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Chapter Text

To say that Inazuma’s Mission is a disaster is putting it lightly. What happened in Inazuma is unequivocally a clusterfuck with a capital C, a shit storm of epic proportions not unlike the one raised by Osial himself during the Liyue Mission, which, coincidentally, also tanked the Fatui’s reputation. Dear Archons, it tanked the Fatui’s reputation so hard and so fast that Pulcinella will be lucky if he can manage to dredge up its shattered remains from the depths of the earth in which it now lays.

Or maybe that’s just optimistic thinking, because Pulcinella suspects that the Fatui’s reputation hasn’t hit the bottom yet.

Tartaglia had once described his terrifying experience falling into the Abyss as a child. According to him, it had just been…endless seconds of free fall, of falling and falling and falling into twilight where up became down became left became right; just falling and falling until direction lost all meaning. It was never-ending falling to the point where his lungs ran out of air to scream and even then, he was still falling.

That, Pulcinella thinks, is a more accurate representation of what the Fatui’s reputation is experiencing: trapped in this free fall of hell.

It makes recruitment a bitch and retention even worse. The number of defections has reached record high. It also means Pulcinella is not having a great time because as the person in charge of PR for the Fatui (a role of pure masochism, he is well aware, thank you), he is the one stuck with cleaning this mess up and handling an insulting amount of paperwork.

The latter is not aided by the fact that among the Harbingers, they are down three people to help do the work: Signora, for obvious reasons, Scaramouche, because the little rat went AWOL, and Tartaglia because…well. 

Pulcinella doesn’t actually know why Tartaglia came back from the Liyue Mission all sad and mopey and pitiful. He looked so pathetic that the Glorious Tsaritsa (long may she reign) actually granted him some time off. But the effect remains the same – Tartaglia is off frolicking in Snezhnaya, probably in some snowfield murdering things, while Pulcinella is shackled to his desk, buried in a mountain of paperwork, and sadly deprived of his rights to murder things.

This cannot stand. Something has to change.

But how? How can he salvage this situation? How can one man pull off the impossible task of saving the Fatui’s (non-existent) reputation?

Fuck if he knows.

The solution comes to him one day in the form of an old photograph.

“What’s this?” Pulcinella asks Underling 5, pushing aside the fresh paperwork he was given to reveal – what the hell? “Is that an image of Tartaglia?”

Underling 5 flushes bright red but to his credit, he snaps to attention and salutes smartly. “Sir, yes, sir. My apologies, sir. This must have gotten accidentally mixed up in the paperwork, sir. Let me take that back, sir.”

Pulcinella waves away Underling 5’s attempts to do just that, instead, holding the picture up with his gloved hands so that he can take a closer look. It’s a small photo, the perfect size to fit into a wallet, and it features a black and white image of Tartaglia wrapped in a long scarf and draped in his majestic winter coat. He’s gazing to the side and cradling his mask with a careful hand. 

There’s something special about the image. Maybe it’s the lighting, but it manages to capture Tartaglia’s delicate features exquisitely: the way his long lashes frame his large eyes, the way the silky strands of his hair are slightly tousled by the wind, the slightest hint of colour on his pale cheeks and lips…they all lend to this illusion of softness, elegance, and vulnerability. 

…Tartaglia looks more like a delicate, beautiful little prince in that photo than the chaos-raising murder machine the boy actually is, and it’s fascinating.

Of course, the question is, why the hell does Underling 5 have a copy of this?

“It’s…uh…for morale, sir,” Underling 5 admits with a cough, “the other men have it too. Sometimes, when things get rough, it’s nice to be able to…uh…lookataprettyface.”

Pulcinella raises his brow. “Pardon me?”

Underling 5 looks like he wants to die. “I – I mean, it’s nice to look at nice things, sir! To boost morale and as a reminder that things aren’t so bad here!”

Pulcinella decides not to call the underling out on his lie. “And you think this,” he gestures to the photo, “is nice to look at?”

Underling 5’s face is glowing practically neon red now. “…Sir!”

“Hm. Fascinating.” Pulcinella rubs his chin. “Does it help?”

“Sir?”

“Does it help? Raise the men’s morale, I mean.”

“I – uh –”

“Hm, stupid question. You’re still here and you’re carrying this thing around. What’s even more telling is how worn this photo is coupled with the suspicious watermark splatters. Clearly, you’ve made good use of this.”

Pulcinella ignores the gasping and wheezing noises coming from the man and presses on. “Better question – how many people are carrying this photo? Is it just Tartaglia or are there other pictures of the other Harbingers?” At the man’s shocked silence, Pulcinella rolls his eyes. “Oh, come off it. I am not going to fire you or kill you. Just humour me and answer my questions.” 

“A lot of the troops have this image, sir,” Underling 5 chokes out. “Those who stayed are carrying it around, so it’s the most popular image in circulation. There were other images of, uh, the late Lady Signora, though now they’ve been replaced by this image of Lord Tartaglia.”

Apparently, wanking to a dead Harbinger is a step too depraved even for the Fatui. Huh. 

But Pulcinella digresses. Whether Underling 5 knows it or not, he’s brought up an interesting memory for Pulcinella, of tales from Mondstadt about the people’s frenzied enthusiasm for one deaconess from the Church of Barbatos. Apparently, she is so popular that she has amassed multiple fan clubs across the country, with a few new ones cropping up in Liyue. The fans adore her but more importantly, they remain die-hard and loyal.

“Oh, now here’s an idea,” Pulcinella says, his grin widening. “Here’s an idea, indeed.”

Oddly enough, the Tsaritsa (all hail!) is on board with his plan. If Pulcinella doesn’t know any better, he’d think he saw the corner of the Tsaritsa’s lips curl up into the smallest hint of a smile for just a split second. But when he blinks, the smile is gone and the Tsaritsa’s expression settles back into its usual blank canvas.

“This plan is approved,” she says, her voice a cool monotone. “Assemble whatever team you deem necessary to carry out this objective. My only request is for the photos to be aggressively disseminated outside of the Fatui, particularly in Liyue.”

Probably to attract more fresh recruits, though Pulcinella is not entirely sure why they need to target Liyue in particular. Ah well, it’s hardly his place to question his Tsaritsa’s vision. “It shall be done, your Imperial Highness.”

He finds Tartaglia in some snowy field murdering things.

“Yo, Tart-Tart!” he says, a casual hand raised in greeting as he tiptoes around an arm. That poor bastard Hilichurl had not stood a chance. “Long time no see, I see you’re enjoying your time off!”

Tartaglia stabs the Hilichurl he’s facing through the heart and shoves the body back, dissipating his water blades with a shake of his hands. “Urgh. Pulcinella. What do you want?”

“Wow, okay, rude and uncalled for. Is that how you greet your old mentor who’s travelled all the way to,” he pulls up his notebook from his coat pocket and squints at the page, “…Morepesok? Dear Archon is that where I am?”

Tartaglia stares at him. “How do you manage to come all this way and still have no idea where you are? Oh, wait, did your underlings carry you here while you napped the entire trip?”

Pulcinella tucks his notebook back into his coat. “Excuse you. I have more class than that. I napped inside my luxury heated carriage which Underlings 3 and 6 drove all the way here for me, thank you. But that’s neither here nor there. I am here to discuss business.”

Tartaglia, the little brat, rolls his eyes and turns his attention back on the gore-littered ground. “Hm, not interested. I’m on leave. Come back in two weeks.”

“No can do, Little Tart. Her Tsaritsa’s direct orders. But I promise that this task is not going to take up much of your time.”

How quickly one little word changes his tune. Tartaglia perks up at the Tsaritsa’s name like a pup to the word, ‘walk’. 

“The Tsaritsa wants me to do something for her? Well, why didn’t you say so in the first place? What is it? What does she need me to do? Does she want me to end a few enemies? Fight a monster? Ooh, maybe a god?”

“Nope!” Pulcinella says, “the Tsaritsa wants you…to help me take a few photos.”

“No, not like that! Don’t scrunch your face up like that! You look like you’re constipated. Look softer. Softer!”

From the tree trunk he’s been attempting to casually lean against, Tartaglia throws his hands up in the air in frustration. “I don’t know what you mean! I am looking soft!”

“No, you do not. You look like you’re quietly contemplating my death, which I know you are, kid. I know you. But I need you to tuck away that murder boner for one hot second and look soft.”

Tartaglia crosses his arms over his chest. “This is stupid. I don’t do soft! I’m the Vanguard! Besides, if you need me for the recruitment ads, why would you want me to look soft? Wouldn’t you want me to look fierce? Determined? Strong?”

“Change of tactics,” Pulcinella says. “Look, who’s in charge of PR here, you or me? Now, stop hunching like that and look soft, or at the very least, pretend to look happy.”

Tartaglia sulks harder and Pulcinella sighs, putting down the kamera.

“Alright kid, out with it. What’s wrong.”

“What do you mean? Nothing’s wrong.”

“You aren’t even trying to hide that lie, Apple Tart. You’ve been looking all miserable ever since coming back from Liyue. What, are you that disappointed that you weren’t able to fight the Geo Archon?”

“Don’t mention him,” Tartaglia mutters, kicking against a tree trunk while his woeful, kicked puppy look intensifies. “I don’t want to talk about him.”

Naturally, Pulcinella does the exact opposite. “So, you’re not upset from missing out on a good fight but this Geo Archon clearly did something. What was it? Was he being an asshole? Did he humiliate you along with Signora? Ah, okay. That sour look says it all. Who cares what this rando archon thinks anyway? As for Signora, well, who cares about her either? She’s dead!”

“I don’t care about Signora,” Tartaglia spits out. “But Z – Morax was, he was…”

Pulcinella grabs a seat on a nearby log and pats the spot beside him. “Morax was…?” he probes when Tartaglia accepts his offer.

“He was kind to me,” Tartaglia confesses. “He took me around Liyue to the different shops and festivals and monuments and stuff, and…and he spent time teaching me about food and culture and history. But when it came to the Gnosis handoff, it was as if a switch was flipped and after that, there has been…nothing. No contact. Just complete silence. It’s like I didn’t even exist.”

Hoo boy. So that’s what this is about. Despite being a seasoned warrior, the kid is still just a kid when it comes to matters of the heart. 

“Tart, the guy’s an asshole who used you,” Pulcinella says. Though his words are blunt, his tone isn’t unkind. “It sucks. I get it. But seriously, what did you expect? He’s the oldest amongst the archons. Human sentiment probably isn’t a thing he ever needed nor cared to learn. Getting yourself tangled up with that guy will only lead to a world of pain and a huge mess. I would consider him cutting ties with you a blessing.”

“I – yeah. Yeah, you’re probably right,” Tartaglia says, sighing. He runs a hand in his hair and flashes him a weak smile. “Probably for the best, huh?” 

“If it makes you feel better, the Tsaritsa  wanted me to flood Liyue with these pictures of you, so you can consider this as payback for ignoring you.”

“Yeah, I can consider this as payback!” Tartaglia nods, sitting up from his slouch, determination renewed. “Zhon – Morax thinks he’s going to ignore me? Well, I’m going to make it impossible for him to do that! He won’t be able to walk down the streets to his high-end restaurants or to the Opera House without seeing my face plastered on the walls!”

“Big Brother!” a young voice calls out. A second later, a young girl sporting the identical shade of auburn hair and dark blue eyes as Tartaglia rushes into the clearing. “Big Brother! Ma says to come home. She needs help with cook – oh!” She blinks at Pulcinella. “Hello, Mister Pulcinella!”

Pulcinella grins. “Hello, Little Lady! Long time no see! My, look how tall you’ve grown!”

“Tonia, what did I say about talking to strange men?” Tartaglia chides, the last of his gloominess dissipating completely, replaced with something infinitely more fond. “And what are you doing out here by yourself? It's dangerous!”

The girl rolls her eyes exactly the same way Tartaglia does. “I’m not a child, Big Brother! Besides, I brought the knife!” 

To prove her point, she proceeds to brandish a – holy fuck, a giant meat cleaver? What is wrong with Tartaglia’s family for spawning baby-faced demons? 

“See? And I’ve been practicing with it too! Hyah!”

The tiny slip of a girl winds her arm back and throws the great hulking blade, sending it slicing through the air at breakneck speed. It stops when the blade embeds into a nearby tree trunk with a loud, solid ‘thunk’ that sends the whole tree shaking.

Tartaglia, like the madman that he is, laughs and ruffles the girl’s hair. “Very good, Tonia! But if you throw the blade, you would lose your only weapon in a fight, so next time, make sure to bring at least two, okay?”

“Okay, Big Brother!”

Tartaglia’s face breaks out into a soft smile. At that moment, the wind picks up, sending his auburn hair curling around his face, framing those delicate cheekbones. His cheeks are pinked from the cold, and his eyes are shining bright in the setting afternoon sun. Behind him, the snowfield is a pristine sparkling white against the backdrop of dark trees, and the whole thing makes such a striking picture that Pulcinella finds himself lifting his kamera and snapping a shot.

“W – What was that for?” Tartaglia asks.

“Don’t you worry your pretty little head about it,” Pulcinella answers with a grin as he tucks the kamera away.

Pulcinella’s plan is pretty simple. Step one is to make wallet-sized photos of the shot he took. Step two is to award those photos to a select few who deserve them (Underling 5 gets a copy for providing intel, as with Underlings 3 and 6, who drove his ass out to Morepesok for that picture.)

