anything to do with Heisenberg. And I still don't know for sure whether the RE8 development team wanted me to assume that Heisenberg left Ethan that photo, jack handle and gun. I don't know if we're supposed to read that Heisenberg keeps a workshop in the village and sometimes kills crows out of spite. But the evidence sure does point that way ‒ and it's as valid an interpretation as anything else you might take from this game.

[vendetta-if]

Chapter 6 Part 1 Public Update 🎉

First of all: Happy Eid-ul-Fitr for those who celebrate it! I hope all of you have a good day so far!

Now, on to the Chapter Update! Chapter 6 Part 1 is 38.4K words long, which brings the total word count for the demo so far to 272.8K words!

This chapter was first planned to be only around 20K to 25K words long, but the amount of variations in this chapter is insane! But, at the same time, I'm pretty excited for you guys to finally see how the group will interact with each other for the first time!

Now, as some of you are probably already aware, what to expect from the chapter are:

Choose or create the group chat name for the team.

See how the citizens react to your actions at the end of Chapter 5.

See how the ROs interact with each other as you have your very first group meeting.

For those who flirted with multiple ROs, be prepared to see the ROs' reactions 😉

More sprinkles of Ash/Rin Poly flavour texts! 😍

Learn more information about the case and get ready for the next step in your hunt for the killer.

Have a conversation(s) with your RO of choice and flirt with them (if you want to, of course 😏)

What have been updated in previous chapters include:

MC's pistols are now changed from Desert Eagles to a variation of M1911.

Added an option for reader to skip the finger torture sequence completely in Chapter 5 (Skipping would bring you right to the part where the guy spill the info).

Added a little variation of flavour texts for MCs with kinky/coily hair during Chapter 2 shower scene.

Bug fixes and typos and grammar errors.

I'll start answering Chapter 6 Part 1 asks starting tomorrow and I'll tag them with #chapter 6 spoiler, so watch out for them if you haven't read the latest update and don't want to get spoiled! 😄

Also, please consider supporting me over on Patreon or Ko-Fi! 😊💖

[DEMO] | [PATREON] | [KO-FI] | [COG FORUM] | [DISCORD]

[greatworldwar2]

• M50 Reising Submachine Gun

The .45 Reising submachine gun was manufactured by Harrington & Richardson (H&R) Arms Company in Worcester, Massachusetts, USA, and was designed and patented by Eugene Reising in 1940. The three versions of the weapon were the Model 50, the folding stock Model 55, and the semiautomatic Model 60 rifle. Over 100,000 Reisings were ordered during World War II, and were initially used by the United States, though some were shipped to Canadian, Soviet, and other allied forces.

Reising was an assistant to firearm inventor John M. Browning. In this role, Reising contributed to the final design of the US .45 ACP M1911 pistol. Reising then designed a number of commercial rifles and pistols on his own, when in 1938, he turned his attention to designing a submachine gun as threats of war rapidly grew in Europe. Two years later he submitted his completed design to the Harrington & Richardson Arms Company (H&R) in Worcester, Massachusetts. It was accepted, and in March 1941, H&R started manufacturing the Model 50 submachine gun. H&R promoted the submachine guns for police and military use, and the Model 60 for security guards. After the Japanese attack on Pearl Harbor in December 1941 the US was suddenly in desperate need of thousands of modern automatic weapons. Reising's only competitor was the .45 ACP Thompson submachine gun. The US Army first tested the Reising in November 1941 at Fort Benning, Georgia. During this test, several parts failed due to poor construction. Once this was corrected, a second test was made in 1942 at Aberdeen Proving Ground, Maryland. In that test, 3,500 rounds were fired, resulting in two malfunctions: one from the ammunition, the other from a bolt malfunction. As a result, the Army didn't adopt the Reising, but the Navy and Marines did, due to insufficient supply of Thompsons.

