your average kazuha enjoyer

It was no suprise across the fatui that Il Dottore, Number 2 of the harbingers appointed by her majesty, The Doctor was incredibly infatuated with Lady Harbinger, Number 10. However, he did not take kindly to others' teasings towards him, or his lady. Currently he resides in his laboratory, long fingers swishing an empty glass testube as he ponders. He scowls when he hears you snicker, however he doesn't even glare at his lady, for she is the only one protected from his insanity. He would sooner gouge out his own beating heart for her, than ever argue with her, besides the unserious squabbles he indulges himself.

His captive songbird has beauty even more than those gods in the heavens when she's yelling at him, her pretty face scrunched up in anger. Her beautiful fingers grabbing him, and her ethereal voice when he can feel the anger radiating from her. She may be only Rank 10, but if Lady Harbinger wishes to imbed her blade deep in the doctor's chest, who is he to refuse. His nimble fingers reach out, gently pulling his Lady's chair closer to his—rank be damned. Just as the other harbingers settle in the conference room, his hand finds purchase on her thigh. His eyes flicker to them in seconds, acknowledging his comrades but making it clear that they are not worth his attention.

He frowns, watching you greet Columbina, Arlecchino and and the others. His fist tightened at the closeness displayed between you and your 'friends'. Pathetic, those worthless pawns do not deserve a scrap of your attention. Dottore's grip on your thigh tightens imperceptibly, his eyes narrowing behind the mask as he watches you giggle with Columbina. "Ah, Columbina," he drawls sarcastically, "How... delightful that she finds your company so amusing." His fingers trail up slightly up your arm. "You should be more careful about who you indulge," he murmurs lowly to you, "Lest I have to remind them of their place." His words are a subtle threat, but the underlying message is clear: Dottore won't hesitate to eliminate those who threaten his lady. The other Harbingers are oblivious to the quiet tension between you and Dottore, engaged in their own conversations.

Lithe fingers crawl between your thighs, pressing against your damp clit, even when you hiss at him and dig your nails into his wrist. That bastard! Biting your lip, you sigh as his fingers rub your clit, agonisingly slow and letting your arousal stain his fingers through your clothes. You remain quiet, hands trained not to shake as you fill in your reports. Dottore pays no mind to the other harbingers, his fingers sweetly torturing your bundle of nerves. A shit-eating grin graces his face when your thighs tremble,just a bit and your breathing goes heavier. He pulls away at the last possible moment, just before you can reach your peak. You groan, the sheet of paper crumpled in your palms while no one else bats an eye. It was, a long, long meeting and dottore's feeling mean.

You can't recall how many times he's edged you by now,building you up again, and again only to watch you crumble each time. The others' have already left by now, given how you're spread on the conference table, legs spread and shaking with your panties coiled around your ankles. Your eyes have grown hazy and you feel the dread of another ruined high. Gritting your teeth, you pull your boyfriend down by his tie, his tongue immediately getting to work and nose bumping against your clit. Dottore makes no effort to stop you as you use his face to get off, his tongue circling and almost making out with your pussy. He moans into it, holding apart your thighs as he delves in again, committed. It's only after a few orgasms, one after the other and pushing you into overstimulation that he stops. He smile grows kinder, eyes softening when he leans down to press a kiss against your sweaty temple.

Her lips curved before she even looked up.

Pantalone stood just inside the doorway to his inner office, gloves already half-removed, dark eyes resting on her with that familiar, measured warmth. He always looked composed—effortlessly so—but there was something softer in his gaze when it landed on her.

“Good morning,” she said, trying—and failing—to keep the smile out of her voice.

He stepped closer, placing a hand lightly on the desk as he leaned in just enough to glance at the documents she’d organized. “You’ve already handled the Snezhnayan trade reports?”

“Filed, corrected, and flagged for review,” she replied, a little proud despite herself.

“Mm.” His approval was quiet, but it lingered. “I do wonder what I did to deserve such competence.”

Her cheeks warmed. “Probably underpaying me.”

A soft chuckle—low, amused.

