#moira o'deorain x reader

[pink-valkyrie-writes]

Mercy, Moira, Kiriko, Junker Queen and Sombra relationship hc’s

- reader is kept gender neutral

-warnings: fluff, some angst, nsfw

-I am very gay for these women so why not write about them:) This post is also gonna be a long one so hop in fellas

-Sombra’s is a little longer due for backstory reasons

-part 2!

Mercy

- ah yes, the earth angel herself who has had my heart since 2016 <3

-Angela is very loyal and loving to you but her role as a medic gets in the way most of the time. She feels bad every time she has to leave during the night (especially after making love to you, she doesn’t see it as just sex), during date nights, or even on her days off that you planned for her to de-stress

-but even with all that, you stay by her side and help get rid of that fear. You love how she is dedicated to her job and how amazing she is at it

- I could imagine from the crazy hours she works, she is sleep deprived. She gets maybe 3 hours of sleep at most. When she comes home to see you on the couch, she slips off her shoes and coat to come lay on top of you and sleep.

-She loves when you come and visit her at work!!! Whether you work for overwatch or not, spending her lunch break with you, with food that you bring for her, always puts a smile on her face

-Though you love her, you do find yourself sad or disappointed a lot because of her work. You know this isn’t her fault and she always makes it up to you, but you do get lonely. You would find yourself crying to sleep at night. Yes, you’re not hero, but a regular person who was lucky enough to get with this angel of a woman, but at what price?

-Every relationship has their arguments, yours doesn’t get too heated cause you both are rational, but you two do find yourself arguing in the beginning of her always work and how you feel lonely in a place you both share and call home. When she first saw you cry during an argument due to this problem, Angela felt her stomach sink. She never intended to make you cry or be upset. She’s able to calm you down, also expressing her fear of you leaving her

- You both come to an agreement to always let the other know how you feel and try to understand where they are coming from. Angela actually starts looking for assistants to train! She would like to have help around the office to get work done faster but also means she can spend time you with.

-She also wants you to become well acquainted with them as well in case you ever needed help from them and vice versa. A huge strain was lifted off of your relationship and she found herself more at home with you <3

-Pulling away from the topic of work, Angela loves to cook meals with you! Specially if they meals are from her home country.

-Whenever you made a traditional swiss dishes for your anniversary, she teared up and thanked you over and over again. It’s hard to get a meal from home whenever your work is crazy, she’s thankful you thought of her love for her country

-Spa day!!! She loves when you run her a warm bath with her favorite scented candles of pomegranate, red berries, and patchouli (totally not the candle I have in my room)

-Angela loves doing face masks with you to detox <3

-Idk why I see her as a handy person??? Oh you got a new desk?? Oh s/o let her build it for you. Got a new shelf? Don’t worry, Angela can do it

-Angela loves to show you off to her coworkers. You’re the light of her life, her loving s/o. She would go to the ends of the earth for you

nsfw

-Doesn’t matter what you identify as, she tops. End of story. There are a few occasions she bottoms. 

-She always has to take care of people but whenever she takes care of you sexually, she feels the same fulfillment after a days of work

-Doesn’t mean she sees sex as a chore or job!!! she just loves being able to take care of her baby <3

- Event though she wears a strap, she loves to watch you suck the dildo that’s in the harness. She can’t feel anything but just seeing you looking up at her with your sweet eyes her mind goes blank and can only think of how beautiful you are. Loves to receive and give oral <3

-Will absolutely play doctor with you but she slips in medical terms you don’t understand lol

-Her breast is definitely sensitive- so when you are relaxing on the couch and you slip your hands up her shirt to massage her chest, she’s putty in your hands. Holding onto your wrists and she leans her head back and moans for you

-Loves when you ride her- when she looks up at you, you look absolutely ethereal riding her strap

-When the few times she does bottom, she finds herself slipping into her native language, switching from english to german, especially when she’s getting close. Even if you don’t understand german, you picked up on a few phrases yourself

-Like I said, my gal is sensitive, so vibrators are a good friend to have! She loves when you look her in her eyes when you control the vibrator, making her look into your eyes when she cums <3

Moira

-my favorite “un-ethical” genetic engineer (aka my lesbian lover)

-Moira is definitely hard person to come around due to her intimidating presence. But that didn’t stop you from pinning for her

-When she notices people, she takes subtle mental notes. When she first met you, she isn’t thought how cute you are, adorable even

-The first few times she interacted with you it was strictly about work, But over time you noticed how she would make little jokes to you like:

“did you also notice how that guy is wearing his tie wrong?’