The Reising submachine gun was innovative for its time. In comparison to its main rival, the famous Thompson, it possessed similar firepower, better accuracy, excellent balance, a lighter weight, a much lower cost, and greater ease of manufacture. Despite these achievements, the poor combat performance of the Reising contrasted with favorable combat and law enforcement use of the Thompson mired the weapon in controversy. The Reising was far less costly ($62) compared to the Thompson ($200). It was much lighter (seven vs. eleven pounds). The Model 55 was also more compact (about twenty-two vs. thirty-three inches in length). The M50 Reising's delayed blowback operation, often classified as hesitation lock, works as follows: as the cartridge is chambered, the rear end of the bolt is pushed up into a recess, in a manner similar to tilting-bolt locked breech guns; but whereas such weapons rely on an additional mechanism to unlock them, in the case of the Reising the end of the bolt that pushes against the back wall of this recess, is subtly rounded, while the wall is correspondingly curved. On firing, the extreme pressure from the propellant gases is thereby able to force the bolt-end down, back to the horizontal. From here the bolt can move to the rear removing the cartridge from the chamber; but the combination of mechanical disadvantage and friction the force of the gases must overcome to push the end of the bolt down has achieved a delay of a fraction of a second, allowing pressure in the barrel to drop to a level sufficiently low for safe and efficient cartridge extraction. The Reising was made in selective fire versions that could be switched between semi-automatic or full-automatic fire as needed and in semi-auto only versions to be used for marksmanship training and police and guard use. The Reising had a designed full-auto cyclic rate of 450–600 rounds per minute but it was reported that the true full-auto rate was closer to 750–850 rounds per minute.

The U.S. Marines adopted the Reising in 1941 with 4,200 authorized per division with approximately 500 authorized per each infantry regiment. Most Reisings were originally issued to Marine officers and NCOs in lieu of a compact and light carbine, since the newly introduced M1 carbine was not yet being issued to the Marines. Although the Thompson submachine gun was available, this weapon frequently proved too heavy and bulky for jungle patrols, and initially it, too, was in short supply. During World War II, the Reising first saw action on August 7th, 1942, exactly eight months to the day after Pearl Harbor, when 11,000 men from the 1st Marine Division stormed the beaches of Guadalcanal, in the Solomon Islands. The same date of Guadalcanal's invasion, the Model 50 and 55 saw action with the 1st Marine Raiders on the small outlying islands of Tulagi and Tanambogo to the north. Serious shortcomings in both guns were becoming apparent. The reality was that the Reising was designed as a civilian police weapon and was not suited to the stresses of harsh battle conditions encountered in the Solomon Islands—namely, sand, saltwater that easily rusted the commercial blued finish, and the difficulty in keeping the weapon clean enough to function properly. Tests at Aberdeen Proving Ground and at Fort Benning, Georgia, had found difficulties in blindfold reassembly of the Reising, indicating the design was complicated and difficult to maintain. The producer, H&R, had not yet mastered mass-production technologies in 1940-1941, and many of the parts were hand fitted at the factory just like the company did with their commercial firearms. While more accurate than the Thompson, particularly in semi-automatic mode, the Reising had a tendency to jam. The Reising earned a dismal reputation for reliability in the combat conditions of Guadalcanal. The M1 carbine eventually became available and was often chosen over both the Reising and the Thompson in the wet tropical conditions.

In late 1943 following numerous complaints, the Reising was withdrawn from Fleet Marine Force (FMF) units and assigned to Stateside guard detachments and ship detachments. After the Marines proved reluctant to accept more Reisings, and with the increased issue of the .30-caliber M1 carbine, the U.S. government passed some Reising submachine guns to the OSS and to various foreign governments (as Lend-Lease aid). Both the Soviets and Canada purchased some Model 50 SMGs, others were given to various anti-Axis resistance forces operating around the world. Many Reisings (particularly the semiautomatic M60 rifle) were issued to State Guards for guarding war plants, bridges, and other strategic resources. After the war, thousands of Reising Model 50 submachine guns were acquired by state, county, and local U.S. law enforcement agencies. The weapon proved much more successful in this role, in contrast to its wartime reputation. Production of the Model 50 and 55 submachine guns ceased in 1945 at the end of World War II. Nearly 120,000 submachine guns were made of which two-thirds went to the Marines. H&R continued production of the Model 60 semiautomatic rifle in hopes of domestic sales, but with little demand, production of the Model 60 stopped in 1949 with over 3,000 manufactured. H&R sold their remaining inventory of submachine guns to police and correctional agencies across America. Decades later, in 1986, H&R closed their doors and Numrich Arms (aka Gun Parts Corporation) purchased their entire inventory.

