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Ⅰ. The Hoarding Problem
Zhongli does not own a cave, but if he did, it would be lined in gold.
Gold pressed into paper, gold spun into thread, gold sitting heavy in a teacup full of amber-colored broth, gold melting over his tongue with the bite of a candied fruit. The gleam of mora is lovely, but it is not what he hoards. Not really.
Childe learns this the hard way when he attempts—foolishly, recklessly, like the ocean throwing itself against the shore—to leave Zhongli’s apartment before dawn. He has Fatui business, things to stab, people to intimidate, siblings to send letters to. But the moment he swings one leg over the side of the bed—
A clawed hand.
Not metaphorical. Not figurative. Not one of those elegant gloved things Zhongli pretends are human hands, long fingers with neatly trimmed nails. No. Childe wakes up to claws, thick and curved, black as obsidian, curling around his waist like he is some wayward possession attempting to escape its rightful place.
“Ah,” Zhongli says, voice still thick with sleep, rich and warm like the tea they drank last night. “And where do you think you’re going?”
Childe, who is many things—assassin, harbinger, occasional menace to society—is not a man who startles easily. But he is also a man who is naked and wrapped in dragon claws before dawn, so his dignity is a little compromised when he chokes out, “The hell—?”
Zhongli blinks at him, slow, reptilian. The color of his eyes drips into something molten, something ancient, something unwilling to let go.
“You should stay,” Zhongli says, and the claws tighten just a fraction.
Childe glares at him. “You know I have work.”
Zhongli hums, considering, his grip still unrelenting. “Your work will wait. Or it will learn to mourn your absence.”
“You can’t just—”
“I can,” Zhongli says, calm as the dawn breaking through the window, and one claw traces up Childe’s chest, not sharp enough to cut, but firm enough that Childe shuts up immediately. Possessiveness sits well on him.
And that’s when Childe realizes:
This is the hoard.
Not mora, not gems, not the fripperies and luxuries of a long-abandoned archon. No, Zhongli hoards people, hoards moments, hoards Childe like he is something precious and golden and his.
Childe exhales, slow, aware that he’s been caught in a grip stronger than any contract. He could fight it, he could try to pry himself loose, but—
He doesn’t really want to.
“…I’m not some treasure to hoard, xiansheng,” he mutters, but he’s already relaxing back into the sheets.
Zhongli merely rumbles in response, the sound low in his chest, and the claws stay where they are.
Childe doesn’t leave that morning.
Or the next.
Or the one after that.
Ⅱ. The Growling Problem
Childe is not afraid of dragons.
He has fought monsters that make grown men weep. He has sunk his hands into abyssal wounds, danced with creatures whose bodies were made of screaming shadows and teeth. He has bled on the battlefield like a warrior should, and killed before he could be killed.
But there is something deeply, profoundly unsettling about the way Zhongli growls.
It starts small. A little thing, really. A sound at the back of his throat when he’s mildly inconvenienced, the kind of unconscious thing Childe doesn’t even register at first. Zhongli is an elegant man, a composed man, a man who has spent too many centuries pretending to be polite.
But the longer Childe sticks around, the more he notices it.
The low, rolling vibration when Zhongli is denied an extra portion of grilled tigerfish at Wanmin Restaurant.
The faint, barely audible rumble when Childe refuses to put on a coat before stepping out into the Liyue rain.
The deep, guttural sound when Childe jokes about mora—about the lack of mora—about the absurdity of an ex-archon whose pockets are as empty as a drunkard’s conscience.
But then—
Then, Childe hears it.
It is not small.
It is not polite.
It is not something human throats should be able to produce.
It happens in the middle of a particularly heated argument. One of those fights where the words aren’t sharp enough to draw blood, but they wound all the same. Childe isn’t even sure how it starts. Maybe he was too reckless in a fight, maybe Zhongli said something that rubbed him the wrong way, maybe it’s just one of those days where they are two tectonic plates grinding against each other, waiting for the inevitable explosion.
“You are careless,” Zhongli hisses, stepping forward, the deep gold of his eyes narrowing. “One day, your recklessness will get you killed.”
“And what’s it to you, huh?” Childe shoots back, voice biting, breath sharp from the exertion of the battle they just finished. He stands his ground even as Zhongli looms. “You gonna lecture me about caution? About being responsible? You’re the one who threw away godhood like it was worth nothing.”