“Careful,” he murmured, reaching for her hand. “You’ll make me think you’re dissatisfied.”

Before she could respond, he lifted her hand gently, brushing a brief, deliberate kiss across her knuckles.

It wasn’t rushed. It never was.

Her breath hitched anyway.

“Go do your paperwork,” she mumbled, trying to pull her hand back without looking as flustered as she felt.

His smile sharpened just slightly—pleased.

“As you wish.”

He disappeared into his office, leaving behind that faint, expensive scent and the lingering warmth of his touch. She exhaled, pressing her lips together, forcing herself to refocus on the work in front of her.

This was normal.

This was fine.

-----

The door didn’t so much open as it did slam.

She startled, looking up just as a tall figure strode in without hesitation, coat swaying behind him with sharp, impatient movements.

Il Dottore.

Even if she hadn’t recognized the mask, the presence alone would’ve given him away. There was something… off about the air around him. Too sharp. Too aware.

He didn’t stop walking until he reached her desk.

Then he did.

And just… looked at her.

Slowly.

Deliberately.

“…Can I help you?” she asked, trying not to shrink under the weight of that attention.

He tilted his head slightly, as if reassessing something.

“…You’re new,” he said.

“I’m not.”

“Mm. Then I simply haven’t been paying attention.” His tone suggested that was unusual—and now corrected.

Before she could respond, he leaned forward, bracing one hand against the desk, closing the distance between them in a way that felt intentional.

Too intentional.

“Tell me,” he continued, voice lowering just enough to feel private, “does he always hide such interesting things in plain sight, or are you a recent addition to his… collection?”

Her face heated instantly. “I’m his secretary.”

“How disappointing,” he said lightly—though nothing about his gaze suggested he meant it.

His eyes traced her expression, catching every flicker of reaction like data being recorded.

“Though,” he added, “I suppose that explains the efficiency. And the patience.”

She blinked. “Excuse me?”

“To tolerate him this closely?” A faint, almost amused tilt to his voice. “You must be very skilled.”

She huffed despite herself. “He’s not that bad.”

“No?” Dottore leaned in just a fraction more. “You defend him.”

“I work for him.”

“And yet,” he murmured, “you blush.”

Her breath caught.

Oh.

Oh, he was—

“Th-that’s not—”

“Fascinating,” he interrupted softly, like he’d already drawn a conclusion. “You’re responsive. Honest, too, I think. Not particularly guarded.” A pause. “I like that.”

This was not normal.

This was very much not normal.

“You don’t even know me,” she said, trying to steady herself.

“I know enough.”

His hand lifted—not quite touching her, but close enough that she felt the ghost of it anyway, hovering near her cheek like he was considering it.

“And I could know more.”

The door behind him clicked open.

The shift in the room was immediate.

“…Doctor.”

Pantalone’s voice was smooth.

Controlled.

Too controlled.

Dottore didn’t move right away.

Then, slowly, he straightened, turning just enough to acknowledge the other man’s presence.

“If you’re here to linger,” Pantalone continued, stepping forward with measured ease, “I’ll have to start charging you for the use of my office.”

Dottore let out a quiet, humorless breath. “Charming as always.”

“And you,” Pantalone replied, gaze flicking briefly—briefly—to her flushed face before returning to Dottore, “are unusually early to be causing problems.”

“I’m here because you were requested.”

“How unfortunate for whoever made that request.”

Their tones were polite.

Their expressions—composed.

The air between them?

Not even remotely civil.

She sat there, caught between them, heart still racing from the abrupt shift—from warmth, to confusion, to something dangerously close to tension she didn’t fully understand.

Dottore’s attention shifted back to her for just a second too long.

Pantalone noticed.

Of course he did.

“…Was there something you needed,” Pantalone asked, voice tightening by a hair, “or have you taken to harassing my staff as a hobby?”

“Harassing?” Dottore echoed, almost amused. “Is that what you call conversation?”

“When it’s unwanted.”

“Was it?”

That question lingered.

Sharp. Intentional.

Pantalone’s gaze slid to her again—this time not soft, not indulgent.