“Hello y/n, did sombra contact you today about lunch plans? Are you going to her little...festivity?” (she prayed you would say yes)

“Y/n, would you like to come get coffee with me?”

-That was her first time asking you out and you loved it! She took you to her favorite cafe that happened to be anime themed and slowly she would tell you how her drink inspired from Naruto was the best and the plot line of the show

-When your relationship starts, Moira will put her work above you. Sorry not sorry, it’s the truth. Science is her entire life, she cares and adores you, but her first love is science

-It does pain you she chooses science over you. Date night? Oops sorry, I forgot, I was caught up with work. You cooked dinner? Sorry my love, I’m caught up at work right now so don’t stay up for me. Sometimes you find yourself crying to sleep and when you wake up with puffy eyes, Moira points them out but you brush it off.

-One night it came to a halt. You were getting ready to leave for the day and went to go grab your lover for home time. When you called her name she didn’t answer, You repeated yourself and she snapped for you to leave her alone and that she’s busy. You tell Moira that you’ll be cooking dinner tonight and she went on with her favorite sentence, “Sorry my love, I’m staying late tonight, you don’t have to wait up for me okay?”

-Something snapped, you started to yell how she gives all her attention to her work and never you. How at this point you were just someone she could have company with. Moira scoffed, “Why do you have to act so childish? I already told you from the beginning what your place is,”

-Childish? Your place...? Without saying another word, you slammed her door, storming to the car to get home. As soon as you arrive you burst into tears crying while getting undressed to go to bed. The sheets and blanket smelled like her, which made you cry harder. You decided to take an old shirt of hers and put it on a pillow, grab a round throw pillow, and made a makeshift model of Moira. You kissed the pillows cheek and whispered a goodnight.

-She come home that night upset, mad at you and herself, why couldn’t you understand her work? Why couldn’t she be a better girlfriend? She quietly reheated leftovers you made and eat in silence. God she hates this silence.

-When she came into your shared room her heart ached. Were you so deprived of her you had to make a makeshift version of her? Now she understands how lonely you truly feel. She changed and climbed into bed, removing the pillows from your grasp. You woke up a bit and she shush you to go back to sleep. She held you to her chest as she confessed how bad she felt from earlier, how she was wrong for underestimating your feelings and how she was in the wrong, not you. You began to cry softly at her words, and she shushed you, kissing your forehead and reassuring she loved you.

-That morning you woke up in her arms, but she was already awake watching you sleep. She kissed you good morning and told you she called the next few days off to be with you and make up for lost time. She apologized once again but this time you kissed her to let her know you forgive her.

-all right let’s move onto happy stuff!!

-When she is at her apartment with you, she loves to watch anime with you. If you’re an anime fan, good, she loves that! You two can talk about your favorite shows, compare theories, and even show each other new animes to talk about

-At times, she catches herself feeling embarrassed since anime is typically “for kids and young adults”, she’s an older woman and feels a bit insecure about it. Please comfort her!! Tell her it’s okay to have interests

-She has little figures of her favorite characters on a shelf in her room idc- definitely cosplayed once or twice and will cosplay with you!

-Since Moira is busy, take-out and delivery services are your best friends!

-Moira has never felt this much of a connection with someone before and she doesn’t want to lose it. She loves when you kiss the knuckles of her corrupted arm, showing love to the science she has done. That arms also tends to hurt from time to time so heat packs!! Loves the lay in bed with you with you hold the heat pad to her arm to help her relax

-Moira is a sucker for being a little spoon but won’t admit it, please hold her too!!

nsfw

-Another top! Moira needs to dominant everything she does, including you <3 but she does bottom is you beg nicely

-another proud strap user, isn’t one for receiving oral but loves to use her mouth on you. She also loves to look at you while doing so to make you shy

-loves missionary! she loves to see all your facial reaction whenever she goes fast, rough, slow, or soft

-a secret of hers is she wants you to dress up as her favorite character for her <3 and if you do she is caught off guard but enjoys herself either way and will thank you after (maybe ask you to do it again some time)

-Moira isn’t above of dragging you into her empty lab and fingering you (don’t worry her middle and index fingernails are press on and can be removed) The risk of getting caught excites her, but she always keeps a hand over your mouth just incase