The ground trembles.
Childe barely has a second to process it before the growl happens.
It is not a sound.
It is a phenomenon.
A seismic event wrapped in the shape of a noise, rolling through the earth, thrumming through Childe’s ribs, making the hair at the back of his neck stand on end.
It starts deep, deep in Zhongli’s chest—a warning, a promise, a thing older than words—and Childe feels it before he hears it. It is not human. It is not a voice. It is a beast awakening, a mountain breathing, a god whose patience has just been annihilated.
The air thickens.
The shadows lengthen.
And the growl does not stop.
Childe—who has stared into the abyss and come back changed, who has fought titans and demons and monsters far older than he is—takes a step back.
He hates that he does.
He hates the way his body instinctively recognizes a predator, the way something deep in his bones tells him:
Run.
Zhongli’s expression does not change. His body remains still. But the growl—that terrible, ancient, god-touched growl—rolls through the space between them, a tide swelling in the depths of the ocean, a storm building at the peak of the sky.
Childe wants to snap back, wants to dig his heels in, wants to shout something equally stupid and reckless, but—
His instincts scream at him to be still.
Zhongli watches him for a moment longer, then—just as suddenly—the growl stops.
The world exhales.
Childe does, too.
His pulse is pounding in his ears. He is furious at the way his hands have curled into fists, at the way his chest is rising and falling like he just ran from something far worse than any battlefield.
Zhongli blinks at him, slow and measured, and finally speaks.
“Good,” he says, voice low and steady. “Now you understand.”
And Childe—who has never backed down from anything in his life—finds himself swallowing hard.
Because he does.
Ⅲ. The Biting Problem
Here’s the thing about dragons: they bite.
They bite when they’re territorial. They bite when they’re irritated. They bite when they’re fond.
They bite when someone really deserves it.
And Childe, as Zhongli has discovered, always deserves it.
It starts with small things. Little, almost imperceptible moments. A flicker of gold in Zhongli’s gaze, the way his lips pull back just slightly, revealing teeth sharper than any human’s should be.
Childe is an idiot, but he is also a menace, and he learns exactly how to get bitten within a week.
(i.) The First Time
It happens because Childe is reckless with his words.
“What, you worried about me, xiansheng?” he teases, slouching in Zhongli’s chair, swinging his legs over the side like a disrespectful little shit. He just got back from an “errand” in Snezhnaya that involved at least three assassinations, a near-death experience, and one very expensive fur-lined coat that he is absolutely never getting reimbursed for.
Zhongli doesn’t answer. He just stares at him.
A slow blink. A tilt of the head. An unmistakable flick of the tongue across his teeth.
Childe doesn’t get the message.
He never gets the message.
“I mean, really, if I didn’t know better, I’d say you—”
Then Zhongli bites him.
Not hard. Not really. It’s a warning bite, fast and sharp, right on the side of his neck. A snap of teeth just close enough to leave a ghost of pressure, just firm enough to shut him up immediately.
Childe yelps. His whole body jolts.
“Did you just—” he sputters, eyes wide, one hand clapping over the bite mark that isn’t even a real bite mark, just the memory of teeth where they shouldn’t be.
Zhongli leans back, unbothered, and licks his lips.
“Perhaps next time,” he says, “you will think before you speak.”
Childe gapes at him.
He does not think before he speaks. Ever.
But for once—just once—he has nothing to say.
(ii.) The Second Time
This one is Childe’s fault.
He wants to test the dragon theory.
So he does what any reasonable, well-adjusted, completely sane person would do:
He pokes the dragon.
Literally.
They’re at home, sitting on the couch, Zhongli reading some ancient text, Childe bored out of his goddamn mind, sprawled across the cushions like a lazy cat. And he can’t help it.
He pokes Zhongli’s arm.
No reaction.
He pokes him again.
Nothing.
One more time.
Zhongli snaps.
This time, he grabs Childe’s wrist, pins it to the couch, and bites his forearm.
Childe lets out an undignified squawk. Not because it hurts (it doesn’t—Zhongli knows exactly how much pressure to use) but because it’s so goddamn unexpected that Childe’s soul momentarily leaves his body.
“What the hell?!” he yelps, jerking back, but Zhongli does not let go.