Step three, perhaps the most important one, is to do nothing.

It takes exactly two whole days before Underling 2 and 7 come knocking on his door.

“Sir?” Underling 2 starts after Pulcinella invited both of them into his office. “Rumor has it that there are certain…limited edition photos floating around which were exclusively granted to a few of your people.”

Pulcinella pretends to look confused. “Photos…photos…” he murmurs, stroking his chin. “Oh! Do you mean the one I took of Tartaglia the other day? Yes, I was working on some new advertising material and had some of those photos printed to test the quality. I thought I’d give them to those who helped me in this endeavour as thanks.”

Underling 7 coughs lightly into her fist. “Sir, would you happen to have printed more copies of those photos? We would be honoured to help, er, further test out the quality.”

“That’s right,” Underling 2 agrees with vigorous nods. “We would be happy to have copies of those photos to judge the quality of the ink or paper or even clarity of the image.”

Pulcinella leans back into his chair and steeples his fingers. “Interesting proposal. I can always use more people to help…judge those photos,” he purrs out to the increasing excitement of his underlings, “but! Before I can get to doing that, I have a few small tasks that need to be done first –”

“We’ll do it!” Underling 7 blurts out. “Whatever it is, we'll do it!”

“We’d be honoured to help, Lord Pulcinella!” Underling 2 adds. “Please let us know what needs to be done!”

The paperwork that Pulcinella has his underlings complete is done in record time. It’s been a while since he’s seen his people filled with so much gusto to do their work. When they finish their task, Pulcinella happily rewards them with photos of Tartaglia and waves them off.

The door to his office barely closes before he breaks out into a wide Cheshire grin. Looks like that photo makes a great carrot at the end of a stick.

Word gets out fast that Pulcinella has more photos that require more ‘quality testing’, and that he will give them out only if the recipient completes certain tasks. Naturally, the number of underlings volunteering to do things surges.

“Lord Pulcinella! Do you require more help with your paperwork? I’d be happy to lend a hand!”

“Lord Pulcinella! Please let me know how I could help! Do you need someone to patrol the borders? Drive your carriage? Clean the latrines? Please.”

“Lord Pulcinella!”

“Lord Pulcinella!”

Naturally, he milks the free labour for all its worth.

It’s been a great week for Pulcinella.

But, Pulcinella didn’t climb to the top to become the head of PR for no reason, and one of the things he’s gained from the years of experience is foresight. He can see how once he’s distributed enough of these photos, he will end up saturating the so-called market and demand will drop (leading to a drop of productivity once again.)

The solution is easy: he needs more photos and he needs different types of them, all still ensuring that they will entice his workforce. What those different types of photos look like, he has no idea, but he thinks he knows just who to ask.

“Good morning, fellow underlings! I have gathered you all here today to discuss a very important topic, and it’s Quality Testing of Certain Photos!”

Underling 5 perks up. “Are – are we getting more photos?”

“Not to say that the last photo is anything to complain about, of course not,” Underling 7 interjects. “The last photo has a great quality to it.”

“Yes, yes, totally,” Underling 2 nods. “Good size, great paper quality, love the glossy finish. A+ quality right there.”

“The contrast is also amazing,” Underling 3 adds with Underling 6 echoing her agreement. “That sunlight on the – uh – model’s face set to the background of dark woods is just pure artistry.”

“A beautiful composition,” Underling 5 says with a sigh. “Really highlights the theme of happiness in its most brilliant and pure form.”

Degenerates, the lot of them, Pulcinella thinks with fondness. “I’m glad I’ve amassed a team with such great appreciation of the art,” he says instead. “I will be leaning on your expertise for what’s to come because I plan to develop more photos. Those will likewise need to be quality-tested. Of course, since you are helping me, I would also appreciate your input on the types of photos you would like to receive, including the, er, themes depicted therein.”

Pulcinella’s grin widens as the room is filled with excited murmurs. And they say good help is hard to find.

--

“Why are you here again?” Tartaglia says when Pulcinella shows up in the snowfields of murder once more. “And who are those people behind you? What’s all this stuff they’re carrying?”

“Hello, Tarte Tartin! Fine day of murder you’re having. Pay those people no mind. They are my assistants – Oy, Underling 6, can you set up the lights right there? That’s perfect, thank you!” Pulcinella turns back to Tartaglia, who’s looking equal parts bewildered and suspicious. “Anyway, remember the picture I took last time? Well, the Tsaritsa – Glory to Snezhnaya! – likes it and is requesting for more, so here I am, back for more!”

“Glory to Snezhnaya,” Tartaglia returns automatically even if his frown hasn’t let up. “I don’t understand what’s so great about it. I wasn’t even doing anything.”

“Oh, I wouldn’t say that. It was a fine picture and full of contrast and, uh, oy Underling 5!” Pulcinella shouts, “can you repeat what you said about that photo?”

“It was a beautiful composition that highlighted the theme of happiness in its most brilliant and pure form, sir!” Underling 5 dutifully parrots back from where he’s setting up a few high chairs and a snack table. “Also, Lord Tartaglia, it is truly an honour to meet you! An absolute honour, sir!”

Naturally, it’s the flattery that mollifies Tartaglia, that little show-off. “Ah, nice to meet you too, comrade!” he says, beaming and with a little wave. “I hope you continue to work hard and bring glory to her Imperial Highness!”

“O – of course, sir! Yes, sir! Anything for you, sir!”

“Wow, not even five minutes in and already, they’re lapping at your feet,” Pulcinella mutters.

“Hm? What was that?”

“Oh, nothing. I was just saying that that enthusiasm for work is hard to beat. Especially in this weather! Is it just me or is it colder today? Brrr.”

“Maybe if you actually wear practical clothing instead of your frou-frou silks, you’d be warmer,” Tartaglia says without an ounce of sympathy. “But you haven’t really answered my question. If you’re here for more pictures, why are your people setting up…all that.”

He gestures vaguely to where Underlings 3 and 7 are in the last stages of assembling the tents while Underling 2 wheels by with a rack of clothes. Beside them, the mountain of props is carefully laid out, surrounded by the lights and heating lamps.

“Oh, good, they’re almost done,” Pulcinella notes with a nod of approval. “Given the Tsaritsa’s request, we thought we’d be creative by providing photos that feature a larger breadth of designs and themes. Hence, the costumes and the different props. Now, now, I see that grumpy frown. Chin up, Tartufo! Don’t you want to flood Liyue with pictures of your face to annoy the Geo Archon? Think of how hard it is for him to ignore you if there are all these different photos of you looking like you’re having the time of your life without him!”

“…Just because I’m agreeing to this, doesn’t mean I don’t think you’re up to something,” Tartaglia says, before trudging towards the tent set up for changing. “But fine, let’s just get this done.”

“That’s the spirit, my dear Tardigrade!” 

All things considered, Tartaglia is rather cooperative. 

He’s perfectly amiable to the underlings as they fix his hair and apply a light dust of makeup on him (“Just something to make those eyes pop, Lord Tartaglia. Your skin is perfect as is.”) He follows Pulcinella’s directions perfectly when asked to pose (“tilt your head up a little bit more, arch the back – beautiful, dah-ling!”) He even entertains Pulcinella’s request to use his hydro vision, demonstrating an impressive control by creating streams of water arcing in the air and myriads of cute animals to pose with. 

The key to getting Tartaglia’s cooperation seems to be endless praise, which he is easily getting from the underlings who look like they’ve ascended to Celestia from this whole endeavor. 

However, there is, apparently, a line not even Tartaglia will cross.

“Pulcinella!”

The flap to the tent lifts up and out storms Tartaglia, livid, his next outfit clenched in his hand.  

“What in Teyvat is this?” he hisses, shoving the clothes towards the older man. “I’m not wearing that!”

Pulcinella takes the clothes and shakes out the wrinkles. “What do you mean, ‘what in Teyvat is this?’ You just came from Liyue. Surely, you’d be familiar with the types of clothes they wear.”

“Oh, I’m familiar with the clothes people wear in Liyue alright, and this,” Tartaglia says, gesturing to the yards of gorgeous, shimmering white silk spilling from his fist, “is a cheongsam!”

Pulcinella arches a brow. “Your point?”

Tartaglia splutters. “My point? My point is that this is a dress. For women!”

“Really, Tartaglia, I am disappointed,” Pulcinella tsked. “This may be, as you call it, a dress, but it’s just a piece of clothing that anybody, men or women, can wear. But if you insist on not wearing it because you are afraid, then I’ll let the Tsaritsa know. She’ll be so disappointed.”

“W – what do you mean, disappointed?” Tartaglia scowls when the rest of the messages clicks in. “And I’m not afraid!”

“Well, all of the clothes here have been picked by her Imperial Highness herself,” Pulcinella explains, cool as a cucumber. “She’s taken great care to choose pieces that she thinks would look flattering. This piece of clothing, in particular, is her favourite of the bunch. Her instructions to me were, ‘When Tartaglia wears this, please make sure the outfit is paired with the long white fur cape for peak aesthetic.’”

Tartaglia glares. “You’re lying. She didn’t say that and she definitely wouldn’t use the term ‘peak aesthetic’!”

Pulcinella shrugs. “Maybe she did, maybe she didn’t. Question is, do you want to risk disappointing her?”

Tartaglia stares.

Pulcinella stares back. 

Finally, Tartaglia hisses and swipes the dress back. “Your death will not come fast or easy,” he promises before pivoting and stalking back towards the tent.

“Make sure to pair it with the white fur cape!” Pulcinella calls to his retreating back. “Peak aesthetic and all!”

The funny thing is, Pulcinella did not lie.

Okay, he totally lied about the peak aesthetic thing but he didn’t lie about the fact that all the costumes were approved by the Tsaritsa. The white cheongsam, in particular, had captured her attention.

“Perfect,” she purred out, stroking at the luxurious fabric. “Make sure to have posters of Tartaglia wearing this outfit spread throughout Liyue, particularly in Liyue Harbour on the street where Northland Bank is located.”

That’s an oddly specific demand and Pulcinella does not want to know why! “Your wish is my command, Your Imperial Highness!”

He immediately can see why she’s so taken by the outfit the moment Tartaglia steps out adorned in the white cheongsam.

The dress is long and sleeveless with a high collar, closed by a pearl button at the front, and fitted skin-tight around the chest, waist, and hips. It does wonders to show off the boy’s surprisingly slender frame. But near the top of the thighs, the dress flares out rather dramatically like a mermaid’s tail, trailing to the ground in a train of shimmering silk to give Tartaglia the illusion of an attractive hourglass figure. Thousands of tiny, intricate beads stitched into delicate flowers spread across the clothing such that with the slightest shift of movement, a rainbow of light would dance across its surface, adding to the ethereal nature of both the outfit and its wearer. The floor-length, snow-white cape that drapes from Tartaglia’s shoulder only adds to the majesty of the look.

Somewhere behind him, Pulcinalla swears he hears Underling 6 mutter, “Oh, thank you sweet Tsaritsa for your benevolent gift.”

Degenerates.

“C – Can we get a move on, already?” Tartaglia grumbles, his cheeks pink as he rubs his arms. “It’s cold in this thing.”

“Alright, alright, I hear you, stop your grumbling.” Pulcinella lifts his camera up. “Now, smile.”

Pulcinella is not an idiot. He knows he’s sitting on a stash of pure gold, so he does what every clever man does and releases the images slowly.

He starts with the relatively tame ones. First, there are shots of Tartaglia smiling flirtatiously into the camera, his hair tousled into an attractive mess so much so that one can’t help but want to reach into the photo and comb their fingers through those auburn locks. Posters featuring this image are also distributed around Teyvat along with the slogan, “With love, from Snezhnaya!”

In less than 3 days, Pulcinella sees a 30% uptick of members signing up for the Fatui, a 60% increase in volunteers to “quality-test” more photos, and a 40% decrease in defection.

Then comes the second set of images featuring Tartaglia in multiple poses, playing with the water summoned from his hydro vision. In every version of those images, there are sure to be trails of clear water running down his arms and his long, slender neck, coupled with a generous showing off his abs from the way the shirt just so happens to ride up…

Those photos lead to another generous spike of recruits and volunteers. Letters begin to flood in, seeking to speak to that “beautiful boy on the poster” from different corners of Teyvat, predominantly from Snezhnaya and, strangely enough, Inazuma. It’s starting to be a tad unmanageable, judging by how ragged Underlings 2 and 3 look from sorting all those letters.

Pulcinella also gets plenty of letters from Liyue except they’re all from the Northland Bank and they’re always requests for more posters. For some odd reason, the ones posted around town go missing as soon as they go up, almost as if someone is going around ripping them off the walls. But, none of the posters ever end up in the garbage, and no Millelith  were seen removing the posters, so these mysterious disappearances suggest that someone or some people are deliberately collecting them for their own hoarding purposes or something.

Pulcinella shrugs and promises to send over 300 more.

Meanwhile, morale noticeably improves. From the status reports Pulcinella receives, soldiers have been working harder and faster than before. Fewer fights are breaking out amongst the troops and general discontent grumblings have drastically been reduced. If anything, camaraderie has shot up from the multiple groups that are formed to facilitate the purchase, sale, and trading of the different Tartaglia photos. Those who are notorious for buying every single item have begun to call themselves the “Narwhals” and the act of dropping a fortune to buy everything Tartaglia-related has been coined, “nar-whaling”.