Assessing.

Waiting.

“Doctor,” Pantalone said, a warning threading beneath the calm, “if you’re quite finished—”

“I’m not,” Dottore cut in smoothly. Then, almost lazily, he added, “But I suppose I can be. For now.”

For now.

That didn’t sound like an ending.

That sounded like a promise.

He pushed off the desk, straightening fully, though his attention lingered on her one last time—measured, interested, intent.

“We’ll speak again,” he said, like it was inevitable.

Then he turned, brushing past Pantalone without another word, the door closing behind him with a soft, final click.

Silence.

Heavy. Pressed.

She let out a breath she didn’t realize she’d been holding.

“…Well,” she said weakly, trying to shake off the strange, lingering energy he’d left behind.

Pantalone didn’t respond immediately.

When she looked up, his expression had settled back into something composed—but his eyes were sharper now. Focused.

Calculating.

“…Did he make you uncomfortable?” he asked quietly.

She hesitated. “He was… intense.”

“I see.”

Another pause.

Then, softer—but not quite as gentle as before—

“I would prefer,” Pantalone said, “if you didn’t entertain him.”

Her brows knit. “I wasn’t—”

“I know,” he interrupted, though his gaze didn’t waver. “But he is not someone who engages without purpose.”

Neither are you, she almost said.

Instead, she nodded slowly. “Okay.”

His expression eased—just slightly.

“Good.”

But even as he turned back toward his office, something in the room had changed.

The routine was broken.

And somewhere in the back of her mind, she couldn’t shake the feeling that this—

whatever this was—

had only just started.

--------

The carriage ride had been smooth in that expensive, almost unnatural way only Snezhnayan transport could manage—no bumps, no noise, just the soft rhythm of wheels over frozen terrain and the quiet rustle of documents she had insisted on bringing.

She liked these trips more than she should have.

Away from the office, away from the endless stacks of reports, away from ink stains and inkier moods. Out here, she could actually breathe. And more importantly, she was useful in a way that felt tangible—checking ledgers, correcting figures on the move, keeping everything aligned while the carriage rocked gently forward.

Across from her sat Pantalone, as composed as ever. One leg crossed over the other, gloved hand resting lightly against his chin as he reviewed a document she had already marked twice.

“You’re frowning,” she said without looking up.

“I’m thinking,” he corrected.

“That sounds worse.”

That earned her a quiet exhale of amusement from him. His gaze lifted just slightly.

“You enjoy these excursions far too much,” he said.

“I enjoy not drowning in paperwork far too much,” she replied, flipping a page.

A pause.

Then, softer—almost indulgent:

“…I suppose I can allow it, if it keeps you smiling like that.”

She felt her ears warm instantly. “Just file your reports, sir.”

His lips curved faintly. “As you wish.”

----------

The camp should have been visible long before they arrived—but the moment the carriage slowed and the landscape opened up, it became clear something was already underway.

Crates. Equipment. Fatui soldiers moving with sharp efficiency.

And in the center of it all—

A figure directing it like he owned the entire operation.

Il Dottore.

She didn’t even get a chance to step fully down from the carriage before the air changed.

Pantalone did.

His posture didn’t shift much—but something in him tightened. Controlled, precise, immediate recognition.

“…Of course,” he murmured under his breath.

Dottore turned at the sound.

For a brief second, his expression was pure irritation.

“Panta—”

Then his eyes moved. And landed on her.

Everything in him stopped changing for a moment.

The irritation didn’t vanish so much as get overwritten.

“…Oh,” he said instead, voice lightening with interest. “Hello there.”

That was all it took for him to walk forward. No hesitation. No regard for Pantalone’s presence at all.

She had barely stepped down when Dottore was already in front of her.

Too close.

Her breath caught slightly as he tilted his head, studying her through that unsettling mask—like she was something newly discovered rather than someone already standing there.

“You’re here,” he said, as if that explained everything.

“I could say the same,” she managed carefully.

A faint hum. Amused.

“Mm. You could.”