-I see her as the type to have a flogger or whip, she loves to see how your body reacts to the slight pain and how you vocal you are when you have your ass and thighs slapped by her

-latex lady. I won’t elaborate 

-I am part of the “calling hot woman ‘daddy’ committee. She feels powerful when that word slips out of your mouth. She does lean to the androgynous side, she does expect to hear ‘mommy’ at most, which you have called her, but she actually prefers daddy

-play with her breast and suck her nipples. Small boobs are the best and always melts when you play with her. She gets sensitive and lets out breathy moans which makes you go wild <3

-When she bottoms, praise her! She isn’t well liked among her colleuges or really anyone at Talon, so when you tell her she’s amazing and doing a great job, she will cover her face (uncover her beautiful face )

-totally down for you to finger her while she reads her books <3

Kiriko

- my little fox hehe <3

-Kiriko is definitely an outgoing person! She’s involved with her community, and you admired her for that!

-She met you at a festival and couldn’t help but stop and stare when she saw you. How beautiful and cheerful you were made her turn her head

-Though she is outgoing, doesn’t mean she’s confident when it comes to asking people out. She feels super shy and she definitely doesn’t want to mess up at all

-When you two are on a date and you see how almost everyone knows who she is and is all smiles when Kiriko passes by, you knew she was a good person to be around

-Kiriko knows sign language and will teach you if you ask! If you are deaf, it wouldn’t faze her. She just sees you as another person, not your disability. 

-You love to see how she interacts with kids. If you ever want kids in the future of your relationship, she would be all for it. Kiriko also loves to see you interact with the little girl in her cinematic! Seeing you interact with the child makes her heartbeat faster (in a good way)

-Since you’re with Kiriko, be prepared for her mother and the Shimada brothers. Her mother wants nothing but the best for her, you need to prove that you are strong enough physically and mentally. You never know what can happen.

-Hanzo and Genji are the other ones you have to look at out. Genji is more laid back, a “cool older brother” figure who only wants you to prove you are always going to be there for Kiriko. Hanzo on the other hand is the protective older brother figure who agrees with her mother. He silently judges you with her mother, like he does most people, but with you it feels more frequent, and you can’t help but snap after built up tension

-This pressure from people outside of your relationship builds on you. You admitted to Kiriko about this, and she felt conflicted. Yes, she trusts you and knows you care about her, but she will always listen and respect her elders and defend them at first

-You felt bad for being upset, knowing this is her family worrying about her but there is only so much criticism you can handle, specially from people you want to make a good impression on. You tell this to her and she understands completely where you’re coming from. She doesn’t want to upset you more, but this is her mother we are talking about. You cry to her how you don’t feel good enough for her and constantly worried of doing the wrong thing, knowing her mother or brothers are waiting till you slip up to point it out.

-The two of you go back and forth on this multiple times till you come to an agreement. You train with her mother and Hanzo but they have to take it easy on you and let you prove that you are just right for her. Though she is an adult, she’ll always be her mother’s baby and Hanzo’s little sister

-Kiriko loves going on rides on her bike (as a voice line indicates) and will take you on a ride! Either if you have your own or if you hop on hers. She loves taking you to different places on her bike hehe <3

-It’s definitely your job to help her eat REAL meals, not just donuts and junk food. (which her mother praises you for)

-Will tell you all the stories of the fox spirit and her personally experiences <3 specially likes it when she can lay her head in your lap and go on and on about her stories

-she will be more than happy to teach any martial art moves to help you in combat! She is your number one supporter and will always be there to cheer you on

-she can’t wait for the night where her mother invites you over for dinner and talks to you, not giving you glancing or make subtle comments on your lack of fighting skills

nsfw

-A switch but I can def see her leaning towards being a bottom, but more of a bossy bottom

-She loves to receive oral but she always returns the favor, she always whines whenever you when use your tongue

-Definitely a hair pulling. Either it be when you give her head or if she if pulling your hair back when she is fucking you

-Since she is blessed by the fox spirit, I know she has sharp canines and I know she loves to bite and mark you for others to see. After your session, she always treats your bites and make sure you’re okay

-will be down to fuck after training, especially if the two of you were sparring and being physical with each other. She will be on top for these sessions, her adrenaline is already running and wants to be rough with you

-will keep going till she out of energy, she’s an all nighter while the others on this list can go for 2-3 rounds

-She loves to play soft music in the background while you two fuck, it enhances the atmosphere, and she loves to be fucked by you to her favorite songs

-favorite position would be cuddle fucking, she can’t place her finger on it but having you close to her while you slowly grind into her, filling her up, she feels so hot and bothered.

