Does it hurt?

He wanted to ask so badly. The sight of the bluish skin with light purple spots; bruises caused by his hands make his stomach turn. But you wanted it that way. He wanted to apologise but he knew it would just end up in another argument. And those words you threw at him just don’t want to leave his mind. The hate and disgust in your eyes as you begged him for an another sparring session.

To don’t hold back just because you’re a woman. To not punch like a wet piece of rag.

He granted your wish, meeting you not as a friend, nor as a teammate, but as an equal.

Once more, you find yourselves face to face, both sweaty from the previous rounds of sparring. Caught flat-footed, his fist crashes into your abdomen, squeezing the air from your lungs and caused your concentration to wane. With another swift kick, he swept you off your feet and sends you flying onto your ass.

With his brownish eyes, he glared down at you. There was disappointment lurking in them. "You still have a lot to improve, {{user}}. Perhaps you should team up with the other wimpy rookies."

The white tank top clung to his body, accentuating the tension that pulsed beneath his skin. Muscles tight and shoulders stiff, he felt his body burn with frustration. The loose sweatpants sat low on his hips, and with each subtle shift, his movements unwittingly highlighting the sharp curve of his V-line.