The bastard is holding him in place, teeth still pressed against his skin, a low, pleased rumble vibrating in his chest.
It is the most undignified thing that has ever happened to Childe, and that includes the time his younger siblings tackled him into a snowdrift and shoved ice down his shirt.
“What,” Childe demands, flailing, “was that for?!”
Zhongli finally pulls back, way too satisfied with himself, and licks his teeth like he just tasted something interesting.
“You provoked me,” he says simply, as if that is a perfectly normal response to being mildly irritated.
Childe stares at him.
His brain short-circuits.
“You—just—what—”
Zhongli leans in.
Childe shuts up immediately.
“That’s what I thought,” Zhongli says.
(iii.) The Third Time
It’s not Childe’s fault this time.
It’s Xiangling’s fault.
She invites them both over for dinner, all cheerful and bubbly, promising something new and exciting. Childe, a man with no self-preservation instincts, eats first.
And then he screams. It is so spicy it burns through his soul.
His eyes water. His lungs collapse. His entire being enters the astral plane.
Zhongli, not realizing what he’s about to get into, takes a bite without hesitation.
There is a long, terrible silence.
Then—
Zhongli growls.
It is the most visceral, guttural sound Childe has ever heard, like a dying animal and a natural disaster all at once. A primordial rage. A sound that should not come from a human mouth.
Xiangling stares at him, eyes wide.
The entirety of Liyue Harbor probably hears it.
Then—without warning—Zhongli turns and bites Childe.
Hard.
On the shoulder.
“OW!” Childe howls, jerking away, knocking over the table. “WHAT THE FUCK?!”
Zhongli’s teeth are still in his shoulder.
Xiangling screams.
Liyue screams.
Childe is screaming the loudest.
Zhongli does not let go.
“You did this,” Zhongli says, voice perfectly even despite having a mouthful of Childe’s skin.
“WHAT—HOW—THIS ISN’T EVEN MY FAULT—”
But Zhongli refuses to listen to logic, because he is a vengeful god, and Childe is his designated chew toy.
This is how they get banned from Wanmin Restaurant.
Xiangling refuses to cook for them for a month.
Liyue never recovers.
Childe does not learn his lesson.
IV. The Nesting Problem
Childe wakes up one morning and realizes that Zhongli is a problem.
No, really. A serious, genuine, possibly life-threatening problem.
Because Zhongli is nesting.
At first, Childe doesn’t realize what’s happening. He just thinks Zhongli has questionable hoarding tendencies, which—okay, fair, but also none of his business.
It starts small.
Little things disappearing.
Childe’s favorite coat? Gone.
His spare gloves? Nowhere to be found.
His Scaramouche-stabbed-me-once-and-all-I-got-was-this-lousy-scar shirt? Missing.
At first, Childe blames Teucer, because his little brother has the sticky fingers of a gremlin child raised in a household full of weapons and poor decision-making skills. But then he remembers that Teucer is in Snezhnaya and that no, he did not mail himself in a box again (they had a talk about that).
So Childe starts paying attention.
And that’s when he notices it.
Zhongli has a pile.
Not just a pile.
A dragon pile.
A big, horrible, mysterious pile of soft things, carefully arranged in a completely unacceptable corner of their bedroom like some kind of overgrown hoarder squirrel den.
Childe stares at it in mute horror.
There is exactly one (1) pillow left on the bed because all the others have been sacrificed to the mound of textile despair in the corner. The pile consists of:
- All of Childe’s missing clothes.
- Half of their shared blankets.
- One of Zhongli’s fancy coats (the dramatic one with the high collar, because of course).
- A single, stolen restaurant cushion from Third-Round Knockout, which Zhongli absolutely did not pay for.
- Childe’s entire dignity.
“What the fuck is this,” Childe says, pointing an accusatory finger at the pile.
Zhongli, sitting perfectly serene in the middle of his self-made dragon hoard, slowly looks up from the scroll he’s reading.
“A nest,” he says simply.
A nest.
A NEST.
Childe’s brain short-circuits.
“You—what—WHY?” he demands, waving his arms like a madman.
Zhongli, as always, is completely unbothered.
“It is instinct,” he says, as if that is a normal thing to say. As if that explains why he has stolen all of Childe’s personal belongings and arranged them in a hideous mound like some kind of overgrown dragon-raccoon hybrid.
