that was my shot
Pairing - deadshot x assassin reader both put onto the same target, a rivalry sparks between the two of you, or is it love, who knows.
The first time you met Floyd Lawton, better known as Deadshot, was on a rooftop three blocks away from your target. The night air was cold, Gotham’s skyline glowing faintly through the haze, and you had the perfect shot lined up through your scope. Your finger tightened slightly on the trigger as the man stepped into the open balcony exactly as predicted.
Then a bullet struck him first.
Your shot hadn’t even left the chamber yet.
The target dropped instantly.
You blinked in disbelief and slowly lifted your head from the rifle, scanning the nearby rooftops until you saw him. Across the street, leaning casually against a water tower like he owned the skyline, was Deadshot himself. His wrist gun was still smoking faintly. Even from the distance you could practically feel the smug grin under his mask.
You scowled and spoke into the comm channel you knew he was listening on. “You’re kidding me.” His voice crackled back immediately, smooth and amused. “Too slow.”
You packed up your rifle with deliberate irritation. “You stole my shot.”
“You hesitated,” he replied casually. “I didn’t.”
That was the beginning of it.
After that night, the two of you seemed to run into each other constantly. Same contracts. Same rooftops. Same targets. Neither of you knew if it was coincidence or someone deliberately assigning the two best assassins in the business to the same jobs just to see what would happen, but the result was always the same.
Competition.
If you poisoned a mark’s drink before Floyd could fire, he’d mutter something about “cheap tactics.” If he landed a perfect 800-meter headshot before you could even get into position, you’d accuse him of showing off.
It became a game neither of you would admit you enjoyed.
But somewhere beneath the rivalry, there was something else simmering there too, respect, and maybe something more dangerous than that.
Tonight’s job was supposed to be simple.
A warehouse near the docks. One target. Easy exit.
You were already inside the building, moving silently along the steel rafters above the floor. Your rifle rested against your shoulder as you tracked the man pacing below.
Then you noticed something.
Another red laser dot.
It slid across the floor near your target’s feet.
You sighed quietly. “You’ve got to be kidding me.”
Deadshot stepped out of the shadows on a nearby catwalk like he’d been there the whole time.
“Evening,” he said casually.
Your eyes narrowed. “This was my contract.”
“Funny,” he replied, tilting his head slightly. “Mine too.”
Below you, the target suddenly realized something was wrong. Guards began flooding into the room.
Too many, the job had been a setup. Gunfire erupted instantly, you and Deadshot moved at the same time.
Your rifle cracked as you dropped one guard after another, while Floyd’s wrist guns fired in precise bursts that never missed. For a few moments it was pure chaos, bullets ricocheting, footsteps echoing, enemies falling one after another.
But then someone shouted from behind you.
You turned just in time to see a gun pointed directly at your back. Before you could react a shot rang out.
The guard dropped in the spot he was standing seconds ago. Deadshot stood behind him, smoke curling from his weapon. “You’re welcome,” he said dryly. You rolled your eyes. “I had it handled.”
“Sure you did.”
Then the floor beneath you suddenly gave way, the rusted metal platform snapped with a loud crack, and you plunged downward. For a split second you were sure this was it, then a hand grabbed your wrist.
Deadshot had lunged forward just in time, bracing himself against the railing as he caught you mid-fall. Your body swung over the open drop, boots kicking uselessly in the air several stories above the concrete floor.
His grip tightened, for once, he wasn’t joking. “Don’t move,” he said sharply. You looked up at him, slightly breathless. “I wasn’t planning on it.”
He pulled you up with surprising strength, dragging you back onto the catwalk beside him. For a moment neither of you spoke. The fight downstairs had mostly died down, leaving the warehouse eerily quiet.
You were suddenly very aware of how close you were standing.
Your hands were still gripping his armored vest, his arm hadn’t let go of your waist yet, Deadshot studied your face through the red lens of his mask.
“You almost died,” he said quietly, you shrugged, trying to play it off. “Would’ve ruined your winning streak.” He gave a soft scoff. “Don’t flatter yourself.” But his hand still hadn’t moved.
Your eyes met his.
Something shifted between you, something that had probably been building through every sarcastic remark, every shared rooftop, every stolen shot.
Without really thinking about it, you leaned forward, your lips brushed his, for a second, he froze in complete surprise.
Then he kissed you back.
It wasn’t soft or hesitant. It was quick and intense, like everything else between the two of you, years of rivalry and tension colliding all at once.
When you finally pulled back, both of you looked slightly stunned.
Deadshot recovered first.
“Well,” he muttered.
You smirked. “Don’t get used to it.”
He chuckled under his breath. “Trust me. I’m still beating you on the next job.”
You picked up your rifle and slung it over your shoulder.
“We’ll see about that.”
But as you both headed toward the exit side by side, there was a noticeable difference now.
Neither of you walked away first.