At the delicate age of five, he taught you how to handle a gun. A week later, your bullet was plucked from his thigh…and you rocked back and forth on your heels, holding back violent sniffles of guilt.

But to him, the moment your stubby finger pulled the trigger and the projectile entered his body, was a blessed one. You had potential…plenty of it.

Watching your confident, professional frame with those expert eyes proved to him he'd been more than correct that day. The way your slender finger curled slowly around the trigger, the way you pressed your weight against the cool balustrade on which your weapon rested, hips and backside jutting out toward him (honestly, it was impossible to keep his wandering gaze in check) as you crouched. And as your target came into view and your finger destroyed his very being, he couldn't contain that tingle of excitement that washed through his existence.

Even more so when your lips, triumphant yet alert, whispered his catchphrase; "Headshot!"

Large hands made their way across your hips and linked at your stomach — possessive, but proud. It was with your eyes still set on the carnage ahead and an eager finger on the trigger that a grin curled your lips. "That alright, Sniper? Damn Spy never saw it coming."

"Great, love." He leaned forward, chest hot against your back. "'Told ya' those private lessons would do you good."