Childe is losing his mind.
“This is not instinct,” he argues. “This is crime.”
Zhongli blinks at him. “You exaggerate.”
Childe does not exaggerate.
Childe points again. “Give me back my coat.”
Zhongli does not move.
“Zhongli.”
“No.”
“Give. Me. My. Coat.”
“It is mine now.”
“IT WAS ALWAYS MINE.”
Zhongli lifts his chin, utterly dignified for a man who is currently sitting in a mountain of stolen bedding.
“You may have visitation rights.”
Childe lets out a sound that is not human.
But, most damning of all, Childe makes the mistake of trying to reclaim his stolen property. The moment he touches the pile—just brushes the edge of his missing shirt—Zhongli growls.
Not just any growl.
A deep, menacing, primal growl.
A “touch it and die” growl.
A “this is mine, do not even think about it, mortal” growl.
Childe snatches his hand back so fast he nearly dislocates his shoulder.
Zhongli does not break eye contact.
There is a long, terrible moment of silence.
Then Zhongli reaches out—slow, deliberate, menacing—and drags Childe’s coat deeper into the nest.
Childe’s soul leaves his body.
After that, Childe accepts his fate.
He doesn’t even try anymore. He just watches in passive horror as the pile grows larger by the day, morphing into a fortress of stolen fabric and stolen dignity.
One night, Childe crawls into bed, exhausted from a long day of work, only to be met with Zhongli dragging him off the mattress and into the pile.
Childe yelps as he is unceremoniously cocooned in blankets, one of which was definitely once a fancy tablecloth from a restaurant they are now banned from.
“Zhongli,” Childe groans, flailing. “What the hell—”
“This is your place now,” Zhongli says, pressing Childe down with the weight of a smug, smug god who knows exactly what he’s doing.
“My place is in the bed,” Childe argues, trying—and failing—to claw his way free.
“No,” Zhongli says, all warmth and finality. “Your place is here.”
“In the dragon hoard?”
“In the nest.”
Childe stares at him.
Zhongli, utterly composed, reaches out and tucks him in.
Childe screams internally.
But it gets worse.
Because Zhongli starts bringing gifts.
Not normal gifts.
Dragon gifts.
One day, Childe comes home to find:
- A very fancy hairpin from some noblewoman Zhongli was definitely not supposed to rob.
- A pile of cor lapis, because Zhongli is physically incapable of understanding that normal people do not need rocks.
- A single live fish.
- The fish is still flopping.
Childe screams.
Zhongli stares at him.
“I hunted for you,” Zhongli says, dead serious.
“You—you caught this with your teeth, didn’t you?!”
Zhongli blinks. “Would that be a problem?”
Childe throws the fish back into the river and goes to lie face-down in the pile of stolen blankets.
He does not fight it anymore.
He lives in the dragon hoard now.
He is part of the collection.
This is his life.
V. The Sleeping Problem
Childe has been through a lot of weird things in his life.
He has fall into the Abyss.
He has fought a literal god and then got yelled at for it.
He has been a walking Fatui PR disaster since the age of fourteen.
But nothing—absolutely nothing—has prepared him for sleeping next to a dragon.
(i.) The Heat Problem
Zhongli runs hot.
Not normal hot.
Not human hot.
Dragon hot.
Childe, a man born and raised in the icy wastelands of Snezhnaya, is dying.
It’s summer in Liyue. The air is thick with humidity and regret. Childe is sweating through his clothes, lying half-dead in the nest of stolen blankets Zhongli has refused to let him escape from, and his bed partner is a walking furnace.
Childe rolls away.
Zhongli rolls after him.
Childe shoves him off.
Zhongli wraps himself around Childe like an overgrown python.
Childe screams internally.
“Zhongli,” he wheezes, half-crushed under the weight of a smug dragon bastard, “I am literally melting.”
Zhongli makes a contented noise and nuzzles into Childe’s neck. “Mm. Warm.”
“That’s the problem.”
Zhongli huffs, clearly unbothered. “It is perfectly natural for a dragon to maintain body heat. You should consider yourself fortunate to have a mate who ensures your warmth.”
“I don’t need warmth. I need a C O O L I N G TALISMAN.”
Zhongli, utterly indifferent to Childe’s suffering, drapes himself over him like a giant weighted blanket of doom.