- She loves the way you whisper into her ear as you lift her leg up to fuck her deeper, you always manage to take her breath away. Kiriko really love this position for morning sex as well

Junker Queen

-waaaa my muscular wife

-Odessa loved being the queen of Junker Town-she’s a strong ruler, knows what’s best, and can handle her own...but it does get lonely at the top

-Doesn’t matter if you’re a junker or an outsider that happened to stumble across to Junker Town, you catch her eye immediately. You stand out to her, even if she is fighting again in the reckoning to keep her title as queen

-She would come stop you were ever you were and talk to you. Of course, you were intimidated by the 7-foot-tall woman in front of you, but you were able to keep your composure for the conversation

-Odessa was blunt with you and told you that you caught her attention, in a good way of course, and how she wanted to get to know you better. Though she is tough as steel, she still gets a bit nervous of fear of being rejected

-Once she has made things official with you, she introduces you to her people as the other queen of Junker Town. Of course people were surprised she dated but they show you the same amount of respect. 

-They know if they were to ever hurt, disobey, or disrespect you in any, not Odessa, but Junker Queen will personally beat the shit out of them and toss them to the wastelands 

-Though you appreciate her standing up for you, the violence to you is too much after some time. when you try to talk to her about this she yells how she does it for you, it’s all for you. She makes into a one-man screaming battle, but she’s a lover by heart and will come to you after a few hours and apologize. She gets on her knees and hugs you by your waist, head resting on your chest

-At this point she opens up to you about her time in the Wastelands and how they have forever changed her. She cares for you like she cared for family, fighting every day to live in the harsh outside world of Junker Town. She admits she is scared to death to lose you and fights for you like how she fought for her loved ones. Odessa also admits to having nightmares in your shared bed but never wakes you up because she needs to have strong image and doesn’t want to be seen as weak

-By the end of this confession she is crying into your chest. You rub the top of her back and you comfort her. You remind her that you may be with the Junker Queen, you’re also with Odessa Stone

-She now is rational with her decision making and you tell her to ask for your help when need be, you told her it’s okay to ask for help. Hell, everyone her people noticed an attitude change when you came around, you’re great for her!

-Odessa loves sharing everything she has with you, especially music! She loves to blast her rock music in her chambers with you, jumping on the bed you two share and going into laughing fits together

-Your girlfriend is a very handy and resourceful person, you have to be to live in Junker Town. She will make you special weaponry and armor <3 always craving her and your initials into the metal

-I feel Odessa can do your hair! From cutting it to dying it, your girlfriend will do anything to help you feel beautiful with your appearance, even though you’re already so beautiful to her <3

-You are also in LOVE with her accent, she already a pretty rough girl and her voice is *chef’s kiss*. Sometimes when she’s mad and goes full aussie you can’t really understand her unless you yourself are aussie

nsfw

-She’s a total dom, no bottoming for her. She loves when “you please your queen”

-the only thing she’ll really “bottom” for is receiving oral. She loves how tiny you look compared to her and think you look sweet when you eat her out. She loves to eat you out but LOVES when you sit on her face. None of that hovering shit, she wants the full thing. She’s a big girl and can handle it!

-Odessa loves when you sit in her lap and bounce on her strap, she has a size kink and plans to utilize it. Not even just sexually, she loves how small you are and because of your size, she will fuck you standing up. She loves the amount of power she holds outside and in the bedroom.

-She also plays music during sex! But she plays music from time to time when you guys have sex unlike Kiriko who plays music during sex pretty often. there’s something about fucking you hard to the beat of her favorite songs, since her favs are metal, be prepared to be banged to the drum rhythm 

-she will bring in Gracie from time to time. She mostly uses her to cut your clothes off your body but if you are comfortable with it, she will carve in her name into your thigh. She always makes sure to clean up and clean your cuts effectively, so they don’t get infected 

-Throne sex! Throne sex! Throne sex! She doesn’t even care if people see or not, she finds it so hot that you are so willing to please her in a chair that represents her power and dominance over you and her people

-Her favorite position is doggy style. The way you look back at Odessa and moan her name like a prayer always does it for her. Slapping your ass to watch it jiggle, making you look back at her, pulling you by your hair...all of the things she loves other than you as a person <3

Sombra

- my silly hacker who also has had my heart since 2016<3

-Oliva kept herself in the shadows, she needed to so she can protect her identity as Sombra. She always needed to know everything about everyone, no matter what.