[itsbubbleteataro]

Human!Alastior x Human!reader

The Bootlegger pt 1

It was a hot summers day in New Orleans. The year was 1920, prohibition had just been signed into law by President Woodrow Willison, and you had just fallen on hard times. The tailor shop you were working for had closed down, and left you looking for a new job.

With prohibition however came opportunities, opportunities came jobs. You found yourself working for a woman named Jessie, brewing moonshine underground to avoid the fuzz. Sure it was illegal, but the people needed booze, and you were more than happy to supply.

When the night rolled around you took your moonshine and distributed it to local clubs and bars and speak easys. Sure you had to get good with a weapon, your weapon of choice being an 1 colt m1911, something smaller and discrete, yet still packed a punch when needed.

You needed up needing that little pistol more often than you had hoped to need it. Hey it was dirty work being a bootlegger, but it got food on the table for you and that's what mattered most to you.

It was a warm summers morning, you were leaving your house to head into the bayou where Jessie's underground brewing was set up. You were having breakfast, listning to the raido, having your toast with jam and a coffee with two sugars. A rich and smooth voice greeted you over the raido just as it did every morning.

"Good morning my listeners! It's me, Alastor! Today's weather should be humid and in the 80s, with the slight chance of an afternoon shower. Today's date is Thursday, June second, so if its your birthday happy birthday!" Your radio practically sang out. You sighed. You loved listening to Alastor in the morning and the way he would pick out just the right music every day made you admire his love for radio. You dropped two sugar cubes in your coffee and stirred with a small sliver spoon. You watched the sugar melt into your bitter black coffee as you day dreamed about being able to do something you truly loved to do again, or even better yet, not having to do such a dangerous job anymore.

You finished your breakfast and coffee, then went to your room to change. You pulled on a longer beige skirt with a matching blouse. You tucked the blouse into your skirt, then took a seat at your vanity. Pulling on some skin colored stalking you sat and faced the mirror.

Humming along to the radio you did your hair and makeup. Sure it would be ruined by the end of the day, but you still wanted to look your best. You brushed out your hair and styled it before sitting up and walking back to your living room. You placed your empty mug and plate in the sink before heading to your door.

Pulling on a pair of heeled ankle boots with quite the large and thick heel and a beige hat with a red ribbon tied around the center, you left the house after turning back and shutting off your radio.

Strolling down the street you walked into a small little deli. You walked up to the counter.

"Mornin' Jason" You nodded your head at the man behind the conter.

"Mornin Cher" Greeted Jason. Jason was a well groomed but harry man who ran a small deli and sandwich shop. Jason's blue eyes reflected the sun outside and his smile made everyone feel welcome in his little shop. "Would it be the usual?"

"Yes please"

"Comming right up Cher" Jason set to work. You checked your pocket watch, making sure you were not running late as Jason hummed along to the radio.

Not a song later, you handed Jason some money and he handed you a sandwich. "Careful y/n, Alastor said there may be an afternoon shower"

"I'm sure I will be okay Jason, thank you for the worry however" You gave him a small and polite smile. He wished you a good day and waved as you exited his shop.

Tucking your sandwich into a small bag, you headed to work.

On the other side of town Alastor pushed back in his chair. His mic was muted as he was playing his favorite jazz on the radio.

"Cassie, cher, be a doll and get me some more coffee?" He asked a woman with jet black hair cut neatly into a bob that fell just below her ears. She wore dark beige tweed pants and a white blouse with a pair of suspenders. Her brown loafers were polished to perfection. Cassie nodded her head and went down the hall to make some.

