Simon watches as you circle him. Crimson spills down from your nose past your lips, trickling down but you don’t even betray any discomfort as you make another pass at him, you knee lodging into his side painfully, connecting with the hard muscle that throbs at the jab and his hand snaps around your calf to drag you off him.

You stumble back reluctantly, gaining your footing. Harsh breaths, the training room door locked so nobody’s able to see the way his dark blond hair is matted with sweat, how its slides down his exposed face, his grey eyes narrowed on you. Nobody else sees him without his skull mask, but in the security of the base’s training room, behind a lock and key, you’re free to see the way his eyes narrow and plush lips purse as he makes a swing at you.

“Is that all you’ve got?” Simon mutters as he spits out some blood, the cut on his lip stinging. Sparring with you wasn’t like normal sparring — it was raw. You move like a panther, muscles shifting under your sweat slick tank top, you’re lithe and agile and give Simon a good fucking run for his money as you pounce on him.

You’re both fresh off a mission — a peak time for one of your other favourite ways to release stress. You’d met eyes across the hangar and he’d locked the door and then you were on him, unrestrained and beautifully deadly.

Simon watches the way your eyes narrow and a spark lights down his spine like a firework about to set off, and he watches breathlessly as you come for him again. Grunts and harsh breaths echo off the walls as you spar, your legs locking around his waist, his hand snapped around your throat as you try wind yourself around him and force him down. He feels the flutter of your pulse, his own blood heats.

Nothing quite makes him feel alive like you.

Simon’s back hits the padded floor painfully, your knees pressed on either side of his body, his hand clutching at your throat but you just snarl and push him down tighter.

His lips twist in a snarl.

“Fuck, I concede, you fucking viper.”