-As another night passes, another person’s skeletons in their closet are found by Sombra. She looks through the picture of the businessman she planned on exploiting next, but something caught her eye. In the picture of what it seems to be a faculty group photo, she spotted you in the back row. She zoomed in and couldn’t help but admire how pretty you are, now her focus was on you. For the next few days she tries her best to find everything about you. Where you live, your childhood, the college you went to, hell even your internet browsing history. And she wasn’t doing this for her own benefit to expose you, she was obsessed with you

-For the next Talon mission, they were able to break into the companies building and she was able to have a chat about ‘business matters’ with your boss. As a deal, he transferred some employees, including you, for ‘business opportunities’ to work for Talon in fear of his dirty deeds going public

-You were comforted to know that you fellow employees were there with you to comfort you in with this change. You’ve heard of Talon and what they stand for and feel like you have to walk on eggshells there. Though you didn’t interact too much with the head council, Sombra seem to have an eye on you

-Yes, she would mess with your co workers but never seem to do that with you. With them there was some malicious factor behind it but when Sombra teased it you it was like you two have been friends for years. After a while, Sombra was finally close enough to you to ask you out, which you accepted. She was super happy to know that the efforts worked out in her favor, they always did

-She would come visit you when you would work and keep you entertained while you slaved away to the paperwork in front of you. Massaging your shoulders, whispering compliments into your ear, and kissing your cheeks were her favorite thing to distract you with while you worked.

-You were close with your old boss and kept in contact with him. After a long phone call, he had admitted that Sombra threated him to give him employees or else he would be exposed to the public. He mentioned how Sombra was very adamite about you coming with her more than the others, saying it was like she knew you, wanted you, and had done this to get you.

-You felt frozen, was this true? Was this whole shift in not just your career life but your social life due to the fact your girlfriend just wanted you this whole time? This whole thing was planned out? 

-On a war path, you stormed to her room and started to yell at her of how she could be so selfish and how you were just like a pretty china doll she could keep for fun. Sombra was so use on never being called out on her manipulative behavior. She couldn’t really defend herself know that you knew the truth. it was worse when you began to cry, sobbing into your hands.

-”What was this for huh?! You just wanted a “pretty girl” to call yours because you thought I was good looking?! YOU have changed and put my life in danger for YOUR benefit!”

-Not Sombra, but Olivia sat you down and confessed. For the first time she admitted her wrongs and she didn’t know how to do it. She tried her hardest, but you kept crying harder and left. After a few days, Olivia came to your room and wanted to talk, you agreed. She confessed you she was wrong for only seeing you as a pretty girl, not thinking about what being apart of Talon means for your life. By the end, she was crying though tried not to. You sighed and gave her a hug where she cried harder. When her crying stopped, you pulled back and gave her a kiss on the lips, which she happily accepted. 

-You made Olivia promise to only stay by her side if she could protect from anything that came your way. You really did like her and honestly didn’t want to leave her. Olivia accepted and from that day on she has been 1000% honest with everything with you

-Now with the sadness out of the way, let’s focus on happy stuff!

-Sombra loves to cook with you! As Mercy, she loves when you cook meals that are home to her country. You always apologize in advance if it doesn’t taste like the “real thing” but she doesn’t care, she loves your cooking and your meals bring back memories of Dorado

-In a voice line interaction with Moira, she talks about the carpel tunnel in her wrists. When you two are laying down together, you always rub her wrists and fingers to drain the fluid build-up in her hands. She loves these soft, caring moments with you

-I bet her posture is really bad (just like mine) so whenever she is sitting in a chair, you always put a pillow between her back and the chair. She already had messed up hands, you can’t let your girlfriend have a messed up back too!