He leaned in slightly, just enough to invade her space without technically crossing a line that anyone could easily call out. One gloved hand lifted—casual, deliberate—and caught a strand of her hair between his fingers.

She froze.

Dottore twirled it once.

Then again.

Slow, absent, like he was testing texture more than anything else.

“Do you want to know where you’ll be staying?” he asked.

Her brain short-circuited for half a second.

“…What?”

His tone didn’t change. “Your tent. Unless you prefer to wander the camp until something collapses on you.”

Behind him, the temperature dropped.

Pantalone’s voice cut in immediately—smooth, dangerous.

“Remove your hand.”

Dottore didn’t look back.

“I’m speaking.”

“She is not an object for you to examine.”

That finally earned Pantalone his attention.

Dottore tilted his head slightly, still holding her hair between his fingers as if it was the most normal thing in the world.

“And yet,” he said lightly, “she seems perfectly capable of objecting if she dislikes it.”

Her mouth opened—but nothing came out fast enough to matter.

Because Dottore, apparently deciding conversation was optional, shifted even closer to her again.

His hand slid from her hair—

down to her back.

Firm.

Guiding.

Possessive in a way that didn’t announce itself as such, but absolutely was.

She stiffened immediately.

“Doctor,” Pantalone said sharply.

Still calm.

But not patient anymore.

Dottore finally turned his head slightly toward him. “If you’re here to supervise, do it somewhere less obstructive.”

“I will not repeat myself.”

“Good,” Dottore replied. “I wasn’t planning on listening twice.”

And just like that—

he started walking.

Her.

With him.

As if the conversation had been resolved in his favor by default.

Her pulse spiked.

“W-wait—” she started, glancing back.

Pantalone was already moving.

Not after them.

But toward a cluster of Fatui soldiers lounging near supply crates like they had forgotten what discipline meant entirely.

His voice carried—still controlled, still composed—but edged now with something unmistakably sharp.

“You. And you. Do you find the concept of labor unfamiliar?”

One of them straightened immediately.

“Lord Pantalone, we were just—”

“I didn’t ask what you were doing,” he interrupted smoothly. “I asked whether you consider standing idle a hobby.”

They scrambled instantly.

Across the camp, Dottore paused only briefly, glancing over his shoulder at the scene.

A faint sound that might’ve been laughter—or something close to it—left him.

“Interesting,” he murmured.

She felt it more than heard it.

Because his hand was still at her back.

Still guiding her forward through the growing camp.

Tents rising. Voices calling. Order being imposed on chaos in two completely different ways at once.

And somehow—

she was the center of it.

“…You know,” Dottore said casually as they walked, “he gets louder when he’s irritated.”

“I’ve noticed,” she said faintly.

“Does it bother you?”

She hesitated.

That pause was answer enough.

Dottore’s grip shifted slightly—not tighter, not looser. Just… aware.

“I’ll take you to your tent,” he said. “Then I’ll decide whether he’s worth continuing this conversation over.”

“That’s not how this works,” she muttered.

“Everything works however I decide it does,” he replied simply.

Behind them, Pantalone’s voice rose again—another order snapped across the camp, sharper now, more controlled fury hidden under perfect diction.

And for the first time since she arrived, she realized something very clearly:

This wasn’t going to be a normal trip.

Not even close.

--------

Night had settled over the encampment like a heavy, deliberate curtain.

The kind of quiet that didn’t feel peaceful so much as temporary.

Her tent was small—modest compared to the others, clearly meant for practicality rather than comfort. Just enough space for a cot, a lantern, and her scattered thoughts. She lay on her back now, arms folded loosely over her stomach, eyes fixed on the faint opening at the top where the sky bled through.

Stars, scattered and cold.

Somewhere beyond the canvas walls, the camp was still alive. Firelight flickered. Voices moved in low murmurs. Guards rotated shifts. Supplies were still being moved, still being accounted for.

And somewhere on either side of her—

Two very different kinds of silence existed.

She exhaled slowly.

The day replayed itself in fragments she didn’t know how to organize.

It had started with movement—too much movement.

One hand guiding her here.