Alastor yawned covering his mouth. he pulled out a pocket mirror and ticked under his breath. He had straightened his naturally curly dark hair just hours earlier, and yet in the humidity despite him being indoors callused the ends to curl yet again.

He set the pocket mirror back in his slacks, then fixed his wine red vest and adjusted the cuffed sleeves of his white dress shirt. He fixed up his black bowtie as he heard the door open to his office. He turned to face Cassie and thanked her for the coffee before showing her out of his booth.

He took a swig of coffee before he flipped on his mic once more.

"And that ladies and gentlemen was the last song of the morning brought to us by Louis Armstrong. Once again this is your host Alastor, have a good rest of the day." He turned his mic off and concluded his broadcast.

He picked up his mug, and got out of his seat, letting the swiveling chair turn lazily till the seat faced the door. He walked down the hall to his corner side office, to work on some paperwork the head of the radio station had tasked him with last night. He closed the door behind him.

Muffling another yawn he sat in his plush chair, picking up a pen and reading over the papers. "Shouldn't have dragged that hunt out so last night." He again yawned. "Yet it was also oh so worth it." He sipped his coffee.

It was around the early afternoon when Cassie knocked on his door. After waiting for a response, Cassie stepped in, holding her cap in her hands.

"Al?"

"yes Cassie?" Alastor looked up from the last bits of his paperwork.

"Will and I are going to the speak easy tonight to cut a rug, hear they have some moonshine that is just the bees knees. Want to come along?" Asked Cassie, putting her cap on. Seeing Alastor nod she gives him a thumbs up. "Will and I will pick you up then after dark, be ready and look sharp! You know how Mimzy can be." Cassie left his office, making sure to close the door gently behind her.

Alastor quickly finished the last of his paperwork then got up. He placed his now empty mug by the small kitchenet in the break room before grabbing his wine red coat and his black umbrella before stepping out. He opened the umbrella as it had started to rain, then started his walk home.

His walk home was uneventful, picking up tidbits of gossip here and there from people who spoke a little too loudly. He soon reached the edge of the bayou, where he opened the door to his cabin.

He grimished slightly at the lingering smell of blood as he pulled off his shoes, knowing he had some cleaning to do before Cassie and Will came over. He turned on the radio, letting it play as he set about deep cleaning.

He changed into something he knew he could hide and clean easily, before setting his sights on his kitchen. He quickly moved all his human flesh and organs he had so carefully harvested last night to the basement before cleaning the ice box. He cleaned the floors, the counters, the seats, the sink, his knives and forks, his plates, the table. Anything that could have a speck of blood or human remains on it was deep cleaned or hidden in his basement.

The only thing that stayed the same was his prized riffle. His Remington pump action riffle lean against his coatrack, the barrel facing up.

Alastor retuned to his room, changing back into what he wore to work, thinking it was sharp enough for a speak easy, then set to work on straightening his hair once more, as it had returned to its natural thick and curly nature.

Looking in the mirror, he styled his now fuzzy and fluffy hair, before sitting on his couch. Pulling on a shiny pair of loafers, he picked up his riffle and started to do basic maintenance on it.

His pump action Remington riffle was his pride and joy.

The sun had set and holding true to her word, a knock sounded against the door.

"Cassie?"

"Yeah its me Al, come on! Will and I are waiting! Will is quite excited to show you his new fangled automobile!" Cassie opened the door just wide enough to see her smiling from ear to ear.

Alastor nodded and got up, setting his hunting riffle aside. He walked outside with Cassie, down a gravel path towards the road.

"Wait Al, you ain't really gonna wear what you wore to work to to the speak easy right? What if there's some Cher you wanna chat up?" Cassie asked tilting her head.

Cassie wore a bright colored dress that showed off her ankles, a hand held fan with gold accents in her hand. Her makeup was done in a way where her lips were highlighted.

Alastor shook his head. "Cassie you know I do not have a desire to settle down-" He started before Cassie cut him off.

"Yeah Yeah your too busy hunting and working to even think of that. I get it, I have things I want to do too, but I would like to have a boe to come home too, or well" She smirked, "to share a bed with"

"Casssie" Alastor sighed and shook his head. "Sometimes I am not even sure how you work"

"I'll pretend I didn't hear that Al" Cassie sighed as the two finally made it to the main road.