Then comes the third set of images, the fourth, and the fifth. They feature Tartaglia in various different outfits – him in his winter coat and looking pensive, him in a more formal version of his uniform but the coat is unbuttoned, leaving the red, thin shirt underneath exposed such that every delectable ridge of his muscles can be seen, him in his princely court garbs whenever he attends fancy galas. All of them feature Tartaglia in beautifully tailored clothes in different stages of being disheveled or with layers peeled back as he drapes himself over various surfaces, all languid grace.

Boy oh boy, did the flurry of letters really flood the office after those releases. Tartaglia is really starting to get some enthusiastic fans in Inazuma. He’s received at least 100 marriage proposals from men and women alike. Demands for more Tartaglia content are so high that some company called Yae Publishing Co. has reached out to be the sole distributor of posters and paraphernalia of “that beautiful Snezhnayan boy” for sale in Inazuma. Meanwhile, Liyue’s posters are disappearing faster than ever. The Northland Bank sounds increasingly frustrated with the whole situation because the thief (or thieves) have still yet to be found.

No matter, Pulcinella is happy to keep flooding Liyue with more Tartaglia images. Notwithstanding the Tsaritsa’s request, Pulcinella feels like he owes it to the boy.

Then, on one sunny morning, Pulcinella decides to release the Cheongsam Photo Shoot.

All hell breaks loose.

Chapter Text

In Pulcinella’s defence, he didn’t think things were going to get that bad. Sure, he’s aware of people’s increasing appetite for all things Tartaglia (largely thanks to his efforts, heh), and he knows that that Cheongsam Photo shoot had produced some of the best products they’ve ever made, but honestly, Pulcinella was thinking that from the flood of the more risqué pictures from Photo Sets 3, 4 and 5, people would have become acclimated to the raciness such that the Cheongsam Shoot would be met with nothing more beyond great enthusiasm.

Boy, were his calculations way off. The moment the Cheongsam Photos were launched, it’s as if a flip was switched from 0 to Horny with a capital H.

“Sir!” Underling 3 says the morning after the mass release of the Cheongsam Photos right as Pulcinella gets to his office, “We’re, um, having a bit of a situation! We’re getting reports of multiple fights breaking out across Snezhnaya from people scrambling to get a copy of the pictures and posters from the new photo shoots!”

Pulcinella’s frown deepens. “Scrambling? Fighting? But the amount of stock I released for this set of photo shoot is way more than all the previous ones combined!”

Underling 3 shakes her head. “Apparently, everything was sold out in record time. The line ups to get the new merchandise were insane, and when people found out that everything was gone, well…”

“Sir!” Underling 2 barges in, “we’re getting reports of our distribution centers in Inazuma getting mobbed by fans! It’s the products from the new photo shoots, sir! There simply isn’t enough to meet demands –”

“Lord Pulcinella!” Underling 6 appears not even a second later, “Our shops in Mondstadt are overrun by fans! They’ve started a protest with pitchforks and torches!”

Of course, Underling 5 also makes an appearance: “Lord Pulcinella! Liyue is –”

Pulcinella groans. “Archons, let me guess, Liyue is also overrun with fans?”

“Uh, no, sir, that’s not the issue,” Underling 5 shakes his head. “As predicted, the posters on the walls have disappeared swiftly but per your instructions, we were able to get the Cheongsam Posters and Photos to the public by selling them through our stores under the guise of Snezhnayan souvenirs. Due to how recent Tartaglia’s merchandise have reached the public, our Liyue stores have not been overrun with fans yet.” 

Oh. “Well, if that’s the case, then what’s the issue?”

“It’s just, uh, we’re getting reports from our men and the Northland Bank of increasing earthquake activities around the city. The men are asking about a potential evacuation plan.”

Earthquakes? In Liyue? Especially when the ex-Geo Archon is still alive and kicking? The fuck is going on there?

Right. Speculations can happen later. For now, Pulcinella needs to get to work. 

“For all the distribution centers that have sold out of items, let them know that more products are coming,” Pulcinella orders. “Each store and center will get another five hundred copies of each product. However, to manage expectations, the stores and distribution centers should post signs letting customers know of the limited number of stocks, so it’s first come first serve. Further, if any customer is caught treating the staff poorly, they will forfeit their right to purchase the products and be banned from any of our stores.”

The underlings salute. “Sir, yes, sir!”

“Someone get Underling 7 to tell our printers to expedite making these photo shoot products. It’s all hands on deck!”

“Yes, sir!”

“As for you,” Pulcinella nods to Underling 5, “Wait here. I need to speak to the Tsaritsa.”

Oddly enough, the Tsaritsa (glory to Her eternal reign!) does not seem at all alarmed by this development. If anything, she is…pleased. Very, very pleased. 

“Excellent. It appears you are getting the situation across Teyvat under control with these product shortages,” the Tsaritsa says, perched aloft her glorious ice throne. “As for Liyue, it is as I predicted, just an old dragon throwing a tantrum. Pay those matters no mind.”

Pulcinella does not know what the Tsaritsa means by the dragon content, but like everything else, he is happy to do exactly what she says and pay it zero minds. Not. His. Problem! “Your wishes are my command.”

“I do, however, have a request,” the Tsaritsa adds. “After distributing the latest batch of products to our stores and distribution centers, I want you to cease selling products from that particular photo shoot everywhere except in Snezhnaya and Liyue.”

Pulcinella stares at her. “Your Imperial Highness?” What is she planning?

“Next, I want you to let all of Teyvat know that the only places to get products from that particular photo shoot is through our stores in Snezhnaya and Liyue.”

Limiting the sale of those products in such a manner would be sure to create a massive influx of fans and merchants visiting Snezhnaya and Liyue. Snezhnaya will be fine to deal with that influx but Liyue… 

Things would be dicey in Liyue for multiple reasons. First, Liyue would no doubt be a key attraction to the majority of the fans given its status as the most accessible location in the world. After all, any merchant ship worth their salt would land in the ports of Liyue. Second, there are a limited number of stores in Liyue, and those stores are not as heavily staffed as Snezhnaya’s. Between the massive number of potential customers storming the gates and the understaffed stores, Liyue’s stores would become overrun fast unless the staffing issue is corrected.

On the other hand, this tactic has its huge upsides. Because of how quickly posters go missing in Liyue, the dissemination of Tartaglia’s image has been stifled despite Pulcinella’s best efforts. This tactic of directing the international fans to flood the unsuspecting shores of Liyue would definitely help give Tartaglia the exposure he needs. Knowing Liyue’s merchants, they would see these fans as business opportunities to make a killing, so it will take no time before they also hop on board the Tartaglia merchandise train, further spreading Tartaglia’s image across the country through selling their wares.

Hmm. This will give the Tsaritsa and Tartaglia himself what they’ve always wanted – exposure.

Pulcinella grins and bows low. “Of course, your Imperial Highness. I will issue those orders right away.”

Although fights are still breaking out, the plan is going swimmingly. Demand for Tartaglia’s photos is skyrocketing, and when news that the products from That Photo shoot are now limited to Liyue and Snezhnaya, it seems like everybody, their mother, their father, and their pets are scrambling to get onto any ship that will take them to Liyue.

In a matter of days, Pulcinella is getting fresh reports that the Liyue stores are experiencing record-high profits. Liyue Harbour is filling up with fans from all across Teyvat – Mondstadt, Inazuma, Sumeru, Natlan, Fontaine – everyone is clamouring for the golden opportunity to buy posters and pictures of “that beautiful Snezhnayan prince in the lovely white gown in the snow”. It’s gotten so insane that the stores have to limit each customer to “one poster and one photo only”.

The image is so striking that it has inspired many impromptu haiku contests dedicated to Tartaglia. One of the more popular entries is as follows:

A lone beauty shines 

Bright and glowing in the snow

My trembling heart yearns.

It’s really just a matter of time that someone from Liyue recognizes Tartaglia and goes, “Hey, isn’t that the Fatui diplomat who stayed in Liyue for months on end and ate his way through town?”

That set off a wave of enthusiastic people clamouring to find out everything they can about this diplomat, including all the restaurants he’s visited (Wanmin Restaurant sees line-ups longer than ever before), all the stores he’s purchased from, all the plays and operas he’s been to, and etcetera. Tartaglia has gotten so popular that store owners are openly putting up signs bragging about how “the Snow Prince was here and bought XXX item! This too can be yours for XXX mora!”

Sure, there are rumours circulating around Liyue that this Snow Prince is a Harbinger suspected of murdering Rex Lapis and unleashing Osial on the city, but those rumours are quickly met with scorn and derision by the feistiest of fans, the fiercest of the Narwhals. 

“Ludicrous!” they would snipe back, clutching onto their Snow Prince merch. “How can one man be responsible for killing your Archon and unsealing an ancient evil? Why don’t you just admit to being jealous of our Snow Prince and stop embarrassing yourself!”

(The Snezhnayans, who are well aware that this Snow Prince is a Harbinger, merely shrug at the rumours and go back to obsessing with, as Pulcinella calls it, the peak aesthetic.)

Even places like the Wangsheng Funeral Parlour are seeing more visitors than ever before due to the Snow Prince’s popularity (that has Pulcinella’s brows raising, because really? The Narwhals are that desperate for information that they’re even going after a Funeral Parlour?) Apparently, word has gotten out that their consultant had dined regularly with the Snow Prince so everybody wants to know what he’s like in person, whether he’s really that beautiful, what’s his favourite food, what gifts he would like should the fan send some to him…

The consultant, though polite, firmly rejects all questions about the Snow Prince. Questions about what the Snow Prince likes for gifts, in particular, are met with cold, stony silence.

Meanwhile, Liyue is experiencing an unprecedented amount of earthquakes – at minimum once a day now, and more often than not, twice or even thrice. The Qixing remains alarmed and perplexed over the source of these tremors.

The Tsaritsa remains delighted. Pulcinella swears that he’s heard her cackling the moment the door to the throne room closes behind him along with mutterings of, “see how long you can last, old dragon!”

All in all, despite the chaos the photo shoot has unleashed onto Teyvat, Pulcinella has to say that he’s having a Great Time. 

Up until he gets to his office and sees Tartaglia waiting for him, arms crossed over his chest and a ferocious glare on his face.

“Pulcinella,” Tartaglia snarls, “would you like to explain why on my way back to HQ, I’ve been mobbed not once or twice, but five separate times by people holding up photos of me in that dress?”

Pulcinella starts talking, fast.

He summarizes Tartaglia’s rising popularity (with charts and stuff!), details the merch that nets the most amount of sales (the Cheongsam Posters), and shows the data with the skyrocketing number of new recruits. Look! Defections are also down to zero and morale is higher than ever before! See all the good that came from this whole endeavour? Glory to Snezhnaya and all!

Tartaglia demonstrates just how little he cares for Pulcinella’s hard work by summoning his hydro daggers.

“Wait, wait, there’s more!” Pulcinella says, jumping up and fully prepared to flip his desk over as a makeshift shield if his gambit fails. “We were able to penetrate the Liyue market!”

That gives Tartaglia a pause. “…Go on.”

“I’ll go on if you put those daggers away.”

Tartaglia does not, in fact, put away the daggers. “How about if you go on, I won’t stab you?”

Okay. Fair enough.

“Your fans have been eating up your posters and photos. Word also has gotten out that you were a diplomat stationed in Liyue, so your fans have been going after all the places you’ve visited just to get a better sense of who you are. I mean, they’re so rabid that they’ve even gone after some random consultant from some funeral parlour –”

Tartaglia chokes. “Wait, the Wangsheng Funeral Parlour?”

Pulcinella nods slowly. What the hell is that response? “Uh yeah, that’s the one. Your fans have apparently shown up in droves asking all these questions to the consultant about what you’re like in reality and what type of gifts you’d like if they were to send you stuff.”

Tartaglia clears his throat and shuffles a little awkwardly in place. “W – what did Zh – the consultant say in response?”

Pulcinella shrugs. “Nothing. Apparently, the consultant politely refuses to answer any of the questions asked about you ‘out of respect for his dear friend’. He seems annoyed though.”

For some reason, Tartaglia makes a low, almost whining sound at the back of his throat. “H – he called me his dear friend?” he asks, his voice quiet. Shy even.

“He did,” Pulcinella says, but the dots are slowly connecting together in his head. “Why are you so interested in what this consultant had to say? Unless he’s – oh. Oh. OH!”

The way Tartaglia goes stiff makes Pulcinella burst out laughing. “Looks like that Cheongsam Photo Shoot got you that exposure you’ve always wanted!” he gloats. “See? There is a method to my madness!”

“You got lucky that people like those photos for some reason,” Tartaglia grumbles and shakes his head as he finally, finally, dispels those daggers. “What else has been happening in Liyue?”

“Not much else. We were just recently successful with getting you popular in that nation. The next step is to generate even more interest so that we can continue to feed the fans with a variety of merchandise. My underlings were suggesting that we can expand on our line of products to include some signed autographs and clothing. Actually, now that you’re here, what do you feel about these sample designs…?”

Just like that, Tartaglia’s anger is washed away in light of the glorious distraction of customizing his own merch lines. Pulcinella gives himself a mental pat on the back. Job well done, Pulcinella. Job well done.