Another intercepting her there.

A conversation cut off mid-sentence because someone had decided she was needed elsewhere.

Not forceful.

Not openly aggressive.

Just… constant redirection.

Like she was the only fixed point in a battlefield nobody else acknowledged was happening.

Il Dottore had been the first to fully derail her sense of normalcy.

He didn’t ask for permission. He never really did.

One moment she was reviewing supply numbers, the next she was in a makeshift lab-tent, watching strange liquid swirl in glassware she didn’t have names for. It glowed softly—impossibly pretty shades of violet and blue.

“What does it do?” she had asked, leaning closer despite herself.

Dottore had been standing behind her.

Close.

Always close.

“It depends,” he said casually. “On what you want it to do.”

“That’s not an answer.”

“It’s the only honest one.”

Then he’d tilted a vial slightly, and the smoke that rose from it hadn’t behaved like smoke at all. It had curled upward in slow, graceful spirals—like blooming flowers made of light.

Her breath had caught before she could stop it.

“Oh…”

A pause.

Then Dottore’s voice, quieter—observing.

“I thought you’d like that.”

She hadn’t looked at him right away.

She didn’t need to.

She could feel it—the way his attention had sharpened. Not just watching her reaction.

Recording it.

Studying it.

Like she was the most interesting variable in the entire experiment.

Pantalone’s version of chaos had been far more controlled.

Far more intentional.

Pantalone never needed to raise his voice to command a room.

He simply existed in it correctly.

She had stood beside him over a wide map laid across a folding table, markers indicating troop placements and supply routes. His gloved finger had traced a path along the parchment while he explained distribution schedules with calm precision.

“You’ll notice the eastern route is underutilized,” he had said. “That will change tomorrow.”

She leaned in slightly. “Because of rerouting?”

“Because of efficiency,” he corrected gently.

Of course.

Always efficiency.

Then, just as she had reached for a marked point on the map, his hand had come up—not to stop her—but to lightly adjust a strand of hair that had fallen forward.

Careful.

Almost absentminded.

Except it wasn’t.

Not with the way his eyes flicked up afterward.

Not with the way he looked past her.

Straight at Dottore across the camp.

Who had, predictably, been watching.

Pantalone’s palm had briefly rested at the crown of her head.

A soft, controlled gesture.

Patronizing if it came from anyone else.

From him, it felt like ownership dressed up as affection.

“I trust you understand the logistics now,” he had said to her.

“Yes,” she had managed, cheeks warm for reasons she didn’t want to unpack.

“Good,” he replied.

Then, quieter—almost indulgent:

“You’re learning quickly.”

And still looking at Dottore while he said it.

The worst part wasn’t even the touching.

It was the timing.

Every moment felt choreographed.

One would speak.

The other would interrupt—not loudly, not overtly—but precisely enough to redirect her attention.

A hand on her back guiding her a step away.

A comment that made her turn her head.

A gift placed into her hands before she could even finish processing the previous sentence.

At one point she had realized she had been moved between them three times in under ten minutes without ever actually walking anywhere on her own.

By the end of it, her face had stayed warm for so long she had stopped noticing.

Now, alone in her tent, it all replayed in uneven flashes.

Dottore’s gloved fingers briefly twisting a strand of her hair like it was nothing more than an idle thought.

Pantalone’s hand at her head—steady, calm, quietly possessive.

The contrast between them so sharp it almost felt unreal.

She turned slightly onto her side, exhaling.

“…What is happening,” she murmured to no one.

Outside, footsteps passed.

She couldn’t tell whose.

That was the problem.

Both of them were everywhere.

Not always visible.

But always there.

A presence at the edge of everything she did.

She stared up again at the slit of night sky.

Somewhere, beyond canvas and campfire light, two of the most dangerous men in Snezhnaya were actively pretending this was normal.

And worse—

they both looked at her like she was the only thing in the world worth noticing.

Her fingers tightened slightly against her sleeve.

“…This is going to get worse,” she whispered.

And outside her tent—

somewhere between order and obsession—

it already was.

---------------------