Will honked the horn of his automobile, a rather large mechanical beast pained black with white accents. Alastor whistled and Cassie smiled.

"Well I'll be, this really is the bees knees" Nodded Alator as he opened the door for Cassie, who thanked him and slid inside.

Will was a skinner man, dressed in a white dress shirt with a deep purple vest. His collar hung open and his sleeves rolled up to his elbows. His chocolate colored skin seemed to glisten in the low lighting. His hair hung in its naturally curly state, styled nicely with a cap sitting on top of his head.

"Evenin' Al" Spoke Will

"Evenin' Will, how were the docks today?'

"Oh busy as always, the fuzz seems to be hangin' around them more, thinkin bootleggers are smugglin' in booze from the waters." Shrugged Will. "Say Al, you should let your hair be natural one of these nights, it ain't a curse and it ain't bad."

"Will I will wear my hair how I want" Alastor crossed his arms getting defensive.

"Oh just drive Will! I'm tryin to get me a boe to warm the bed!" Snapped Cassie. Alastor turned his head to look out the window as Will sighed.

The automobile came to life, moving the group down the street.

"Say Al, are you going to dip on us again tonight?" Asked Cassie, twisting to look back at him from the back passenger seat.

"And if I am?"

"Have fun walkin'" Retorted Cassie, turning to face the front again as Will sighed.

The group made it to the speak easy, Cassie and Alastor stepping out as Will drove around to find parking. Alastor made it in no problem as Cassie was busy talking with Mimzy, the speak easy owner.

He made his way past the people, taking a seat at the bar, enjoying the wild yet relaxing live jazz from the band on stage. He ordered his drink and uncuffed his sleeves, rolling them up past his elbows.

He took his first sip of moonshine, his eyes sparked just a tad. The flavor was better than any of the watered down stuff he had since prohibition had stared.

He had one drink after the other, getting himself tispy as he looked around the room.

His onyx eyes landed on you, looking exhausted as you mindlessly swirled your glass of moonshine. He took in how your hair seemed frizzy under the hat of yours, your blouse clearly too large for you as you had to change. You yawned then took a sip of your drink.

Alastor got up and undid his bow tie, taking a new seat next to you.

"Long day Cher?"

"Could say that Mister." You did not even look over at him. You were waiting for Mimzy to finish talking to Cassie, so Jessie, who was looking at her nails a few seats down could collect the payment and the two of you could turn in for the night.

Alastor took a sip of his drink and sighed. He had already run out of conversation, and had resigned himself to sit in a strange silence next to the interesting looking stranger.

A few sips later, you broke the silence, "So uh" You stared, tracing your finger along the rim of the glass. "What do you think of the booze?" You looked over, taking in the disheveled appearance of the handsome stranger.

"Best booze since the law was put in place Cher." He answered truthfully, setting his empty glass down and facing you.

"Good to know, thank you Mister."

"If you really want to thank me, you would go cut a rug with me Cher" Alator give you a cheeky sort of smirk, reaching out his hand.

"I can hardly dance with a boe who's name I ain't know"

"Call me Al then"

"y/n" You placed your hand in his and let him lead you to the dance floor.

As much as you would hate to admit it, the dancing, the music, the booze made everything so much more enjoyable. You found yourself smiling as Alastor twirled and dipped you.

Soon however, as the two of you sat to the side, Jessie came up and taped you on the shoulder before pointing to the door.

"Ah time for me to leave Al, it was wonderful meeting you" You smiled at him. Al flashed one back.

"Hope to see you around soon Cher, I had a lovley evenin' with you." He bowed his head. You waved and walked out with Jessie.

Jessie was a smaller woman with long black hair she wore back in a braid. She wore dresses mostly, and liked to carry around a white hand bag. The two of you walked to Jessie's automobile, the two of you got in and Jessie started to drive.

Around half way to your home, Jessie broke the silence, "Don't you go around carryin' a torch for that man, our life is already complicated enough between the fuzz and other bootleggers."

