Male Reader X

Male Reader x Revy (Black Lagoon)

You see a lot of famous faces come through your doors. Because you're the man to come and see in Roanapur if you need a weapon. What started out as a small side hustle to make some cash in-between jobs and deals has turned you into one of the biggest bespoke weapon smugglers on the island.

None of those famous faces are as striking as this one, with the exception of the scarred lady boss of the Russian mafia. It was Revy herself. Chinese-American. Tatted up and looking mean. Black tank top and jean shorts. She kicked down your door and asked you for something that could stop a car at long range.

"For that kind of shot, you need an anti-materiel rifle."

She was already impatient, "And do you have any?"

"Sorry. I would say that we're all out, but that'd imply we had any in the first place. If you want one – I can get you one, but it's not going to be quick or cheap."

"Are you screwing with me, asshole?"

You lean back in your leather chair, "I'm not in the business of making a lot of enemies, especially with people like you."

"And what's that supposed to mean?" she scowls.

"Didn't you say it yourself, Two Hand? You're the baddest bitch on the island, or were you just boasting?" Revvy takes one last drag of her cigarette before putting it out on the ashtray on your desk. "Everybody around Roanapur wants to put a bullet in each other – a little co-operation goes a long way."

"I'd rather make a million enemies than bark like a dog for some bastard."

"Don't take that as me being a pushover," you explain, "You need to punch back sometimes." The screeching of tires in the paved lot outside catches your ear. You stand up from your desk and push past the aggressive women to peer through the blinds. A gang of hoodlums pile out of a small sedan, armed to the teeth and ready to fight. Revvy rolls her eyes.

"Are they here to 'co-operate' with you?"

"No, I think they're here to kill me. Not my fault they tried to stiff me on the payment. Always pay your freelancers, that's what my dad used to say."

"Did he?"

"Fuck no." You stride over to your desk and pull out a pump action shotgun that you keep for self defence in times like these. You open the shell box and count what's left. One, two, three. You'd have to kill two of them with one shot. You shoulder the long gun and grab a loaded pistol from the shelf drawer to compliment it. "You can never go wrong with a shotgun, unless you have no ammo."

"You want my help?" Revy says with the inflection of a women being forced to take her children on a school run.

"I'm good."

You hear them running up the steps to your office. As one of them silhouettes himself through the glass window on the door you aim and pull the trigger. You're kicked back by the recoil of the blast, which shatters the window and splatters the brain matter of the unruly thug against the landing wall. "Dumbass!" you yell, cocking the shotgun and ejecting the spent casing.

If the attackers had the know-how to push after the death of their friend, they could have caught you reloading. Instead the next turkey rounded the corner, pistol drawn. He was nothing more than a sitting duck. You pull the trigger again and send another body crumpling to the floor with a newly installed blowhole.

"I hope you have cash on you for the cleaning bill, you fucking morons!" You eject the next round. Adrenaline runs through your veins like molten lava. The only thing you can hear over the ringing in your ears if your own heartbeat. You hop over the dead body and catch the two remaining gangsters off guard. You line up your last shot and blast the skull of the man in front. His head explodes like an overripe melon, splatting his compatriot with blood and viscera. He tries to blindly fire his pistol and hit you, but you dodge the shot and kick him in the chest – sending him tumbling back down the stairs. You draw your own pistol and blast his prone body with several shots until he finally stops moving.