Now that Tartaglia is back and is told of his growing influence in Liyue, it becomes much easier for Pulcinella to rope him into even more photo shoots all for the sake of putting more pressure on the Geo Archon, improving the Fatui and Snezhnaya’s reputation as a whole, and earning more money for the Fatui’s coffer. For the photo shoots, they explore various themes from Summer Fun Casual (where Tartaglia is in a pair of flimsy shorts and an open top, sporting a dazzling smile), to Cozy Fall Weekends (Tartaglia in an oversized sweater and tight pants have sent many underlings swooning) and, for the fans at home, Snezhnayan Traditional Wear Through the Ages. 

For the latter, Tartaglia looks surprisingly dashing even sporting a relatively plain Zhivago shirt that’s belted at the waist, coupled with a pair of loose pants tucked into simple, brown boots. There’s something about the simplicity of the outfit that makes him look…younger, more bright-eyed, bushy-tailed, and carefree. The fans have certainly lapped up the image like ice cream, screaming about the innocence of their beloved Snow Prince.

And then, Pulcinella puts Tartaglia in a magnificent fur coat with a matching ushanka and wow, did those photos sell like hotcakes. There’s something about his red hair and pale skin that contrast so beautifully with the luxurious dark fur, making Tartaglia an irresistible sight to behold.

(Underling 3 had the brilliant idea of selling ushankas with that photo shoot. Upon the release of those photos, their ushankas became the hottest item sold everywhere across Teyvat, causing multiple fights in the line as fans stampede their way to the front to grab these limited edition hats. Even fans from Sumeru – a land of perpetual heat and desert – were scrambling to buy those hats.)

Meanwhile, Tartaglia, though he is happy to play along and be perfectly gracious to his fans, remains confused over why his fame blew up. Sure, he can understand that he’s not bad looking, but to garner that much frenzied attention? Preposterous. Pulcinella suspects that the boy does not fully realize just how much beauty, charm, and charisma he possesses, which doesn’t surprise him one bit. Tartaglia doesn’t seem like the type to pay attention to such things, not when his mind is occupied by battles, bloodshed, and getting stronger.

No matter. Pulcinella is more than happy to capitalize on Tartaglia’s assets for him. For Glory! For the Tsaritsa! For Snezhnaya!

Things continue to truck along. Tartaglia remains popular, fans remain desperate for new merch, Liyue’s earthquakes remain consistent, and the Tsaritsa remains gleeful at every meeting. Pulcinella is content to keep this momentum going (they’ve now established a line of shirts, hats, scarves, gloves, mugs, trading cards, posters, and photographs of their beloved Snow Prince, and they’re working on a fragrance line next). He’s expanded the number of stores across Teyvat, roping in Pantalone’s men to manage finances (for merch in exchange for their efforts, which they also greedily lapped up). Furthermore, a popular fried chicken franchise recently reached out to them for promotional work; something about getting Tartaglia to model a set of themed gliders, but Pulcinella has yet to see any hint of that glider being made available to them, so he’ll wait and see. 

Things are going well, which is why Pulcinella is caught off guard when the Tsaritsa announces, one day, that they need to step up their effort.

“Things are becoming a bit too calm for my liking,” the Tsaritsa says. “How quickly that old dragon adapts to the new status quo, but I suppose that is expected of such a stubborn old being. We will need to do something drastic to really shake him up.”

Pulcinella, who still has no idea what the Tsaritsa (May She live a Thousand Years!) is going on about whenever she mentions the ‘old dragon’, nods along. “Of course, your Imperial Highness. Do you have any preferences on the direction we should take our promotional efforts? I can get Tartaglia in another cheongsam, the ones with the high slit that goes all the way up the top of the thighs.”

The Tsaritsa taps her beautifully manicured nail against her chin. “Hmm. Yes, do that. Fit him in a red cheongsam, that will look particularly striking on him. But also, I was thinking for the next set of photo shoot, we can introduce something new to the table…”

“Good news, everybody!” Pulcinella announces to his team and Tartaglia, “We’re going to Inazuma!”

Ah, Inazuma! Ruled by the eternal Raiden Shogun, the almighty Electro Archon. Even the land itself seems to reflect the thunderbolts and lightning its reigning god wields going by the jagged, towering cliffs that dot the landscape, the glittering, glowing flora that carpets the fertile ground, and the electric smell of ozone that permeates the air. It is a land with a long, complex history of great battles as its Archon struggles to deliver the eternity she has promised her people. But no matter how much the wind howls and the rain falls, even the wildest storm will fade with time. So too did the conflicts that once plagued the lands die down as time marches forward, gently guiding its people into a new era of peace. 

The Fatui, of course, did not help usher Inazuma into that new era of peace at all. Oh boy, did Signora try her damndest to fan the flames of war with her whole (overly convoluted, in Pulcinella’s humble opinion) Delusion scheme. 

To be honest, Pulcinella still isn’t entirely sure just what Signora was planning with all the secret allying with the Tenryou and Kanjou Commissions and the Sangonomiya Resistance, followed by betraying the Resistance. Wouldn’t it make more sense to unite Sangonomiya’s army and the disgruntled populace under the banner of resistance, take out the leader of the Tenryo Commission, and in the disorder created from the power vacuum, draw out the Raiden Shogun and steal her Gnosis? Alternatively, wouldn’t it be easier if they just embargo the island, poison the wells, salt the fields, and watch as the nation tears itself apart from starvation? After all, there’s nothing quite like starvation to shake one’s faith in their god and fuel the fires of revolution!

Ah well, what does Pulcinella know? He’s only the PR guy. Propaganda and all things communication-related is where he shines the brightest. Just look at Tartaglia by way of example!

Speaking of Tartaglia, “Oy, Steak Tartar,” Pulcinella calls out from his spot by the helm of the ship. “Remember to be on your best behaviour when we meet up with our host from the Yashiro Commission! Signora really fucked us with her machinations and it took an arm and a leg to get us into Inazuma!”

Tartaglia makes a face like he smells something rotten. Most people make that face at the mention of the late Harbinger. “Yeah, yeah. No challenging people to duels, no offers to end a few enemies, no fun whatsoever. I can’t believe you’re dragging me all the way out here  and the only thing I can do is stand around and do nothing.”

“False. I need you to stand around and look pretty. It’s a very important task. Also, you’re going to have lots of fans here so look alive!”

Tartaglia visibly brightens at the mention of fans.

News must have gotten out in advance of Tartaglia’s visit because even before their ship can get close enough to dock in Ritou, the boardwalks are teeming with people holding up all manners of signs with Tartaglia’s face, screaming, crying and cheering at the arrival of their ship. 

“It’s the Snow Prince!” someone from the crowd cries, sending a fresh wave of ecstatic screams in the air. “It’s him! It’s really him! He’s here!”

To Tartaglia’s credit, he executes what he’s taught from Pulcinella’s PR lessons perfectly. He gets off the ship with graceful steps, waving at the fans and smiling his million mora smile, looking picture-perfect amidst the chaos and the hundreds of kameras flashing around him.

“It’s very nice to meet you all,” he says. “I look forward to seeing all the beauty Inazuma has to offer. Please take good care of me.”

With that, he bows as customary of Inazuma, and the fans scream anew.

“Snow Prince, I love you!”

“Snow Prince, marry me, please!”

“Snow Prince! Please carry my baby!”

“Alright, alright, get a move on,” Pulcinella mutters, nudging a laughing Tartaglia along. “You’ve had your fun! We’re going to be late if you keep entertaining the fans.”

Luckily, the fans are polite enough to keep a respectable distance (it probably helps that Pucinella also has Tartaglia surrounded by a small army of personal guards who formed a ring around them). In no time at all, they find themselves by the registration booths, where a tall, blond fellow in red is waiting.

“Ahoy there!” he says, shaking hands with Pulcinella. “Welcome to Ritou, Inazuma! You must be our esteemed guests from Snezhnaya! My name is Thoma, and I’m your guide from the Yashiro Commission. It’s a pleasure to meet you all.”

“Well, I don’t know anything about the esteemed part,” Pulcinella jokes, “but it is a pleasure to be here and to make your acquaintance. My name is Maccus and this here is the star of the show, Childe.”

“The Snow Prince himself, in the flesh,” Thoma laughs as he takes Tartaglia’s hand in a friendly handshake. “I never thought I’d see the day when I get to meet you in person! I’ve seen your image so often that it almost feels like I’ve known you for ages!”

“Ah, are my photos that commonly found here?” Tartaglia answers, his tone sheepish as he rubs the back of his neck. “I have to admit that it’s still a bit hard to believe that people would willingly buy pictures with my face on it. But I suppose the gathering of fans just now is, uh, pretty indicative.”

“We’re excited to have you with us,” Thoma insists, bright and cheery. “And we hope you will enjoy your stay. Speaking of enjoyment, I have made preparations at the Komore Teahouse in Inazuma City. It shouldn’t take us long to get there at all. This way, if you please.”

Pulcinella lets Tartaglia stroll ahead of him so that he can walk side-by-side with their guide. Then, he gestures his people to get the kameras ready. It’s show time!

The goal of this trip is surprisingly simple. Per the Tsaritsa’s requests, they are to prepare a magazine spread featuring Tartaglia on a trip, thoroughly enjoying himself as he samples all the food, attends all the plays, and visits all the cultural sites. The stipulations that the Tsaritsa (May her Glory remain everlasting!) has are as follows: (1) everything needs to be documented with photos, lots and lots of photos, and (2) Tartaglia shall be accompanied at all times by young, attractive, charismatic men, the more the better.

Again, Pulcinella can’t help but notice how these are Very Specific Demands by his Tsaritsa, particularly with how insistent she was with getting photographs of Tartaglia in the company of attractive men, but at the same time, Pulcinella also really, really Doesn’t Want to Know.

Ignorance can be bliss sometimes, and Pulcinella suspects that this is one instance where that phrase applies, so he’s going to bury his head in the sand while snapping shot after shot of Tartaglia happily dragging their guide Thoma to the stall selling dangos, looking very much like they’re a young couple out on a date.

It also doesn’t help that the streets of Inazuma are lined with the most amazing cherry blossoms in full bloom that send a never-ending shower of pretty pink and white petals raining from the sky, effectively making every single one of these photos 10,000% more romantic.

“Mr. Thoma!” Tartaglia waves from beside the stall selling a series of masks. “What are these for? The white one with the ears looks particularly intriguing.”

“Oh! Those are kitsune masks! They’re particularly popular to wear when taking part in a festival! I’ll take one please, if you will, Mr. Shopkeeper. Thank you.”

Thoma hands the money over, takes the mask, and turns to Tartaglia. “May I?”

Tartaglia blinks. “O – oh, yeah, of course.”

He bends his head down, allowing Thoma to carefully fasten the mask to the side of his head where his Fatui mask would normally sit.

“In Inazuma folklore, the kitsune are intelligent foxes that possess paranormal abilities that increase as they get older and wiser,” Thoma explains as he continues to tie the string to secure the mask in place. “They are known to be intelligent, mischievous, playful but incredibly faithful, so they are portrayed often as guardians, friends and lovers in legends.”

Thoma smooths away a stray strand of auburn lock before finally pulling away. “And there you go, Mr. Snow Prince,” he says with a teasing grin. “I must say, the mask suits you quite well! You look very dashing.”

Tartaglia, whose cheeks have gone a little pink, breaks out into an uncharacteristically shy smile. “Thank you, Mr. Thoma for the gift and for the explanation. I will be sure to cherish both.”

“You got the shots for all this, right?” Pulcinella mutters to Underling 5 beside him who nods fervently. “Good. We’re going to want those in the magazine for sure.”

Something tells him that the Tsaritsa will be delighted.

They spend the next couple of days tagging along, photographing Tartaglia having a delightful vacation as he bonds with their guide. There are photos of the two of them, sharing a splendid meal and laughing up a storm from the stories exchanged, photos of them visiting the Grand Shrine with their heads bowed and eyes closed in a moment of serenity, and even more photos of them sharing a quiet moment on the footbridge, gazing towards the breathtaking sunset.

The fans, of course, have taken notice of all of this and have been eyeing from the sideline with their kameras and a healthy mix of hunger, yearning, and jealousy.

“I hope my visit won’t cause any trouble for you, Mr. Thoma,” Tartaglia notes as they’re walking towards a popular izakaya for some drinks and snacks. “I know you agreed to appear in the magazine but are you going to be alright with the more aggressive fans?”

Thoma grins. “Don’t worry about me, Mr. Snow Prince! As the chief retainer of the Kamisato Clan, I’m offered plenty of protection. Commissioner Kamisato will personally see to it that I’m safe.”

Tartaglia nods. “I’m relieved to hear that.”

A few paces behind them, Pulcinella shares a look with Underling 5. Tartaglia may have missed the underlying message but they certainly have not! It seems like their little guide has that kind of a relationship with one Kamisato Ayato after all.

This time in the early evening, the Izakaya is still relatively quiet, so they’re able to be ushered into a quiet, unobtrusive corner without any fuss, tucked safely out of sight from the rest of the bar’s patrons. The food comes quickly after that – crispy fried shrimp and vegetable tempura, piping hot udons and ramens, smokey grilled fish and unagi, fresh sashimi, oysters, and scallops – dish after dish arrive at the table perfectly plated and utterly delicious.