You gasped. "Jessie! It is too soon to know if I even have a torch to begin with! And you don't think I ain't know that?" You sighed. "I might could think you ain't know how to read a room." You pouted as Jessie took you home.

Reaching the path to your home, Jessie sighed and helped you out. "Just don't say I ain't warn you" Jessie got back into her car and drove off, leaving you to stumble up the path to your home.

You made it inside safely and stumbled as you lazily stripped yourself. You flopped onto bed with a soft grunt, your mind wondering to the handsome stranger in the red vest at Minzy's speak easy.

You sighed, as much as you would love to keep meeting with Al, you knew that if you did it would only be more trouble than it was worth. You drifted off to sleep, a bit sad over the fact that you could no longer have a normal relationship with someone.

Oh how wrong you would be, and how little did you know your life was to turn upside down even more.

[derangedkyss]

Sweetheart Grips: How Soldiers Kept Loved Ones Close

In 1933, the Rohm and Haas Company introduced plexiglass to the market. The material was used heavily during World War II for windows in aircrafts and vehicles. Its durability and lightweight nature made it a desirable replacement for almost every instance where glass had been used. Servicemen began to salvage plexiglass from downed aircrafts to replace the grips for their Colt M1911 pistols. The transparent quality allowed them to personalize the grips by inserting a picture of a loved one or pin-up girl underneath the plexiglass. The trend became known as “sweetheart grips.”

The plexiglass grips were more than just decorative. The clear material allowed soldiers to view the magazine from the side of the gun and see how many rounds remained. To keep this view clear, sometimes the photographs would be inserted underneath the right plate, keeping the left unadorned.

[senka-mesecine]

Entertaining the idea of a fic of Barnes from your yandere writings of him getting carried away with his handgun/pistol or knife (whatever your fancy) and holding it to his lover’s throat, or ambushing them away from his men and threatening them

a way to sort of say he’s in control while simultaneously saying he could kill them, but won’t because in some sick way he’s obsessed with them and loves them, and they should be grateful because in an instant he could take their life

LOVE your work btw!! ❤️ I get so excited whenever I see you post

Call To Reality.

Robert Barnes x Reader.

---

You loved him.

And that? Well, that came with certain responsibilities on his behalf.

Now, Barnes didn't delude himself on any notion fickle enough to be considered childish or fanciful the same way he wasn't going to bullshit anyone that the grass was greener somewhere else or even where he stood or that it was raining when someone was pissing on someone else's head; just wasn't in his habit to dabble in weaving around fantastical crapsack ideas about himself or the world at large. If anything, cold, hard truths and realism were his trade and hell, he'd be damned if he didn't feel honor-bound in a sense to serve the dish of factualness and candor to you straight, like something perhaps not entirely pleasant to eat, but rather as something necessary to savor and swallow so you'd understand just what type of man you were choosing to love. He plays with the safety of his M1911 contemplating the concept. It's not that Barnes didn't believe you gave an actual shit about him. Oh, you did. You very much did. Which is why all of this was needed in the first place; a musing that guides him as he corners you against the trunk of a tall Cay Co at the edge of safety perimeters, away from the flank of the platoon; something in your eyes going from the sudden sparkle that was about to register this as a quick lover's tryst in the jungle to subdued shock once the barrel of the Colt finds itself pressed next to your neck.

-"Robert! What are you ---"-

You try to vocalize your bafflement as his body traps you in place, nearly slamming you into position; an action of speech commenced too late by a pair of moving lips once he covers the full extent of your mouth and cuts off your words with the palm of his hand, effectively gagging you. Shut up. Shut up and listen. This would be over before anyone even noticed either you or him were gone.

-"Y'sayin' you love me then?"-

Barnes asks, holding you silenced, pinned, handgun touching the skin of your throat. Your eyes are still. Wide. Confused, which is a given, seeing as how he's just sprung this upon you like a quiz. No warning. A surprise so sudden he could just about feel your pulse vibrating like an accelerated heartbeat through your neck peppered with heavy breathing connected to the cold metal of his pistol with an invisible wire.

