odd guns

OTs-20 Gnom -  12.5x40mm STs-110

A rather odd gun, the Gnom serves as one of the few revolvers to come out of Russia. Intended originally to replace the older Makarov PM with street police, it was to be a very large caliber 5 shot revolver. 

The Gnom is also interesting in it’s ammo, 12.5x40mm. Derived from the 32 Gauge shotgun shell, this was intended to maximize stopping power as well as allow more different loading than other revolver cartridges. This included a number of less-lethal ammo consisting of rubber baton rounds or tear gas. Even more so, the guns are smoothbore so these custom rounds can work.

Due to this, the guns are fairly inaccurate at anything past close range, and this left them a bit unliked in the hands of Russian police. So far only 200 guns have been made since the program began in 1993, mostly used by the MVD who need a large caliber option.

Sweetheart. (Negan)

Originally posted by lets-letmeimagine-posts

Escaping from the Sanctuary wasn’t easy. Even if we did manage it, the Saviors caught up to us. It didn’t matter that we had a two day head start, it didn’t matter that we had guns, no odds, whether in our favor or not, mattered because there were more of them than there were of us. We had been running since dawn. We were tired, cold, and close to giving up. Despite the fact that we knew there was no possible way of making it out alive, we kept running.

The faint whistling of the Saviors scared the absolute hell out of us. We wanted to breakdown and cry because it seemed the whistling was coming from all directions. We were surrounded, we knew that even if we couldn’t see them.

“We’re dead,” my brother said, breathlessly. “We’re not gonna make it.” We stopped running and looked around at the tall, thin trees around us. There was fog all over making it hard to see if anyone was nearby.

“We need to keep moving.” I picked my pace up again. “If we keep moving they’ll keep chasing us.”

“Is that what we want?” He asked at my side.

“They won’t try to capture us until we’ve stopped. It’s the chase they like.”

Running seemed second nature to us. We were used to running. We became good at it. But now more than ever I wanted to stop and cry, though I knew it wouldn’t help in any way. Eventually we ran out of the woods and found ourselves on the edge of a long stretch of road. My brother and I looked at each other and then bolted down the road to our right running faster than ever as if our destination were right around the corner. And just like that, a pair of headlights headed toward us but when we turned in the other direction more vehicles appeared. They were on both ends of the road as well as coming out of the forest. They caught us.

“Fuck,” I muttered.

The whistling grew louder, taunting us. My heart sped rapidly within my chest and my eyes brimmed with tears that I restrained. We were going to die. This was it. The Saviors fell quiet as a pair of loud footsteps approached the middle of the circle in which my brother and I were standing. Negan was grinning broadly with Lucille resting on his leather clad shoulder. His eyes met mine and he chuckled.

“Damn, you are some gal.” My brother moved forward an inch or so in a protective manner that I was scared would get him killed. I reached for his arm and tugged him back. “I wouldn’t have bothered to come all the way out here if it were about someone else, Y/N, you know that.” Negan swung Lucille around a little while he began to pace slowly around us, like a predator stalking a defenseless prey. “But you also know that I hate when things get complicated. I treat you right, sweetheart, I let your brother off easy not because he’s your brother, but because he could possibly be my brother-in-law. So why make things difficult for you both by running off?”

Negan stood in front of me. Our eyes held each other’s gaze intensely, neither of us was going to look away. The lump in my throat grew bigger as Negan’s grip tightened around Lucille. My brother’s breathing slowed and became shallow. “None of that matters now,” I finally said, my eyes still on his. “You caught us, you’re gonna kill us and you’ll be on your way.” Negan’s jaw tightened and I let out a deep breath. “I’m not scared of what you can do. I know what you can do, I’ve seen it. So just do it and get it over with.”

Negan stared at me a moment longer and then laughed. “You’re right.” He said suddenly. Everyone was dead silent now. If all eyes weren’t on him before, they sure as hell were now. “You do know what I can do, you have seen it. No doubt that has become boring not only for you but for everyone else as well.” Negan walked around us once more, feigning to ponder something over in his head before he stopped in front of me again. “So this is what’s going to happen: you’re going to do it for me.”