And through it all, Thoma remains the perfect host, explaining what each food item is for the uninitiated.

“This here is interesting! It’s raw octopus with wasabi! I know, I know, it may seem odd, but what you do is take a little spoonful of this, wrap it in the dried seaweed here, and pop the whole thing in your mouth –”

A loud crash of breaking glass cuts into their peaceful corner. “ANOTHER!” a brash voice roars. “WE WILL HAVE ALL THE DRINKS HERE!”

“Oh, dear,” Thoma murmurs. “I wonder what’s going on out there.”

From their secluded corner, they can hear their waitress saying, “Honourable guests. If you could please refrain from destroying – Sir, please, those beverages belong to the table out back. We are happy to make more for you –”

“Oh, I’m sure that table out back wouldn’t mind waiting! If they have any problems, tell them to take it up with Arataki Itto, the Oni Sumo King!”

Another more quiet voice chimes out, “…Boss, please. Contain yourself.”

“Why do I have a bad feeling about this,” Pulcinella mutters to no one in particular. 

Sure enough, seconds later, the waitress appears at their table, bowing profusely. “I – I’m so sorry, sirs! I will get you your orders straight away – !”

“No need, miss.” Tartaglia gets up and brushes the crumbs from his clothes. “The gentleman who took our orders said to take it up with…ah, what was his name again? Arataki Itto, the Oni Sumo King?”

“T – Childe,” Pulcinella warns. He recognizes the gleam in the boy’s eyes. It’s the same look he had when he beat up all those men as a 14-year-old kid, which cemented Pulcinella’s decision to recruit him, or more recently, the look he wore whenever he spent time out in the snowfields of murder. “You promised me your best behaviour. There was a pinky swear and everything. ‘You break a pinkie promise, I throw you on the ice’. Remember?”

Tartaglia pouts. “Yes, yes. ‘The cold will kill the pinkie that once betrayed your friend, the frost will freeze your tongue off so you never lie again.’ I remember the rhyme! But it’s just –”

Another loud crash, more raucous laughter. The waitress flinches at the sound of obvious destruction.

“I’m happy to intervene instead,” Thoma pipes up. “Also, I have to say, what an…interesting and rather intense rhyme. Is this customary in Snezhnaya to make oaths like this?”

“It is the tamest rhyme we have!” Tartaglia laughs. “But never you mind, Mr. Thoma. Please sit back down. P – Maccus and I can sort this out. Right, Maccus? I did promise to be on my best behaviour so I will hold back my strength. Does that make you feel better?”

Pulcinella supposes that realistically speaking, that’s the best deal he can get out of the bloodthirsty brat, and Tartaglia has been on excellent behaviour these past few days. He deserves a reward.

“Alright, alright, brat. Let’s get this over with. The rest of you, keep your eyes and ears out for any signs of trouble. It wouldn’t do us any good if our guide got hurt.”

“Yes, sir!”

He turns to their waitress. “Miss, please lead the way to this, ah, Oni Sumo.”

Honestly, she needn’t have bothered; it’s easy enough to find the man given how loud he is. His physical appearance is as equally wild as his demeanor with his messy white hair, the bright red lines of a tattoo running down his face, his arms and his torso bared open for the world to see, his bright clothing and the pair of blood-red horns protruding from his head. The man is seated at a table, surrounded by a handful of flunkies while the beer and sake meant for the Fatui’s table are beside him, still on a tray, untouched for now.

The man is also visibly drunk.

“Sumo King, I presume?” Tartaglia says by way of greeting, making the man turn and look up. “I believe you stole our order. Didn’t your parents teach you to wait for your turn?”

Pulcinella sighs and casually reaches into his jacket for his pistol, just in case.

The self-proclaimed Oni Sumo King, however, does not react. He looks Tartaglia up and down a few times before bursting into laughter.

“Damn, pretty boy! I hadn’t thought someone would seriously take me up on my offer!” He scoots over and pats the seat beside him. “I appreciate your courage! Come, come! Have a seat! I’m happy to share a beverage with a cute little thing like you!”

Pulcinella grimaces. Cute little thing? Sure, Tartaglia looks surprisingly slim, but he’s a tall bastard, sorta like a beanpole. But, Pulcinella supposes that next to the lumbering form of the Oni Sumo King, anybody would seem small.

“Hm, is that all?” Tartaglia says, unimpressed. “Thanks but no thanks. If there’s nothing else, I will be taking our drinks back.”

As Tartaglia reaches for the beverages, a large hand flies out, lightning speed, and grips his wrist. 

“Now, you’re just being rude, pretty,” the Oni King says with just a hint of a growl in his voice. “I was just trying to be poli – ”

Tartaglia breaks out of his grip, grabs his thick wrist and twists his arm behind his back. The man yelps in pain, but he doesn’t have time to do anything else. In the next second, Tartaglia, with his free hand and in a display of ferocious strength, grabs the man by his white hair and slams his face into the table with a loud, alarming crack, the force of which sends all the plates and bottles rattling up a storm. 

“Boss!”

“Boss Itto!”

Before the flunkies can even intervene, Tartaglia yanks the Oni King’s head back by his hair. With his grip tight on the head and arm, he forces the larger man out of his chair, and proceeds to drag the flailing, screeching, now bleeding, man through the pub, then out the door.

There is a loud crash, some vigorous shouts, and a series of dull thuds that sound like flesh smacking against flesh. Then, silence.

Tartaglia walks back into the silent pub, not a strand of hair out of place, and casually brushes the dust from his pristine clothes.

“I would advise you to leave,” he says, calm as can be to the wide-eyed flunkies. “Before I make you.”

They don’t need to be told twice.

Pulcinella sighs again, drops a generous bag of mora on the now vacant table, grabs the tray of drinks, and saunters towards Tartaglia. 

“There, happy? You got that out of your system?” he asks so quietly that only Tartaglia can hear. “And what happened to holding back your strength? You decimated that man in three seconds, Little Tart.”

Tartaglia shrugs. “What? I didn’t kill him or maim him. I was being good!”

“…You and I are going to have to sit down and have a long chat about your definition of good behaviour.”

The rest of the Inazuma trip passes by in a whirlwind of activities, jumping from one photo op (Tartaglia playing Temari with the children) to another photo op (Tartaglia visiting the main castle in a stunning blue kimono) to even more photo ops (Tartaglia watching fireworks, Tartaglia fishing to his great delight, and Tartaglia visiting Yae Publishing House to the excitement of all the staff there). So when they’ve reached their last night in Inazuma, Pulcinella and the whole crew are beat and are ready to go home.

“What do we have left on the agenda?” Tartaglia asks. Even he’s starting to look a bit ragged. “Please tell me it’s something relaxing. I need to sleep for five days straight.”

Pulcinella pulls out his notebook and checks their itinerary. “You’re in luck. We’re spending the rest of the day and the night over at an onsen. Same vibe as the banya except instead of a steam room, you get into a hot tub.”

At those words, Tartaglia’s face lights up. Pulcinella reckons that this is probably the happiest Tartaglia looks during this entire trip, even happier than the fishing photo shoot.

He has every reason to look happy. The onsen is in a beautiful location at the outskirts of town, tucked away in a forested area for added privacy. Upon stepping foot into the property, Pulcinella is awash by a sense of tranquility and peace from the elegant wooden decors and the light music playing in the background. It also helps that Thoma had booked the entire bathhouse during their stay so the team has free reign to all the pools.

Truly, it’s the perfect way to unwind after a long and tiring trip, Pulcinella muses as he and Tartaglia explore the site, dressed in their complimentary bathrobes and, in Pulcinella’s case, armed with a kamera for the last photo shoot of the trip.

“Make it quick, would you?” Tartaglia grumbles, sliding the door to an outside courtyard open, “I want to get into the hot spring – ”

He stops, mid-sentence. 

Pulcinella’s head whips in the direction where Targalia’s staring. Lying down casually on a lounge chair by a heating lamp, cozied up in a white bathrobe is –  

“Sumo King?” Pulcinella splutters. “What the hell are you doing here? Wait, how did you get in? We have the whole place booked!”

Sumo King grins. “I snuck in, but never mind that. Yo!” he gives Tartaglia a little wave. “Finally found you, Cute-Stranger-Who-Punched-Me-in-the-Face! Or should I say, Mr. Snow Princ – ack!”

The man rolls out of the way as Tartaglia’s hydro blade swings down. Had he been a second slower, he would have been decapitated.

Apparently, that’s not enough to scare him because he laughs, loud and annoying. “Looks like my men weren’t lying!” he says, ducking and dodging the flurry of swipes with surprising ease for a man with such a large body. “When I woke up with a splitting headache and a taped-up nose, my men told me that some Snezhnayan beauty knocked my ass to the ground in three seconds flat for stealing his drinks! I almost didn’t believe them! But then, they recognize your face on your posters and…well…I just have to know!”

“And your instinct is to find me despite how quickly I defeated you. You’re not very bright, are you?” 

Tartaglia draws back to slam his hydro blades together by the hilt. Streams of water flow from his hands, and as he pulls apart, water fills the gap in between, stretching and transforming his blades into a two-headed spear. He spins his new weapon with deft hands, getting ready to strike. “I had promised to be on my best behaviour that evening so I hadn’t killed you then. I make no such promise now –”

“Technically, you did make a promise,” Pulcinella interrupts what is no doubt going to be Tartaglia’s Bad Guy Soliloquy. “You promised to be on your best behaviour for the entire Inazuma trip so…” he eyes the spear and gives Tartaglia a look, ignoring the growing scowl on his junior’s face. “Put that away, please.”

“But – he –”

Pulcinella’s expression hardens. “You break a pinkie promise, I throw you on the ice.”

Tartaglia’s jaw snaps shut and dispels the weapon. Good. Pulcinella is not dealing with an international incident.

The Sumo King pokes his head out from behind a tree. “Aww, is the fun over already? And here I was getting excited to see what you can do with that nifty weapon!”

“Shut it, you,” Pulcinella snaps. “Give me one good reason why I shouldn’t call a guard and have you put down like the dog that you are.”

“Wait, wait, wait! Hear me out.” The Sumo King says, waving his hands as he steps out of his hiding spot completely. “I came here because I wanted a rematch against Mr. Snow Prince! What say you to some good ol' fashioned hand-to-hand combat?”

For fuck’s sake! “Absolutely n –”

“I accept!” Tartaglia answers quickly and with way too much excitement than Pulcinella cares to hear. “I completely and utterly accept! How many rounds are we talking about? Three? Five? Seven?”

Pulcinella yanks the boy towards him. “What did I just say about best behaviour?” he hisses. 

“I promise not to use my vision, kill him or maim him,” Tartaglia replies. “That’s best behaviour right there!”

“We’re really going to have to have that talk about your definition of best behaviour,” Pulcinella mutters just as the Sumo King cries out: “I’m happy with those terms! And as a show of good faith on my end, I promise not to bruise that pretty face. C’mon! What are we standing around for? Let’s do this already!”

Ah, fuck it. Pulcinella tried. “You know what? I give up. I give up and I’m going to go lie down.”

He does keep an eye on the fight though, just in case. Now that the promise of death is off the table, Pulcinella can’t help but find the sight of two grown men fighting in nothing but their bathrobes an utterly ridiculous one. It’s made all the more ridiculous because the Sumo King towers over Tartaglia in terms of height, and is easily twice as wide as the boy. Why Tartaglia jumped at the opportunity to fight the man when the odds are stacked against him is beyond Pulcinella. It probably has to do with Tartaglia’s bizarre obsession to grow stronger 24-7.

But the boy is a Harbinger and a vanguard at that. He wouldn’t get that far without knowing how to kick some ass.

And kick ass he did. The Sumo King makes the first move and lunges forward, just to grab at thin air when Tartaglia, at the very last second, ducks out of the way. He pivots, bringing his long, pale leg up, and slams the heel into the other’s lower back, sending the other sprawling face-first into the grass. 

Tartaglia also seems completely unaware of the way his bathrobe is starting to gape open at the front, and how he’s starting to show a lot of thigh. It’s quite the look. Definitely a racy one that’s bound to sell tons if made into postcards.

Pulcinella snaps a picture.

The click of the kamera has Tartaglia whipping his head in his direction. “Really? You’re taking pictures of this? Why?”

“We still need to do one last photo shoot. I might as well get the job done now,” Pulcinella points out and snaps more pictures. He continues pressing that shutter button as he witnesses the Sumo King’s multiple attempts at grabbing the boy, only to have Tartaglia dance away each time, his movement causing the bottom of his bathrobe to flutter up and showing tantalizing glimpses of more creamy skin. 

Okay, so maybe this hand-to-hand combat thing isn’t such a bad idea. The Narwhals are going to pay an arm and a leg for this! Oh, and to up demand, he can release these pictures as part of a limited edition collection. Have, like, 100 copies sold for each nation except for Snezhnaya and Liyue. The (beautiful!) Tsaritsa would be sure to approve of his plans.

“I can see the greedy look on your face, old man!” Tartaglia accuses. “Whatever it is that you’re thinking, stop it.”

“You should pay attention to the fight, boyo!” Pulcinella says as he takes more pictures. “But if you’re going to pose for me, can you look to the side for just one second?”

“Are you serious? I am in the middle of – !”

