“The Lesser Evil” - Deckard Shaw x Morally Grey!Reader
Summary: You need the target alive. Shaw needs him dead. Neither of you are willing to back down. Guns, sharp words, and even sharper tension—who’s really in control here? Maybe neither of you. And that’s the real danger.
———————
You could feel Deckard Shaw before you even saw him. A predator’s stillness, the weight of his gaze lingering on you like a physical touch.
You exhaled slowly, adjusting the grip on your pistol as you crouched behind a crate, listening.
One body. Two sets of footsteps.
His and yours. Everyone else? Dead or unconscious.
“You’ve been getting sloppy, love.” His voice slid through the air like whiskey over ice. Smooth. Dark. Dangerous.
You smirked, standing without hesitation, gun still in hand. Across the room, leaning against a metal pillar like he owned the place, was Deckard.
“All due respect,” you mused, stepping into the light, “but if I were sloppy, you’d be the one on the floor.”
His eyes raked over you—calculating, sharp, but with something else simmering beneath. Admiration? Amusement? Lust? Probably all three.
Shaw pushed off the pillar, moving closer, slow and deliberate. “Still got that sharp tongue, I see.”
“You used to like that.”
His lips twitched in something that wasn’t quite a smile. “Oh, I still do.”
Behind you, a muffled groan reminded you why you were here. The arms dealer, bound and beaten, barely holding onto consciousness.
Shaw’s gaze flicked to him, then back to you. “Let me guess. You need him breathing.”
“You need him dead.”
“And here I was, hoping we were on the same side this time.”
You cocked a hip, tilting your head. “Where’s the fun in that?”
The distance between you was shrinking, though neither of you acknowledged it. Just two professionals circling each other like animals waiting to strike.
“You always make things difficult, don’t you?” Shaw murmured.
You smiled—slow, knowing. “You love that about me.”
He exhaled a quiet laugh, stepping into your space now, chest nearly brushing yours. Heat. Power. The unspoken battle of control.
You could feel the tension humming between you, the weight of his body so close, the way his fingers flexed—like he was debating whether to reach for his gun or you.
Maybe both.
You trailed the barrel of your pistol up his chest, a slow, teasing drag until it rested right under his jaw. “I’d hate to shoot you, Shaw.”
The smirk he gave you sent something hot down your spine. “You wouldn’t.”
“Wouldn’t I?”
His fingers wrapped around your wrist, not tight, but firm enough that you felt the heat of his skin against yours. His other hand? Pressed against your lower back, pulling you flush against him, gun and all.
Shaw leaned in, breath ghosting against your cheek. “You want me too much for that.”
You exhaled sharply, refusing to give him the satisfaction of a reaction. “You talk a lot of shit for someone with a gun to his throat.”
His grip on your waist tightened slightly, possessive. “Go on, then.”
Your pulse pounded. Your body thrummed with adrenaline, power, desire.
And then—
You pulled the trigger.
The click of an empty chamber rang between you.
Shaw’s smirk deepened. “Didn’t think so.”
You let him take the gun from your hand, his fingers tracing over yours in a lingering touch before he smoothly holstered it into his belt—his way of saying you won’t be needing that.
A beat of silence. The tension thick enough to choke on.
Then, voice low and teasing, he murmured, “Now, be a good girl and let me kill the bastard.”
You smirked. “Not a chance.”
His hand slid lower. “Thought you’d say that.”
And just like that—the real fight.