My eyes widened and my heart quickened. I turned to my brother and then back to Negan. “I - I can’t - he’s - no, I won’t do -”

“Ah, ah, ah,” Negan cupped my chin in his hand and shook my head slowly from left to right while I instinctively grabbed his wrist. “You will do as I fucking say, sweetheart, is that clear? Or do you need me to teach you to obey on command?” He challenged. I shook my head quickly, tears brimming rapidly in my eyes. “Don’t cry, sweetheart. I’m not asking you to kill him, just hurt him to the point where he wants you to kill him.”

The Saviors snickered and sat back to watch while Negan had Dwight bring him an ax. “Please,” I croaked as he handed me the ax. “Please don’t make me do this.”

“You gave me no choice, sweetheart. You need to learn your lesson.” Negan kicked my brother down on his stomach and then stepped back. “Cut off his leg.”

“Wait, wait, please -” my brother begged but just as soon as he spoke Negan hit him square in the face with the end of Lucille, the less dangerous end. I jumped and turned away, unable to see my brother so vulnerable.

“Do not fucking speak again, understood, brother?” Negan said, wiping the blood on Lucille off on his t-shirt before he walked over to me. “Sweetheart,” he grabbed my chin and forced me to look at him. “You’re going to cut off one of his legs and then we’ll be done. That easy. Don’t make this harder than it has to be, okay?” Negan pressed a hard kiss on my cheek and patted it before standing back. “Let’s get this fucking show on the road!” The Saviors cheered and I couldn’t stop the tears from falling as I looked down at my brother. He looked at me feebly over his shoulder, he was semi-coherent, maybe he wouldn’t feel it. Maybe he would pass out in the middle of it. The click of a gun behind me brought me out of my thoughts and the tears ran faster. “I’m running out of fucking patience, sweetheart. Cut his leg off or I’ll shoot both of you.”

My brother nodded weakly and I took in a shaky breath as I moved toward his leg. My vision was blurred and I apologized before I brought the ax down into the back of his knee. He screamed and I cried while Negan and the Saviors cheered loudly. Each sound of a snap tore me apart and I cried harder each time I forced myself to chop into his leg. His screams became weaker and weaker until he was merely gasping for air while I grew fatigued with remorse. It seemed to take forever to be done with it. My brother was slipping in and out of consciousness and I ended up falling to my knees in exhaustion, the ax dropped beside me and I cried into my hands over his crippled body.

“Get him up and into a car. Take him to the doctor. Now!” Negan yelled distantly, everything sounded faint and unclear. Strong hands picked me up and I cried softly into a leather clad chest.

“I never learned how to whistle.” I murmured for a reason I did not know. It was silent for hours, or it felt like hours, and then Negan’s usually rough voice echoed softly all around me like that of a parent who is putting a child to sleep.

“You won’t have to, sweetheart, you won’t work for me. You’ll be my wife.”

Requested: Reader, who is Negan’s possible fiance, escapes from the Sanctuary with her brother, but Negan finds them and makes Reader hurt her brother. Afterwards, Negan takes care of Reader’s brother and promises to make her his wife so she won’t have to work for him. Hope you like it! Thanks for requesting! xx

February Prompt – Day Two: Falling in Love

Date: February 03, 2017

Pairing: Klance suggested by @thatartcorner

Title: Denial and Acceptance

Word Count: 375

Rated: K+

Summary: Falling in love is done in different ways. Accepted and denied; comforted and nerve-wrecked. This how they handle falling in love. 

‘This can’t be happening,’ he thought. “Lance… Lance! Lance is insufferable! A flirt, a nerd!”

A cute one, Keith’s mind murmured.

“No… No, no, no, no…”

Keith pulled at his hair, eyes blown in horror and jaw set in a worried snarl.

As of late, the Cuban paladin has continuously lingered in Keith’s memories. His slick smirk, combed back hair and that odd little finger gun he did. At times, Keith would imagine the boy winking or even notice a mild bit of extra gloss glistening his plump lips.

The blue paladin would pout and Keith would find himself wanting to wipe it away. Lance would yell his anger and Keith would only want to hold him until the sorrow washed away. And when Lance smiled, Keith would find his eyes simmering.

Keith would do anything to support, care for and be with Lance.

That… That was not how it should have been…

Wasn’t it Lance who told Keith about them being neck and neck? Lance who’s biggest frustration was Keith himself?

So why does Keith not feel the same? Why does Lance not feel the same?

To Lance, Keith was only ever a nuisance.

“Keith…” Lance whispered, padding at the others discarded coat.