His words cut off as the Sumo King deftly grabs him by the waist and slams him to the ground. “Ha!” he gloats. “Gotcha, you slippery little – woah! WOAH!”

Tartaglia is hardly one to stay pinned down. Battle instincts kicking into place, he immediately swings one leg over and rolls, flipping the bigger body so that the Sumo King comes careening to the side to land on the ground with thud. Tartaglia scrambles over that large body, legs straddling the Sumo King’s hips. With one hand, he pushes against the chest to stabilize himself and to keep the other from thrashing about while the other snakes around the thick neck and squeezes the windpipes in warning.

“I win!” Tartaglia announces in delight.

The Sumo King snorts. “Not much of a win when my arms are still free and I can always just do this!” His hands fly to Tartaglia’s hips. “It’ll be easy to just lift…you…ah.”

If Pulcinella had a bowl of popcorn, he’d be snacking on them right now as he pays rapt attention at the scene he’s witnessing. During their scuffle, Tartaglia’s robes have become loose and disarrayed such that the collar is slipping off one of his shoulders, revealing a swath of pretty, pale freckled skin and just a hint of dusky nipple. The robe has also ridden up, way, way up, revealing those long, toned legs all the way up to his upper thighs, those same milky thighs that are still straddling the Sumo King.

Whose large hands are wrapped around Tartaglia’s hips, fingers brushing against Tartaglia’s pert ass.

It also probably doesn’t help that Tartaglia, fresh out of battle, is flushed prettily, the pink to his cheeks bringing out the blue of his eyes and the fire in his auburn hair.

Pulcinella can pinpoint the exact moment where all those dots are connected in the Sumo King’s mind because in the next second, the man’s face goes beet red.

“Uh…I…um…” the man stammers, growing redder by the second.

Tartaglia tilts his head, confused. “Hm?”

The (admittedly) adorable gesture only makes the Sumo King go brighter. 

Pulcinella can’t help himself. He snaps a few pictures.

The sound is enough to cut through the tension. “Really? You’re still taking pictures?” Tartaglia hisses. “Aren’t you done already?”

Pulcinella grins. “Now I am!”

(It’s adorable how the Oni King acts afterwards; he quickly admits defeat, stammers out a fresh set of apologies and just…flees like a dog with its tail tucked between its legs.)

(Pulcinella manages to stop the man before he escapes completely though and hands him a photo, a copy of the Straddling one.)

(“A gift for you to remember him by,” he says. “Also as thanks for your unknowing cooperation in the photo shoot. Your contribution has certainly made this a memorable experience!”)

(Judging by the way the man is clutching onto the photo like the most precious of all treasures, Pulcinella has no doubt in his mind that Tartaglia has won himself another Narwhal.) 

Chapter Text

Given the weeklong stay in Inazuma, it’s no surprise that fans in Inazuma have more than gotten their fair share of photos of the Snow Prince out and about. Pictures of him frolicking in public are spreading with lightning speed, and among those, many feature him happily spending time with Thoma, exploring the city. 

Tartaglia’s confrontation with Itto in the pub has also been caught by a few, sneaky fans. Pictures of Tartaglia tossing the Sumo King out of the Izakaya like trash are also making their rounds in the public, as with, apparently, the little pleased smirk on his face after knocking Itto out.

The sudden release of these photos where the Ice Prince is seen interacting with Other People have an…unexpected outcome, according to Pulcinella’s reports.

“Underling 7,” Pulcinella calls out from his desk, still frowning at the report in hand, “You wrote here that there is a rise of ‘unauthorized, underground publication of fictional works, particularly those featuring Lord Tartaglia and the two gentlemen from Inazuma.’ What exactly do you mean by that?”

Underling 7 coughs lightly into her fist. “Sir, there have been some…ah, unsanctioned fictional depictions of Lord Tartaglia in a romantic relationship either with our guide, Mr. Thoma, or with the Sumo King, Mr. Arataki Itto.”

Pulcinella blinks.

Huh. 

“What form do these publications take?”

“Fictional stories and artwork, sir, ranging from lighthearted romance to the…uh…more explicit work. These fans who support Lord Tartaglia entering into a relationship with either Mr. Thoma or Mr. Arataki have begun calling themselves ‘Shippers’. Short for ‘relationshippers’.”

Huh.

“I should also mention that these Shippers are a particularly fierce sub-genre of Narwhals and will defend not only Lord Tartaglia, but the person with whom they are ‘shipping’ Lord Tartaglia. Due to the ferociousness of these fans, factions have formed with one group supporting Lord Tartaglia with Mr. Thoma while the other group supports Lord Tartaglia with Mr. Arataki. There also seems to be factions within the first group. There are fans who support Lord Tartaglia in a…uh…more dominant role in the relationship with Mr. Thoma versus those who support Lord Tartaglia in a more submissive role –”

“Alright, alright, you can stop now,” Pulcinella says, holding a hand up. “One question: how much merch have these shippers purchased from us in the past?”

“They are among the highest spenders and the most enthusiastic type of fans, sir. Further, the fictional works they publish and disseminate act as advertising to draw in more potential customers to Lord Tartaglia.”

Pulcinella nods. “Fantastic. In the Inazuma magazine, load it up with pictures of Tartaglia with Mr. Thoma and Mr. Arataki. Split the content down to 50/50 so it wouldn’t appear that we’re favouring one faction over another.”

“…Sir?”

“I’m all for giving the people what they want,” Pulcinella smirks. “Especially if those people are willing to open their hearts and their wallets to the Snow Prince.”

As Underling 7 rightly points out, the Shippers’ stories and artwork are doing their job in providing further advertising to Tartaglia and his trip in Inazuma, drawing up even more hype for the upcoming magazine. Some of those works are getting so popular that the Yae Publishing House have agreed to publish and sell them to overseas customers.

Pulcinella knows exactly when the first batch of these books and artwork made their way to Liyue. It’s the day that also coincides with when Liyue experiences one of the largest earthquakes in history. Luckily, its epicenter appears to be from Jueyun Karst, so it is believed that the adepti living there contained the worst of the damage. 

Still, according to some of the patrolling Millelith, they could’ve sworn that Jueyan Karst appears to have more mountains than they remember. The landscape seems to be particularly littered with huge, jagged pillars sticking up from the earth that reminds them all too much of the formations in Guyun Stone Forest. 

He mentions all this in his meeting with the Tsaritsa (may her reign be unstoppable!)

“The old dragon doesn’t look like he’ll last long,” she says cryptically with the slightest (and most elegant!) upturn of her lips. “A good thing, because at this rate, Liyue Harbour will crumble to the ocean floor from his tantrums. When are the magazines slated to be released?”

“In a week, your Imperial Highness. I have a first copy with me if you would like to peruse.”

She flips through the pages, slowly, carefully, her expression neutral, pausing only a little at the last page.

“I would like a piece of paper and a pen.”

The guards lining her throne room jump to attention and immediately fetch what she needs. Pulcinella watches as she calmly writes a quick note, then neatly fold it into thirds, before sealing it, tucking it into the magazine, and closing the cover.

“Have this delivered to Wangsheng Funeral Parlour in Liyue addressed to the consultant who works there,” the Tsaritsa orders as Pulcinella receives the magazine with a bow. “Time the parcel’s arrival to coincide with the magazines’ publication in Liyue.”

“Yes, your Imperial Highness. Is there anything you would like me to do?”

She leans back into her throne and taps her finger against her chin.

“More photoshoots of Tartaglia in cheongsams wouldn’t hurt.”

The week passes by in relative peace as the magazines are finalized and printed without any issues. Pulcinella also hands off the parcel to an underling bound for Liyue with clear instructions to hand deliver it to the consultant working for Wangsheng Funeral Parlour the morning the magazines are set to be released. With his duty carried out, Pulcinella then turns his mind to his many, many other projects. He’s still got a lot to do, including setting up that Cheongsam Photoshoot version 2.0 that the Tsaritsa wants.

He’s so busy that he doesn’t even think about planning a special celebration for the magazine’s launch. In fact, on the morning that the magazine is published worldwide, he finds himself deep into his task as the director for the Cheongsam Photoshoot.

“More light in that corner, please! I also want the backdrop to be a bit further away and the rug for the runway moved three inches to the left! No – I said three inches, not five inches! Three!”

“Pulcinella!”

Pulcinella looks up in time to see Tartaglia storming towards him, expression dark. He’s also clutching a scrap of black, lacy fabric.

Honestly, if looks could kill, Tartaglia would’ve long murdered Pulcinella. As it stands, the older man merely crosses his arms and arches his brow at his junior’s dramatic appearance. “Yes, my little Tartiflette? How can I help you?”

“What the hell is this?” Tartaglia shakes the bundle of cloth towards Pulcinella.

So dramatic. “What do you mean? That’s one of your outfits for the photoshoot. It’s a cheongsam!”

“This,” Tartaglia says with another shake of his fist, “is not a cheongsam! This is – is indecency! In clothing form!”

Pulcinella pauses and contemplates those words. “I mean, sure, you can call it that but it is technically still a cheongsam. It’s got the proper cut, the collar and it’s long-ish!”

“But it doesn’t even cover anything!” Tartaglia cries. “There are no sides to this outfit! It’s just some…some flimsy string that’s keeping the front and the back panels together! Everybody can see everything!”

“Not true. People can’t see your front or your back. Sure, they can see the sides –” 

“They can see all the sides, from my armpit all the way down to my ass and legs!” Tartaglia hisses. “I’m not wearing this!”

Pulcinella sighs. “Right. I figured this would be the case. How about a deal? Wear it for the photoshoot and I’ll get the Dottore to develop a shiny new weapon for you.”

Tartaglia pauses. “…How shiny?”

Pulcinella leans in, “Shiny enough…to blow up a mountain or two?”

The speed in which Tartaglia scurries back to the changing room is impressive.

But not as impressive as the figure Tartaglia cuts as he struts onto the set wearing that outfit with a matching set of black stilettoes and arm-length gloves, or the number of Underlings who simultaneously have to excuse themselves for a ‘washroom break’. 

As Tartaglia described it, the cheongsam he’s wearing leaves his sides completely bare save for the dark strings crisscrossing over his hips and along his ribs. Given how…open the outfit is, even the slightest breeze can flip the front and back panels of the dress, revealing all of Tartaglia.

Especially since he’s most definitely not wearing underwear.

“This weapon better be the shiniest thing I’ve laid my eyes on,” Tartaglia grumbles. “Also, these shoes suck.”

“The price of beauty is pain,” Pulcinella answers jovially. “But if it makes you feel better, those heels are doing wonders for your legs and ass –”

All of a sudden, the ground shakes. The equipment rattles and sways dangerously as the building around them groans and creaks as if its very foundation is being threatened. Pulcinella braces himself against a nearby pillar to keep himself upright.

“What the –”

More tremors, more violent this time around. They send the lights and heating lamps crashing to the ground, shattering into pieces. Cursing, Pulcinella dives for the nearest table and ducks under it. From his new hiding spot, he sees Tartaglia doing the same. “Everybody! Take cover!”

But his orders are futile because in the next second, the world is filled with blinding, golden light and then, the entire side of the building just…crumbles into nothingness with a deafening crash and a great big plume of dust. All the things close to that wall are blown inwards, and Pulcinella’s arms fly to his head to shield him from any debris.

“Fuck!” he coughs, lifting his head up when the last of the tremors fade away. “What in the Archons is that?!”

He squints through the dissipating dust, and as the mysterious gold light around them slowly dims, he thinks he can make out a dark shadow from the distance, getting closer and closer.

He sees the figure – a tall man, dressed in an elaborate brown and gold silk suit clearly Liyuan in style – step over the crumbling stones that once formed the wall of the building. The man looks calm, almost expressionless, except for the fury blazing in his golden eyes. Who the fuck – 

“M – Mr. Zhongli?!” Tartaglia chokes out.

“Do you know that guy, Tartatouille?” Pulcinella shouts. When Tartaglia doesn’t respond, he turns to the man who’s coming closer and closer. “Oy! Oy, you! This property belongs to the Glorious Tsaritsa! How dare – ”

“Pulcinella, shut up if you don’t want to die!” Tartaglia hisses, scrambling out from under his hiding spot. He gets up, legs a little wobbly either from the minor tremors still shaking the ground or from his killer stilettos, Pulcinella’s not sure which, but he manages to find his balance. “Mr. Zhongli! What are you doing here? How did you even get here?” He eyes the non-existent wall. “Wait, did – did you do that?”

The elegant fellow – Mr. Zhongli, apparently – flits his golden eyes towards Tartaglia. “I flew here,” he says as if that answers anything. Then he carefully removes his outer coat, walks over to Tartaglia, and drapes the coat over his shoulders.

“Uh…Mr. Zhongli?”

“The dress…it is, flapping,” Mr. Zhongli murmurs as he continues to wrap the jacket around Tartaglia’s body despite the mortified choking sounds Tartaglia’s making. Pulcinella can’t help but notice just how tightly the man is bundling Tartaglia up, or the possessive way his hands rest on Tartaglia’s waist even after the task is done. “I apologize. I had…lost control of my anger. I didn’t mean to destroy the building, but I cannot say I fully regret my actions, not after receiving her threat and not when I have seen with my own eyes the way they treat you with such disrespect.”

“I – threat? Disrespect?” Tartaglia shakes his head. He doesn’t try to dislodge Mr. Zhongli’s hold though, which has Pulcinella really paying attention. “Mr. Zhongli, I don’t understand.”

