Roleplay Guns Novels & Stories

I noticed they had prepared their weapons by pointing them at me while waiting for the order to shoot. When I raised my hand, the lethal bully sword appeared. Bully them now, I said. I said nothing out loud. However, the rifles in their hands, which were Ak 47 and pump-action guns, melted and fell to the ground. They could detect the odor of a molten metal material.

He already had his gun propped in his hand, safety off, and ready to shoot if he saw a threat. Gunnar and Daniel had their firearms concealed at the small of their backs, their suit jackets covering the chunk of metal. Their hands hovered above their guns, ready to extract them for use if needed. It was just me without a weapon and I liked it that way. I had never taken a life and I never planned to. You had to have a certain mindset to be able to take a life and still wake up the next day as if it never happened, completely unfazed. I didn't have that mindset and I was okay with it. Each of us had a role to play and mine was just as important as my brothers, I didn't need to spill blood to

Mafia men and their massive egos. “You think I can’t?” He spat, standing up and walking closer to me. As soon as he was within arms reach, I turned off the light, grabbed his arm and twisted his wrist. I heard the gun drop to the ground. I located it with my foot and pushed it backwards. I twisted his entire arm to his back and kicked him. As soon as I heard the loud thud, I turned the lights back on, brighter ones this time and saw the man groaning in pain on the ground. Bending down to pick the gun, I checked for bullets and sure enough, it was loaded. “Thanks for the gift.” I say, waving the gun at him before stuffing it in my purse.

It took a fingerprint ID, eye scan, and a twelve-digit code to breach, but she quickly found out why. "Holy shit!" she murmured as she walked in. The damn vault was easily 50 feet long, 15 feet wide, and lined with weapons ranging from throwing stars to rocket launchers. "This is SO illegal!" she said, running her hands over a high-powered sniper rifle with a scope she'd never even seen before. "What the hell are these?" she asked, picking up a pair of what looked like Desert Eagle 50s but with some kind of banana clip. "Just what they look like," Reaper said lovingly, staring at the guns. "I know someone who works with the manufacturer, and he made us a special set. Single shot for most bad

Weapon drawn before he even straightens up. He doesn't call out. Doesn't ask for ID. He just raises his rifle and targets Isla. I draw my sidearm. Glock 19. Fifteen rounds. MSA Section 4.6 flashes in my mind—The Client shall not interfere with the Contractor's operational decisions. I’m supposed to observe. Stay back. Let the sovereign handle her own war. But this isn't a boardroom. This is a kill box. I fire. Two rounds. Center mass.

A large figure appears behind them, and the unmistakable click of a gun ripples in the air. My legs stick to what’s underneath them as Rolan’s shadowed face comes into view. I reach into my waistband for my gun, but my hands find nothing. Fvck. I bend over to search at my ankle, but the knife isn’t there either. Fvck. Fvck! A smirk lifts Rolan’s lips as he places the gun to Mum’s head then slides it to Rose’s. “Choose one, my lad.” “Take me! I’m the one you want, right?”

A Berretta 92. Dad’s service pistol. Brian grinned at John. “You got somethin else in mind?” “Hell yes. An seein as how Conner here’s got such a hard-on for the A-rab, he can help this time, or . . . ” John aimed at him and mimed pulling the trigger. “Blammo. Cause that’s what we do to traitors during wartime. Right, dipshit?” Connor said nothing, just looked away and shivered. ***

He reached out and snatched the smoking rifle from the hands of a trembling Ironhead ganger who looked barely out of his teens. "You aren't holding a scrap-pipe nail gun anymore, kid," Leo scolded, his tone stern but not cruel. He effortlessly checked the rifle's chamber with his massive, armored fingers. "This is a mil-spec kinetic driver. It has recoil. It has bullet drop. If you jerk the trigger like you're trying to snap a chicken's neck, you're going to shoot the guy standing next to you." Leo turned to the disorganized line of forty gangers and laborers standing in the mud. They were wearing a mismatch of dirty rags and high-end, composite-weave ballistic vests. It looked like a mediev

“Drop your weapon if you want to see your precious Farrah take another breath, troll.” I watched Roland’s jaw clench. His eyes locked with mine for a moment before he slowly lowered his gun to the ground. “Now that’s a good boy.” Her breath tickled my ear. “Kick it over.” The gun slid across the concrete floor. Roland’s lips curved into an unexpected smile. “You know Farrah, I did tell you not to sneak away from me at the mall. Should've stayed close like I asked.” Gunshot thundered through the air. I screamed as blood bloomed across Roland’s shoulder, staining his white shirt with bright crimson. But his expression didn't change at all—he kept smiling, as if the bullet was nothing more than

Anna's POV. “Yes!” That was the last word I said, before my door came crashing down. Three masked men burst into my house. They all held guns—glock 17 to be precise; light, too light it almost felt like you were holding air. Polymer frame, but the barrel and slide? Pure steel. Fifteen rounds of 9mm in the magazine—standard, reliable, efficient and favored by most gang members. Father made sure I recognized every gun from a young age.