It amused Lance that Keith would leave the living space in such a hurry, even forgetting the red cloth he was so accustomed to wearing. As Lance rubbed the fabric between his thumb and forefinger, cherishing it with a light-hearted smile, he had to wonder when it was that he started falling in love.

Keith was unlike any of his past crushes. Male, masculine, moody, sometimes, even clueless. Lance chuckled at the mention, remembering each conversation they had where the boy couldn’t quite comprehend what Lance meant.

He then began to relish in their time spent with each other. Their competitions, arguments, teamwork. Memories swam through his thoughts with new fantasies.

To be laying chest to chest wrapped in warm comforters, the need for each other’s embrace. To be able to lace his hands with Keith’s, head leaning on broad shoulders. Perhaps, with just a little stretch of the neck they could kiss…

Lance pushed that image away, heat eliciting at his cheeks.

“I wonder if Keith feels the same way..?”


This bit from Midori Ritou’s Baten Kaitos gag doujinshi Owaranai Moe to Ushinawareta Koi takes place just after the Wazn ice statue incident; the other characters are goofing off and striking the poses they’d want if they had their own ice statues. Savyna is doing finger guns, which I think means she wins.

A little snowfall

The light was fading out of your eyes like a star in a distant galaxy blinking out. Blood matted your hair to your skull and was beginning to crust over your eyes. It might have been blizzarding outside but you couldn’t feel it nipping at your fingers, instead you felt the warm numbness climbing up your forearms. Who knew a blaster to the stomach could produce so much blood? You were practically lying in an olympic swimming lane of your own hemoglobin and platelets.

You had failed your mission, of course. All you had to do was stop femme han solo, the prettiest pilot in the universe and his starry-eyed boyfriend, but you when it’s a single flame trooper out of fuel versus a blaster gun the odds aren’t going to be in your favor. You knew that the First Order, if Kylo couldn’t kill the girl, would probably fall at the feet of the resistance all because you couldn’t carry out a simple task. You wouldn’t live to see the repercussions of you fucking the whole galaxy over, which was a nice perk to dying, but the only one.

You hear heavy feet crunching fresh snow not very far from you. It was probably more resistance scum infiltrating the Starkiller base, looking to kill everyone on board in the name of ‘peace’ or the ‘lightside’ or some bullshit like that. No time to worry about that now.

“Fn-5270?” You hear a hoarse voice call. Your eyes squint past all of the crusted blood and see dark swatches of fabric contrasted with the snow. You know that voice. It’s the hateful voice that commands to kill everyone on Jakku, it’s the hushed voice stealing kisses in the hallway when no one’s looking, it’s the childish voice of a temper tantrum waiting to happen, It’s the voice of fresh air when you’re drowning in formation. You try to muster your voice to call out ‘Kylo’ but it comes out only as hoarse squeaks.

In a whoosh of fabric and before you can grasp what’s going on, Kylo kneels beside you and crams his hands into your wound. You could feel your stomach clenching and throbbing with the force of his weighty hands. On the inside you wanted to scream your throat raw but on the surface all you could manage to do was flinch away from him and whine.

“I know it hurts, I’m sorry.” His voice was guttural, like a wounded animal. He presses his hands down deeper, “I need to stop the bleeding.” You try pushing his hands away from your stomach, and wriggling away, but he only strengthens the pressure on your stomach. “Stop. It’s– You’re going to hemorrhage and  bleed out. I need to stop the bleeding!” His voice was getting brittle and more and more desperate.

You knew that you were a lost case. It would be silly to put so much effort into you when you wouldn’t even make it back to the base, let alone all the way down into the medical facilities. All this and the resistance is still worming their way into the system trying to take down the First Order. Kylo needed to follow the girl’s trail and kill her, but there was no way he would ever just leave you, he would never give up the silly and far-fetched hope that you would make it. It was bittersweet how childish he could be sometimes.

Two large hands made their way under you and he lifted you swiftly off the ground. “No!” you strangle out. Your voice is barely there, but you know he heard you. Still he rushed towards the base. “Stop!” You say a little stronger.

“I’m not leaving you here to die; I can save you. I can save you!” His voice rang. Tears were glistening in his eyes.

“You know I won’t get.. all the way there… “ you say breathily.

“You will, you will. I’m going to save you!” He says with a shaky voice and trembling lips.