“We can discuss this in greater detail later,” Mr. Zhongli says. “Let’s get you to somewhere safe, far away from her dominion – ”

“My, my, Morax. First, you barge into my nation without so much as a greeting and now, you are attempting to steal my Harbinger?"

The temperature plummets to the point where frost is starting to crawl up the stone walls and spread along the ground, but Pulcinella is not paying attention, not when his mind is reeling at the fact that his (glorious, beautiful, powerful) Tsaritsa is here and that she addressed this man as, “Morax?!”

Pulcinella scrambles out from under the table and rushes towards his queen, pulling out his pistol. “Men! Guard the Tsaritsa!”

That snaps everyone out of their stupor and within seconds the soldiers surround the two archons, guns cocked and pointing at the elegant man.

“There is no need,” the Tsaritsa says with a wave of her regal hand. “Stand down.”

Pulcinella glances back at his queen. “But, your Imperial Highness – !”

The Tsaritsa reaches out and pats at his raised arm that’s still holding the pistol up. “Stand down, Pulcinella,” she says. “All is well. Morax is only here for a chat, isn’t he? If he does anything more, dear Tartaglia will be upset with him.”

The man – Morax - pulls himself in front of Tartaglia, the previous gentle expression dissolving into the same look of fury he was wearing when making his entrance. The ground begins to shake ever so slightly. “Upset with me?” he growls out, “You dare utter such words when it is you who’s putting him through this humiliation!”

“Woah, woah, Mr. Zhongli, slow down.” Tartaglia presses a hand against Morax’s back and, oddly enough, it works at calming the other down. The floor stops shaking, thank the fucking Archons. “I don’t know what you’re talking about. Humiliation? What humiliation?”

Zhongli glances back towards him and frowns. “You mean to tell me that you willingly got into your current outfit?”

At that, Tartaglia chuckles awkwardly. “Ah, I mean, sorta? I didn’t want to at first –”

That is the wrong thing to say apparently. “You were coerced,” Morax concludes, the growl in his voice apparent once more. “I should have shown up sooner and put an end to this but I – I thought, I wanted –  no, never mind. I have miscalculated, but I am here now and I will not stand for this.”

There’s a flash of gold, the same gold that had first appeared just before the side of the building disappeared, and Pulcinella braces himself for more destruction, but the gold dissipates, instead, transforming into a shimmering, glittering barrier around Tartaglia.

Then, a long, golden spear materializes in Morax’s hand.

“You will let us through,” the Geo Archon commands (commands! The audacity!) the Tsaritsa. “Or I will force my way out of here and destroy anything and everything that dares to stand in my path.”

Tartaglia makes a soft sound that sounds suspiciously like a cross between a whimper and a moan.

Pulcinella glares at him because really? This is what gets him hot and bothered?

The Tsaritsa breaks into a peal of laughter like bright, chiming bells. “What right do you have to be so protective over my little Tartaglia? It is I whom he swore his loyalty to, it is I who is his Archon while you,” her face twists into a sneer, “you are just some foreign archon who so readily discarded him after he’s served his purposes, so tell me, what are you to him for you to make your unwanted claims of protection so boldly?”

“Cease your lies! I did not discard him,” Morax growls out, the gold in his eyes flaring bright and molten as the floor starts shaking anew. “I have never discarded him!”

Pulcinella may be dreaming but for a split second, he swears he can see something bright and golden protruding from the Geo Archon’s head…like a set of curling horns? But in the next blink of an eye, the image is gone.

“Haven’t you?” The Tsaritsa crosses her arms over her chest. “My Tartaglia? Would you care to elaborate?”

“I – ” Morax blinks, turning to a sheepish-looking Tartaglia. “…Childe?”

“I thought you wanted nothing to do with me…after the mission,” Tartaglia admits, his voice soft as he grips the jacket around him tightly. “I haven’t seen you since the day at the bank. I tried to find you at Wanmin Restaurant or Wangsheng Funeral Parlour but nobody could tell me where you were. It was as if you disappeared entirely. I waited for you, you know. On the last day when I was set to leave. I waited all day at Wanmin but you never showed up. What else was I supposed to think, Mr. Zhongli?”

The ferociousness melts away from Morax as understanding dawns on his face. “Oh, Childe, I’m so sorry.” Morax actually looks apologetic too, which is just absolutely wild to Pulcinella, holy fuck. What is he witnessing here? “I thought it was important to give you some space after my betrayal. You had been so incredibly hurt. I did not want to rub salt to the wound, so I thought it would be prudent if I made myself scarce and left Liyue Harbour until things settle down. It was never my intention to make you think I did not care, or that I had abandoned you. I would have not abandoned my promise to you so easily.”

Promise? What promise?

Tartaglia seems to understand what Morax is saying because he merely shrugs helplessly. “Yeah, well…Where did you go, anyway?”

“I ventured into Jueyun Karst and apologized to the adepti for making them worry.” Morax chuckles. “Cloud Retainer…had not been pleased with me at all. But when I came back to Liyue Harbour, I discovered you had returned to Snezhnaya and…”

“You thought I hadn’t forgiven you,” Tartaglia answers with a snort. “As if I can hold a grudge against you, Mr. Zhongli.”

“Oh, Celestia,” Pulcinella cuts in because he’s had enough of this. He’s seen enough. “You’re both idiots. You are in love with each other, for fuck’s sake! So much drama and pining for nothing. And no, Tartaglia, you can stop making that surprised, keening sound of denial. Morax clearly returns your feelings. He wouldn’t have flown over here and destroyed a building otherwise!

“And you!” he turns to Morax, “Tell him how you feel. Clearly. Bluntly. Because he’s an idiot.”

Morax looks startled. “Of course I do. I thought this matter was settled when he accepted my engagement proposal. As I had said before, I would not abandon my promise to him.”

Tartaglia snaps his head towards Morax and chokes out a strangled, “What? I thought – weren’t you talking about a promise to work together? Like an alliance?”

Morax frowns. “No, I was referring to a second promise, one cemented in stone when you had accepted those marriage chopsticks.”

“What?” Pulcinella intones. 

“What?” the Tsaritsa asks, equally unimpressed.

“…Oh dear,” Morax says, finally dispelling his weapon. “It appears we are due for a long chat after all.”

So, it turns out that Tartaglia had gotten himself accidentally engaged to the oldest Archon in Teyvat. Who would’ve guessed?

Certainly not Pulcinella, who has the pleasure of sitting next to his (glorious! Magnificent!) Tsaritsa in the Tea Room as Morax and Tartaglia (still in that cheongsam, still wrapped in Morax’s jacket) make themselves comfortable on the couch across the table. Although Tartaglia was offered the opportunity to change back into his normal clothes, it turns out that the side of the building Morax had destroyed included the changing rooms, leaving all of Tartaglia’s original clothes buried under several feet of rubble.

(Nobody was brave enough to approach Tartaglia and offer a replacement set of clothing, not with the way Morax’s gold eyes would stare them down if they get within a foot of the ginger. Pulcinella didn’t offer because he can’t be arsed, not after the ridiculousness he had to witness with his own two eyes.)

“So,” the Tsaritsa says, stirring her tea idly and taking a dainty sip. “Let me see if I am understanding things correctly. You’re telling me that you proposed to my youngest a good seven months ago at a restaurant.”

Morax nods. “Correct.”

“And you proposed to him following a time-honoured Liyue tradition by presenting him with a pair of, as you call it, dragon and phoenix marriage chopsticks? Which he accepted?”

“Yes.”

“Without informing him the significance of said acceptance, especially given the fact that my youngest is, in fact, not Liyuan?”

Morax freezes.

“Further, you proposed with chopsticks that my youngest then had to pay for, because for some reason, it is not within Lord Morax’s capacity to pay for his own gift for his betrothed despite mora comes from him –”

The wince is more pronounced. “…Ah.”

“Also, the marriage proposal happened during the meal, which my youngest paid for as well,” the Tsaritsa concludes, setting her teacup down. “I believe I have a very clear understanding of what transpired, now, but I do have a question. Tell me, Morax, is it a Liyue custom to disrespect their would-be spouse using penny-pinching trickery, or is it just you who are employing such tactics?”

Both Pulcinella and Tartaglia hide their collective grimaces by taking a big sip of their tea. But more noticeably, Tartaglia does not speak up in defence of Morax.

Morax, for all of his apparent obliviousness when it comes to human sentiments, notices the silence. He turns to Tartaglia, his eyes huge and devastatingly sad. “I – Childe. I have disrespected you greatly. No wonder you thought I had abandoned you after the mission was over. No wonder you doubt the depths of my affection towards you even now.”

“Ah, Mr. Zhongli…”

Morax takes Tartaglia’s gloved hand in both of his, cradling it like it is the most delicate thing in the world. The soft gesture has Tartaglia flushing bright red.

“I cannot leave my own lack of foresight unremedied. It is only right that I correct this to cast away any doubts you may have towards my sincerity. Tell me, what is it that I need to do to correct this wrong?”

“I – uh, Mr. Zhongli,” Tartaglia stammers, “it’s f –”

“Nope! Don’t you dare say it’s fine, Tarte aux fraises. We’re not about to brush this aside with just an apology.” Pulcinella crosses his arms over his chest. “There needs to be a do-over, except this time, Tart here needs to be courted properly. And with all the glitz and glam suited to court a Harbinger and the future spouse of Rex Lapis Morax.”

He turns to Tartaglia. “Will that work for you? Also, you can use this opportunity to get everything you want as a betrothal present, so…”

“I guess that works,” Tartaglia says. “It’d be nice to be proposed to when I know what’s really happening. As for the betrothal present, all I really want are more shiny weapons and a chance to fight more powerful people…”

Pulcinella manages to hide his sigh. Leave it to Tartaglia to wish for something so simple despite having the God of Wealth literally at his feet.

Zhongli chuckles and presses a kiss against the back of Tartaglia’s hand. “I can certainly grant you those and more, though I am a bit concerned by the powerful people you have in your sight.”

“Oh, well there’s you of course,” Tartaglia says with a bright grin. “Don’t frown at me like that, Mr. Zhongli! How can I not fight the Geo Archon? There’s that Guardian Yaksha from Wangshu Inn. I heard he’s pretty powerful so I’d love to cross blades with him. Oh, I also want to fight the two birds and that reindeer who showed up during the Osial Incident, and then, there’s Osial himself though maybe I should give him a chance to recuperate first before challenging him, and there’s someone called Azhdaha, who’s a giant geovishap?”

With every new name, Morax’s face looks more and more pained. Pulcinella takes back his last thought – Tartaglia’s betrothal present request is not at all simple. It’s just the right blend of complexity and pain in the ass that meets Pulcinella’s approval. Good job, Tiny Tart!

The Tsaritsa is similarly pleased with this arrangement, going by how her lips are curled upwards just slightly. “Those are fine requests for betrothal presents,” she says, and resumes drinking her tea. “Well, Morax? Do you agree to those terms.”

Morax looks like he swallowed a sour lemon. “I suppose I will have to.”

“Before I forget, I also want the shiny weapon Pulcinella promised me,” Tartaglia adds, all casual-like. “Soooo, I want to finish the photoshoot you interrupted, especially since I’m dressed for it already. You’re alright with that, right, Mr. Zhongli?”

Pulcinella forces his expression to remain stony despite the ferocious glare he finds himself pinned under by one angry dragon god.

….Dammit, Tartaglia, you little turd!

They finish the photoshoot in a new building, though accomplishing that is a small miracle given the fact that they have an angry dragon god fuming in the corner for the entirety of the shoot. It definitely doesn’t help that Pulcinella’s selection of cheongsams for Tartaglia gets…racier as the session progresses, with the last one nothing more than just scraps of dark cloth strategically covering the nipples and the crotch with mesh everywhere else, leaving very little to the imagination.

It also doesn’t help that Tartaglia, accurately reading Morax’s darkening mood, gives what is possibly the best performance out of all the photoshoots they’ve done thus far; he drapes himself over the table, arches his back, stares at the camera full of sultry seduction that leaves many underlings blushing and shifting to hide their, ah, growing problems. He does tone it down when the tremors in the ground grow to be a bit too violent.

Pulcinella barely calls out, “And that’s a wrap!” before Morax storms forward, wraps the boy in his jacket and…throws him over his shoulders, all in one smooth gesture. As he marches out of the room, Tartaglia, the little shit, has the audacity to give a little wave and a wink to Pulcinella from where he’s hanging over the god’s shoulder.

…Ah well, at least the boy won’t be able to get out of bed for the next two weeks or so, let alone cause more trouble for Pulcinella to clean up so he’s taking that as a win.

He fully expects not to see Tartaglia or Morax for the next week or two, which is why upon returning to his office from his lunch break three days post-photoshoot, he almost has a heart attack at the sight of Morax calmly waiting for him in the guest chair, quietly nursing a cup of tea in his hands.

“Uh, Lord Morax,” Pulcinella greets with a polite dip of his head. “How can I help you? I hope you weren’t waiting for me for too long.”

For a man who undoubtedly spent the last three days fucking (Pulcinella had to declare the guest wing of the palace a no visitors zone after having received multiple reports about floor tremors accompanied by shameless amounts of amorous cries that can be heard ringing down the hallway), Morax looks impeccably put together with not even a wrinkle on his suit.