Childe resigns himself to a slow, fiery death.
(ii.) The Tail Problem
Childe wakes up in the middle of the night to something wrapping around his waist.
At first, he panics.
Did he pass out in some Fatui assassination trap?
Did he get kidnapped by some weird new Abyss cult?
Did he finally make an enemy so petty that they broke into his house just to tie him up in his sleep?
No.
It’s worse.
It’s Zhongli’s tail.
Childe stares at it.
The long, heavy, gleaming golden tail is curled around him like a lazy snake, keeping him completely immobilized.
“Zhongli,” Childe hisses, poking the offending limb with one finger.
Zhongli does not wake up.
“Zhongli, wake the fuck up.”
Zhongli snores peacefully.
Childe flails.
He cannot move.
He is trapped.
He is being dragon spooned against his will.
He is going to commit a crime.
“ZHONGLI.”
Zhongli blinks awake, looking utterly well-rested and oblivious.
“Hm?”
“TAIL.”
Zhongli looks at him. Looks at his own tail. Looks back at Childe.
And then—
He tightens his grip.
Childe makes a noise that is not human.
Zhongli lets out a low, smug rumble and nuzzles into Childe’s hair, completely content.
Childe lies there, defeated, held captive by a self-satisfied dragon husband and the physical manifestation of his poor life choices.
(iii.) The Rumble Problem
Childe learns something new.
Zhongli purrs.
Not normal purring.
Not cute cat-like purring.
No, deep, chest-rattling, primordial purring.
A subwoofer of satisfaction.
A thunderstorm of contentment.
A bass-heavy, god-tier vibration that Childe can feel in his very bones.
At first, it’s kind of nice.
Then it becomes a problem.
Because Zhongli purrs when he’s comfortable.
Zhongli is always comfortable.
Always.
So Childe is just trying to sleep, minding his own business, and suddenly his whole body is vibrating like he’s lying on top of a malfunctioning Ruin Guard.
The sound is so deep that it reverberates through the walls, making the windows shake.
It is not a noise any living thing should be capable of producing.
And yet.
Zhongli.
Purring.
Like a fucking monster truck idling at a red light.
Childe tries kicking him.
Zhongli rumbles louder.
Childe screams into his pillow.
(iv.) The Space Problem
Zhongli does not understand personal space.
He is a big man.
With big limbs.
And a dragon’s natural instinct to claim territory.
Unfortunately for Childe, this means that the bed is not “theirs.”
It is Zhongli’s.
Zhongli takes up 80% of the mattress like an entitled bastard.
Childe, reduced to a single miserable sliver of space, struggles for his life.
He tries to push Zhongli away.
Zhongli does not budge.
He kicks Zhongli in the shin.
Zhongli scoots closer.
Childe suffers.
He wakes up on the floor.
Zhongli does not wake up at all.
Childe considers murder.
(v.) The Possession Problem
Zhongli nuzzles into Childe’s shoulder and mutters something in his sleep-heavy, god-tier voice.
Childe, half-conscious, doesn’t catch it at first.
Then Zhongli pulls him closer and mumbles again:
“Mine.”
Childe short-circuits. He freezes, suddenly hyper-aware of the way Zhongli has him completely wrapped up in his arms, his tail curled around his leg, his entire body radiating smug dragon possession.
Childe forgets how to function.
“D—Did you just—”
Zhongli, utterly undisturbed, nuzzles into Childe’s throat and hums contentedly.
Childe makes a noise not meant for human ears.
Zhongli tightens his hold.
Childe forgets how to breathe.
The worst part?
Childe likes it.
(vi.) The Next Morning Problem
Childe wakes up feeling well-rested, comfortable, and completely ruined as a person.
Zhongli stretches, yawns in that slow, graceful dragon way, and says, “Good morning, love.”
Childe, staring at the ceiling, his life in shambles, mumbles into the pillow:
“Fuck you.”
Zhongli, warm and pleased, kisses him on the forehead and rumbles,
“Perhaps later.”
Childe screams internally.
+1. The One Time Zhongli Didn’t Act Like a Dragon
Childe wakes up fully expecting to be crushed under the weight of a smug dragon bastard who believes in zero personal space and maximum suffering.
But.
The bed is empty.