“No. I. won’t…please, Kylo.”

Goddamn it!” He roared. He knew that you were right. It was sad to see the hope ripped from his eyes. Gingerly, he lowered you down to the snowy floor again. He sat down and held him to your chest. You would be content with dying here; it felt safe.

Within only a few short seconds of being in your little safe haven you begin to convulse wildly from the bitter wind and lack of bloodflow. You couldn’t even feel Kylo draping his shawl over you, to block the cold.

“You make me feel like Ben again.” His voice quavered. You knew this must one of those death fantasies, because Kylo never mentioned being Ben ever. He said it made him feel weak and inert and he sought nothing more than to crush that side of him. He said he would never be uncertain and powerless like his parents.

“I have to be dreaming.” You mumble.

“I feel like…With you.. I used to think that all love was, was heartache and anguish, but I know now that it’s warmth and trust and everything good you could ever imagine. I don’t feel empty with you.” He plants his firm lips to your forehead.

Before you can respond your tunnel vision gets closer and closer. No longer can you feel the pain or cold or heartbreak. And all together, in the snowy forest and the arms of your true love, you as a life force, cease.   

The Iron Of The Regime: The Tariq Pistol - 9mm Parabellum

The Tariq, such an odd gun that’s so mechanically basic. This gun is one of the weirder Beretta’s you’ll see as it’s the standard issue sidearm of Saddam Hussein’s Iraq.

The Tariq’s story begins with the original gun, the Beretta M1951. This was Beretta’s first pistol in their first wave of guns made post-World War II, includnig the BM59 and the PM12. It’s also really basic, single stack, locked breech and so on. It was sold to a number of countries around Italy like Libya, Yemen, Tunisia, some to Haiti. 

The big two non Beretta made models are the insanely more common Egyptian Helwan. Those are pretty much copies of the M1951 used by Egypt as well as Israel and are pretty boring as a lot of them were imported to the US as both surplus and straight civilian sales. The Tariq is cool because it wasn’t.

The Tariq was made by Saddam Hussein’s Iraq. Saddam bought all of the tooling after Beretta ceased production of the M1951 as well as the Model 70 pocket pistol and began making the Tariq. These were made from 1981 until ceasing in 2003 as the regime collapsed before restarting in 2009 and continuing to this day. The Tariq’s are reliable from most reports, but their quality is very iffy, though more moderns ones are somewhat better. They are the main sidearm of the Iraqi Police though they are starting to be supplemented by other guns as well as the Kurdish Zeravani and Asayish.

They also made gold plated presentation guns because totalitarian regimes love gold plating everything.

The Tariq series of guns are desirable in the US not for their quality, but because of their scarcity. Most guns of this type in the US are usually GI bringbacks, legal or other wise. And most GI bringbacks always tend to commend a big price and one that’s tied to one of the longest wars the US has ever engaged in fighting is a really desirable piece, even if it’s broken.

Repeat after me: Sherlock does not hate Moriarty.

Allow me to explain.

Sherlock could have killed Moriarty at the pool. Would it have made the snipers fire? Yes. But Sherlock had the opportunity to kill Moriarty at the pool. He could have shot him. He could have fired off the explosives. Sherlock had multiple opportunities to kill Moriarty.

But he didn’t.

In front of a judge, he could have told them everything he knew - Sherlock (for all his intelligence, and how he said that he knew Moriarty inside and out after five minutes) was holding back. “A thousand strands” is a bit vague. He could have probably detailed exactly how everything in the network was organized, or at least given a profile on Moriarty. He could have had him taken down right then and there.

But he didn’t.

Sherlock and Moriarty were on a rooftop together. He could have gone for the gun - odds are, he knew it was there. He could have went without a reaction when the shot went off. He could have easily let go of Moriarty when he was holding him over the edge of the roof.

But he didn’t.

Sherlock does not hate Moriarty.

✿ Daily Story Seed ✿

Write about a character who happens to be the owner of an odd weapon: a gun that fires bullets that cannot harm the body, but instead cause permanent damage to the soul. Who created this weapon? How did this character find it? And, above all, what would this character do if they realized that they are not the only one with access to a weapon with the same odd properties?

Any work you create based off this prompt belongs to you, no sourcing is necessary though it would be really appreciated! And don’t forget to tag maxkirin (or tweet @MistreKirin), so that I can check-out your stories!

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