“I did not wait for long. Thank you for asking. I do, however, have a couple of matters I wish to discuss with you.”

Hoo boy. This should be interesting.

Pulcinella grabs a seat. So far, the Archon looks calm but just in case, he keeps his hand on the pistol he’s got strapped under his desk. “Sure, what are those matters?”

“What do you intend to do with the photos from the latest photoshoot?”

Hoo boy! “I intend to use them for postcards, posters, and magazine spreads,” Pulcinella admits. “We also have a contract with Yae Publishing House to make something called a ‘body pillow’, which is just a full-body print of Tartaglia superimposed over a body-sized pillow.”

Morax’s lips are pressed into a thin line. Not a fan of the body pillow idea, clearly. 

“How much?”

“Pardon?” 

“How much are you selling these products for?” Morax elaborates.

Pulcinella has an idea of where this is going. “Do you want a price per item or in total?”

“Total.”

“If you’re seeking to buy my entire stock, I’m afraid I cannot acquiesce,” Pulcinella answers. “The purpose of these products is to advertise the Fatui and generate public goodwill. The value generated from our advertising efforts in terms of boosting our reputation is immeasurable. Merely covering the price of the products would be unfair to us.”

“But there is a factor unaccounted for,” Zhongli rebuts, “and that’s the goodwill you will lose with the deities of Liyue if you were to publish those photos.”

“Sure,” Pulcinella shrugs. “But there are two counter points to consider. First, the Tsaritsa has ordered me to create and disseminate a new set of fan merch. Last I check, I take my orders from my Archon, not you, Lord Morax. Second, Tartaglia himself has given me his permission to publish these photos and going by past experiences, something tells me Tartaglia will enjoy the new wave of popularity these merch will bring him.” 

That has Morax frowning deeply, as predicted. Pulcinella did play the ‘your-future-wife-likes-it-so-don’t-disappoint-him’ card, which is a bit mean and manipulative and 1000% up Pulcinella’s alley. But the god had come into his office and threatened him, soooo it’s all fair game as far as he’s concerned.

”Perhaps a compromise instead,” Morax says. “Your Tsaritsa has ordered you to create and disseminate a new set of merchandise, but she did not specify they have to be from your most recent photoshoot, correct?”

Ah, there’s a reason why Morax is the God of Contracts. Very good.

“That is correct,” Pulcinella says. “But the photos from the recent photoshoot will generate a hefty profit, quite possibly the most we will ever see, so whatever it is you are offering should be of consummate or greater value. Oh, and with Tartaglia’s approval of course.”

Morax nods. “Aside from the more…risqué photos, what generated the most revenue for you.”

Pulcinella steeples his fingers and grins.

“A couple’s photoshoot?” Tartaglia blinks. “With Zhongli? And he’s okay with this?”

“He was the one who offered,” Pulcinella says, “to replace the last sets of photos you took, which he does not want them to be distributed across Teyvat for, you know, possessive dragon god reasons, I imagine.”

“Hmm, he is those things,” Tartaglia murmurs, reaching for one of the large, round bruises at the side of his neck. “What’s going to happen with the last set of photos, then?”

“You both get to keep them. I even threw in the outfits you wore for the shoot as a gesture of goodwill.” It’s not like Pulcinella has any use for them, and going by how Morax practically lit up at the notion of getting those outfits, the god clearly appreciates them.

(Pulcinella does send a little prayer for Tartaglia’s ass though.)

“But why a couple’s photoshoot? I didn’t think Zhongli would care for the publicity.”

“I told him that the substitute I’d accept is going to have to earn us at least the same amount of profit as what we’d get from the last photoshoot ,” Pulcinella explains. “And wouldn’t you know it, the types of photos that netted us the most profit are those from the Inazuma trip, especially the ones where you’re paired with someone. Everyone really, really liked how you look with Mr. Thoma and the Sumo King, by the way.”

Well, not everyone. Morax did not.

“Oh Archon, did he ask you about Mr. Thoma or that Itto guy?” Tartaglia accurately predicts. “He totally did, didn’t he? I mean, I don’t care about the Sumo King, but Mr. Thoma doesn’t deserve the wrath of the rock.”

“Relax! I told him that Mr. Thoma was nothing but professional during our trip and that he was in a committed relationship. As for the Sumo King Itto guy, well,” Pulcinella’s grin widens, “I may have told him that the man totally copped a feel.”

Tartaglia narrows his eyes. “I know you. The only reason why you’d tell Zhongli this is to get something. So, what did you get in return for giving out the Sumo King’s identity and location?”

Pulcinella reaches out and pats Tartaglia on the shoulder. Ah, how quickly they grow up to be suspicious adults. Pulcinella can’t be more proud. “Don’t you worry your pretty little head about that! Besides, you’d know soon enough!”

The answer is a sexy couple’s photoshoot. Specifically, for exchanging Arataki Itto’s identity and location, Pulcinella secured a promise from Morax to recreate the Straddle photo except with him being the straddlee, half-naked, tousled bathrobe look and all.

Plus a couple of more poses, all variations of Morax either wrapping a possessive arm or hand on Tartaglia while glaring at the kamera, or blatantly draping himself over Tartaglia’s shoulder, stony facial expression managing to scream “mine!” to anyone looking.

“Z – Zhongli, quit it,” Tartaglia murmurs, his flush growing, when Morax’s hand snakes under his bathrobe to grope at his chest. At this point, Pulcinella has lost 75% of his underlings because they had to take care of certain biological urges, but the show must go on! The fans are going to lap this up because those photos are smoking and Pulcinella is going to earn so much mora. So much mora.

Which is what spurs Pulcinella in saying: “Oh, I don’t know. Doesn’t seem to me like Morax is sending a strong enough message to all of your fans out there, especially to all the Arataki Itto’s who are no doubt using Little Tart’s pretty face as a spank bank –”

With a growl (and a concerning tremble of the ground), Morax cards his fingers through Tartaglia’s head, draws his head towards him, and devours his mouth in a kiss so filthy, that the remaining 25% of Pulcinella’s crew are sent rushing out, their faces beet red.

That’s more like it, Pulcinella thinks with sheer glee.

He snaps the picture.

The Kiss becomes the highest-selling image of all time. 

Sure, the photos featuring Tartaglia’s shoot with Morax cause a fair share of heartbreaks at first, but fans quickly bounce back, forming a new faction of shippers to support their Snow Prince with his ‘Autumn King’.

“Autumn King?” Tartaglia asks, his nose wrinkling. “Why, ‘Autumn King’?”

“It’s the gold and the domineering aura,” Pulcinella answers. “I mean, that’s the sanitized version of the nickname too. Other fans call him ‘Geo Daddy’, just so you know.”

“He can domineer me any time he wants,” Tartaglia sighs, and urgh. Pulcinella twists his face in disgust. TMI, Tart Tart. TMI.

“How goes things with the Geo God anyway?” Pulcinella asks, anything to wipe that drooling look on Tartaglia’s face. “I’m surprised he’s willing to leave for Liyue first rather than throwing you over the shoulder and flying you out of here.”

“Oh, he’s fine. He rather enjoys the outcome of these photos now that everyone and their pets know we’re an item,” Tartaglia answers. “He also left first so that he can start preparing his ‘courting presents’ as he calls them. He insists on them even though I told him all I wanted was to fight his adepti buddies.”

Pulcinella suspects that Rex Lapis Morax is also using the time to warn his adepti buddies about the terror that is his fiancé. Tartaglia is…an acquired taste, after all.

“Maybe he’s gone to prepare some fancy weapons for you,” Pulcinella suggests. “I mean, you looked mighty happy with the gun the Dottore gave you and he looked…not.”

“I didn’t think I’d see the day where I get to witness Rex Lapis Morax being jealous of an inanimate object, but if it means I get to have more weapons, I’m not complaining!”

All in all, Pulcinella counts his lucky stars that he got out of this whole thing unscathed and hundreds of millions of mora richer. But, he’s also a man of wisdom and foresight, so it’s with only minimal regret that he advises his Tsaritsa, one sunny afternoon, that it’s time for them to ease up on the photoshoots.

The Tsaritsa agrees. “Yes, it is wise to retreat now that we have met our objectives lest we accidentally trigger the ire of that old dragon for disrespecting his fiancé.”

It’s as if a light switch suddenly flicks on in Pulcinella’s head. “…Old dragon? Your Imperial Highness, all this time when you’re referencing the ‘old dragon’, were you, perchance, referring to Morax?”

The Tsaritsa blinks. “Why yes. Of course I was referring to Morax. That old dragon is stubborn and requires such drastic measures before he would admit his feelings for my youngest. Really, without your ingenuity and efforts, I could not have gotten the two together.”

Pulcinella, who’s still trying to digest the news that all this time, he’s been tricked into playing matchmaker between his cohort and the Geo Archon, can merely say, “I – uh – thank you, your Imperial Highness. I am humbled that you are pleased with my service. But pray tell, how did you know that Morax was, uh, interested in Tartaglia?”

“Oh, that? Simple.” The Tsaritsa makes a dismissive little wave. “Morax was rather transparent with his affections. He wrote to me at least once a week, inquiring about how Tartaglia was doing. Frankly, I was getting a bit tired of reading through five pages of flowery greetings and empty pleasantries before getting to the meat of the letter, which always, always contained a series of questions about Tartaglia. Honestly, for a being as old as Morax, he really can be such a rock head sometimes.”

The Tsaritsa sighs, shaking her head. “Well, I suppose that at the end of the day, all’s well that ends well, wouldn’t you say my dear Pulcinella?”

Pulcinella supposes that that’s true enough. He got his money, the Fatui’s reputation has gone way up, Tartaglia and Morax got what they wanted (read: each other), and the Tsaritsa got what she wanted, which was, apparently to get Morax to stop writing annoying letters to her.

“Yes, I suppose you are correct, your Imperial Majesty. All’s well that ends well, indeed.”

“…We do still have exclusive rights to publish Morax and Tartaglia’s wedding photos though, correct?”

“Of course, your Imperial Majesty. As if I’d let such a profitable venture slip through our fingers.”

END

Extra 1: Arataki Itto

Somewhere in Inazuma, screams of pure, unadulterated fear can be heard as a golden meteor comes hurtling from the sky towards one (1) Arataki Itto, who had been minding his own business, daydreaming about a Certain Ginger and how firm and bouncy a Certain Set of Cheeks feels in his palms.

Of course, had Arataki Itto been paying attention to his lackeys' screaming instead of being fixated on that ass and the feel of those strong, milky thighs straddling his hips, he might have been able to run and dodge in time. But he did not. So, the meteor comes crashing into him, sending a shower of earth, stones, and tufts of grass flying into the air in one big wave.

When the dust finally settles, it’s to the sight of a truly impressive crater and of one (1) Arataki Itto at the center, petrified into stone.

“BOSS!!”

“BOSS! ARE YOU ALRIGHT?! W – what the hell was that?!”

“Was that a meteor?!”

It takes a solid hour before the petrification wears off, leaving one (1) confused Arataki Itto and his panicked lackeys, who still cannot provide a proper explanation for what they’ve just witnessed.

“Maybe it’s a fluke or something, a geo spell gone wrong,” the self-proclaimed Sumo King says with a shrug. Sure, it hurts like a bitch, but his Oni blood is already kicking in and healing the worst of the damage. He’ll be perfectly fine in a few minutes. “Now, what were we doing before, er, the meteor thing happened?”

“We were going to Yae Publishing House, sir,” one of the lackeys reminds him. “The, um, new set of Snow Prince prints are about to drop and you wanted to buy them before they’re sold out.”

That’s exactly what ends up happening – by the time Itto shows up, one hour later than anticipated, the line is snaking around the city and there’s no way that Itto would be getting those prints before they’re all gone.

“Just my luck,” Itto growls, kicking at a stray pebble, “if it hadn’t been that weird meteor thing, I would’ve gotten a set! Once I find that geo caster, Imma teach them a thing or two for messing with Arataki Itto!”

An ocean away in the distant land of Liyue, Zhongli, standing at the precipice of a hidden mountain in Jueyun Karst, snorts as he terminates the spell used to spy on his enemy.

“I think not, lecherous Oni,” he says, his eyes glowing gold. “Take this as a lesson for coveting what isn’t yours to covet.”

Arataki Itto proceeds to experience more meteor freak accidents for the duration of an entire month.

Extra 2: The Tsaritsa's Note to Morax

Dear Morax, the once Geo Archon of Liyue:

Do you find my Tartaglia pretty? Apparently, so does most of Teyvat, especially the men in Inazuma and Snezhnaya. The number of letters I have received from those men requesting to see more of my Tartaglia can stack as tall as the tallest mountain in your Jueyun Karst. Judging by the next set of photos I have planned, those requests will triple, including demands to have my Tartaglia for one night of passion.

I might accept the requests from powerful, influential men who would help expand my influence across the seven nations. Sure, my Tartaglia might be uncomfortable at the prospect of being used for pleasure at first. He is, after all, still so young and inexperienced when it comes to matters of the flesh. But like these photoshoots, he will soon learn to tolerate them, maybe even enjoy the experience.

The more I think about this, the better this plan sounds. What are your thoughts, Morax?

Best regards,

Vinea, Tsaritsa and Cryo Archon of Snezhnaya