-"Y'love me? Hmm?"-

He repeats his question, allowing himself a dosage of cockiness.

Tilting his head sideways.

He swears he spits something pleading bleeding into your gaze.

Something small.

Something that wordlessly said 'yes' in spite of how caught off guard you were.

You already had this chat. He merely listened to you saying how much you liked him.

Now, it was his turn to give you an audible response.

-"You lovin' death then? You a deathlover?"-

He inquires further, seething, teeth gritted to the degree anyone else's gums might've bled, watching your irises almost shake with stress once his voice vertebrates through you like an electrical current, from his chest to yours. -"The gun at your gullet?"- He adds, your oxygen flow hot against the palm of his hand, leaving a moist trace on his skin, pressing the gun even closer to the proximity of your skin, certain to leave behind a bruise; something to remember this conversation by. -"You lovin' the killin'? The killer?"- He cross-examines, voice growing gruff, rough; someone had to shake you up and call you back to reality and there wasn't nobody more competent to do it on God's green earth than he --- nobody was as duty bound to do it the way he was anyway 'cos you couldn've gone and fallen for some hot young thing that didn't even grow a half decent beard yet and instead you gone and stepped your pretty feet into an existence of shit. You needed a talking to. The realization of it in your stare told him how necessary this was. You were scared of him in this very moment and good on you. You should've been. Day one. The rabbit's scared of the rabbit trap and here you are loving the man who goes around setting them goin' against nature's law. -''Cos who you're seein' is exactly who I am."- He reassures feeling the tone of his own voice come forth like a hoarse, harsh, brusque spit. He squeezes the handle of his gun until his knuckles grow white. There was a slug in the chamber. Just one. He carved your name into it. Suppose other men carried their sweethearts in their wallets or in a locket, but here he was, threatening you with a bullet with your own name on it. That, or he'd feed it to some unsuspecting gook jackass he runs into in the jungle. Would've been like killing for you either ways. -"So have yourself a good long look."- He shakes his grip on you a little, but still enough to where your whole body was rattled, moaning into his mouth at the contact, the gun's barrel nestling into the bottom part of your jawline's bone. His face is so close to yours his nose's tip practically presses into the side of your cheek and he breathes hard against you, like a bull about to impale with its horn.

You feel like you're burning up in a fever to the touch.

-"I could waste you in the time it took you to say my name."-

Barnes promises, because that's what it was, a promise. No mere empty threat or a flex of muscles. He was no prince charming, he was no hoytie-toytie college boy, he wasn't a waterwalker and he sure wasn't a crusader either; he was a killer. He felt you ought to have been made privy to that in case it wasn't fucking obvious already. Your eyes turn liquid, like they could melt away into an onslaught of tears and need any second now. Gonna cry over the truth? Well, shit. Something twists in his gut like a dull knife and that pain was crucial. For you. For him. This way, you could never begrudge that you didn't know who he was when you got to liking him or worse yet, no third party could ever come along running their mouth that Barnes was no good for you because here Barnes was himself intercepting all opposition, letting you know in person, face to face, before anyone else could. His hand releases your mouth and his body steps back an inch allowing you to nearly fall limp against the tree and you would've too, if he wasn't there to grab your waist. His gun leaves the premises of your neck. If his Colt was a full blooded, living, breathing human, Barnes imagined he'd miss the contact. The embrace of flesh and metal.

-"Just be countin' your lucky stars you're loved back as much as you are."-

He holds up a finger, wagging it as you stare at him like you've just witnessed a nuclear bomb go off in real time, cradling your own throat, frozen as he leans his head down to plant a quick kiss on the parted middle of your hairline, tucking his handgun back into his safety belt and walking off leaving you there knowing you'd follow suit in his shadow and that the rest of the platoon would be none the wiser what just went down, his private thoughts contemplating how this had to be the most fucked up 'I love you too' ever demonstrated, professed or uttered by a man in existence.

After all, you loved him.

And that? Well, that came with certain responsibilities on his behalf.