There is no living furnace attempting to incinerate him in his sleep.
There is no tail wrapped possessively around his waist like a particularly clingy anaconda.
There is no eldritch-level purring vibrating through his bones like a geo-powered subwoofer.
Childe sits up.
The room is silent.
Too silent.
Childe, against his better judgment, gets up to investigate.
He enters the kitchen and immediately regrets all of his life choices.
Because Zhongli is cooking.
Zhongli.
Is cooking.
And the kitchen is a war zone.
There is flour everywhere.
There is something burning in the pan.
There is a pot of what may or may not be tea bubbling ominously on the stove like it’s about to become sentient.
There is an unholy number of eggshells scattered across the counter, as if Zhongli attempted to crack eggs with sheer brute force and failed spectacularly.
Childe stares.
Zhongli, looking very much like a man who has lost a battle against common sense, turns to him with an unnervingly serious expression and says:
“I have made breakfast.”
Childe, who has seen too many people die in too many ways, takes one long look at the disaster in front of him and considers fleeing the country.
Zhongli, unshaken by the look of pure horror on Childe’s face, proceeds to plate the food with the same ceremonial dignity as if he were presenting an offering to the Geo Archon himself.
Childe watches in grim fascination as Zhongli places a blackened, unidentifiable mass onto a dish and drizzles something over it with a very serious expression.
Childe, against all rational instincts, asks:
“…What is that?”
Zhongli does not hesitate.
“Food.”
“That’s not an answer.”
Zhongli hands him chopsticks.
Childe looks at the chopsticks.
Childe looks at the plate.
Childe looks at Zhongli, whose face is calm and unbothered, like a man who does not understand the magnitude of his crimes.
Childe, whose survival instincts have been severely compromised by years of questionable decision-making, picks up a chopstick.
He stabs the food.
It does not give.
Childe stabs it again.
Still does not give.
Childe, desperate, applies significantly more force.
The food does not budge.
Instead, the chopstick bends.
Childe lowers his weapon.
The food has won.
Zhongli, watching the struggle with the patience of a saint, tilts his head slightly.
“Do you not like it?”
Childe, trapped between his survival instincts and the weight of Zhongli’s eternal, draconic dignity, has a crisis.
He could tell the truth.
He could tell Zhongli, with absolute honesty, that whatever eldritch abomination has been placed in front of him is clearly an affront to both gods and man alike.
He could tell Zhongli that if this is what breakfast is going to be like, then he will never eat again.
But.
Zhongli’s face is so expectant.
So calmly pleased with himself.
So genuinely proud of this absolute culinary war crime he has created.
And Childe, the fool that he is, cannot bring himself to crush that fragile sense of accomplishment.
So he does what any man in love does.
He commits a terrible mistake.
Childe takes a bite.
His soul leaves his body.
The flavors are an onslaught of suffering.
It is burnt.
It is somehow undercooked at the same time.
It is simultaneously too salty and completely flavorless.
It has the texture of a rock.
Childe has fought gods and survived.
Childe has fallen into the Abyss and crawled back out.
But this?
This might kill him.
Childe, eyes watering, swallows with the pained resolve of a man who has accepted his fate.
He sets his chopsticks down with great care, looks Zhongli dead in the eye, and says, in a perfectly even voice:
“…It’s great.”
Zhongli smiles, pleased.
Childe has never regretted anything more.
Zhongli, utterly convinced of his own success, takes a seat across from Childe and watches him with absolute contentment.
Childe, attempting to suppress the violent betrayal his taste buds are experiencing, forces a smile.
He picks up another piece.
He takes another bite.
Zhongli watches him with deep affection.
And—
And that’s the problem, isn’t it?
Because Zhongli is happy.
And Childe, for all his complaints, for all his dramatics, for all his survival instincts screaming at him to run from the horror in front of him, can’t bring himself to ruin that.
So he eats the entire meal.
With no complaints.
Because Zhongli might be a terrible cook, but he is also the most stubborn, beautiful, ridiculous dragon bastard in existence.
And Childe is hopelessly, irreversibly in love with him.
He closes his eyes and prays to every god still listening that he does not immediately drop dead.
Zhongli, pleased beyond words, places a hand on Childe’s own and says, in the warmest, most affectionate voice imaginable:
“I will cook for you again tomorrow.”
Childe screams internally.