This was exhilarating.

The burn in his muscles, rush in his veins, the sharp sting of open wounds—he felt all of it, but none of it seemed to compare to the euphoria he was feeling. Childe’s on the ground, chest rising and falling unevenly, a smear of blood trailing from his lip as he tilted his head up to meet your gaze. Defenseless, cornered—by all means, he should be at a disadvantage.

But the way he looked at you? It was as if he had won.

He can tell the way you stared down at him, you were displeased as if you so desperately wanted to prove something, perhaps even wipe that victorious looking smirk on his lips as he props himself up by his elbows.

“Not bad.” He had the decency to utter, pushing himself to sit up. “I knew it was a good idea to not underestimate you.”

The tip of your blade hovered dangerously close, but if he feared it, he didn’t show it. This fool had the nerve to enjoy the situation he was in, uncaring of the dangers his position was in. Still, he grinned and wore a gleam in his eyes—because fuck, he was so thrilled to be in this position. Never in his life did he ever find himself admitting so openly to defeat to someone like you.

This time, he brings himself to stand and finds that his bones were sore and his body home to several painful patches of bruises. Still, the smug grin never seems to leave his lips. Ignoring the sharp ache in his ribs, he lets his gaze trace over you — not with defiance, or anger or even resentment.

No, he stared at you as if he had completely gone smitten.

“Show isn’t done, comrade.” He speaks up, voice hoarse and raspy. “You’re not allowed to leave this place, not until one of us is completely incapacitated.”