-Olivia loves to play with your hair, you let her try different style but do you trust her giving you a haircut?...not so much. Sorry Olivia, but Amélie has told your s/o of the time she cut her hair as a “prank”...which didn’t end well

-speaking of Amélie- her, Gaberial, and Moira asks you constantly how you can put up with her shenanigans. You shrug, they wouldn’t understand how you understand Olivia’s charm

-Dating Olivia you also become good friends with Siebren! Olivia makes it her job to watch out for him so he isn’t tested on, so if she isn’t around, you can watch over him! To some it seems like babysitting, but you end up really close to him! Olivia is happy to know that <3

nsfw

-my girl is a switch, 50/50

-Olivia loves watching you give her head, she thinks you look perfect between her legs. She also loves to eat you out, maybe one of her favorite things about sex with you tbh, she just loves watching you enjoy yourself and feel good

-With your permission, she has recorded some sessions with you. Whenever she goes away for missions and you aren’t around, she fingers herself to videos of her fucking you. she has also gave you videos to keep for yourself whenever you feel lonely with he gone.

-Olivia loves risky sex. Unlike Moira, she doesn’t cover your mouth and does it in a spot anyone can walk in. If someone happens to walk in and try to tell other people? Their social security and credit card numbers are already leaked for other hackers in the world to use

-Like Angela, if she is bottoming, she will start speaking to you in spanish but with her she will continue to speak in spanish until she is finished <3

-Olivia works with her fingers all day, you know her fingering game is good

-She is a hair puller when she’s on top, not so much for her when she is on bottom cause of the wires in her hair, have to be careful. So instead, she prefers it when you put her face into the mattress 

-Favorite position is lotus. It’s a very intimate position and she loves to hold you in her arms as you ride her strap or vice versa. She loves to take her time and show you how much you mean to her. Her life is filled with craziness, but this sharing a moment like this with you will always be her favorite.

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

Thank you so much for reading!! I had a lot of fun writing this :00

likes and reblogs are always appreciated ! <3

part 2 coming!

#overwatch x reader #overwatch x you #mercy x reader #mercy overwatch #angela ziegler #angela ziegler x reader #moira x reader #moira overwatch #moira o'deorain #moira o'deorain x reader #kiriko overwatch #kiriko x reader #kiriko kamori #kiriko kamori x reader #junker queen #junker queen x reader #junker queen overwatch #sombra overwatch #sombra x reader #sombra x you

[ddollipop]

I DIG MY NAILS IN DYNAMITE. . . ! — ( MOIRA O'DEORAIN. )

#. synopsis! — if moira’s going to be forced to work the clinic, she’s going to do things her way: no matter how unconventional her methods may be. (malicious fucking compliance) .

#. contains! — f!reader , explicitly nsfw content , lesbian smut, female on female, dirty talk , slight begging , implied age difference , slight power imbalance , subtle medical setting , oral sex , cunnilingus , fingering , dom!moira , sub!reader , nipple sucking , some wall action , one-sided stimulation , giving preference (moira) , slight praise , sex in the workplace , finger sucking , sort of revenge sex .

#. word count! — 5.1k .

The clinical wing is hardly any of Moira’s responsibility. It wasn’t her idea, she had no intention of utilizing it herself, and the fact that she was being forced to work it alone for no less than ten hours a week was something akin to infuriating. If she didn’t already loathe Angela Ziegler and her fluffed up ideals about peace and prosperity, —she certainly did now. Because this was cutting into her time, and if there was one thing Moira couldn’t stand more than working with incompetent people: it was squandering her waking hours on fruitlessness. It was always the same things over and over and over again. You’d think a building full of well-educated men and women of science would have a better understanding of their own petty ailments by now, but no. . . 

Every slim bout of nausea, every headache onset, every tiny papercut, it seemed, was good enough a reason to come crying to her. And she’d had enough. It’s not to say that you were any more or less annoying than anyone else who’d stopped by that day, but there was something so nerve grinding about your presence, about the way you glanced around the white-walled exam room, that set Moira off.

“What’s wrong with you, exactly?” She questioned, —though it was painfully clear she was only asking out of obligation and was none too pleased to be doing so.

Her stern, uncaring expression almost had you forgetting the lie you’d cooked up while sitting there alone for a good ten minutes.

“I’ve got um. . . A headache and I’m feeling a little dizzy,” you reply.

She notices how uncertain you sound of it, and her eyes narrow at you, regarding you suspiciously.

“Is that a question or a statement?” She asks bluntly, mincing no words in the process.

“A statement,” you answer, tacking on a soft apology that she doesn't care enough about to acknowledge.

“How long has this been going on?” 

“A few hours, maybe.”

“Maybe?”

You’re really starting to wish you could just sink into the exam table and disappear. Even more than that, you’re cursing Doctor Ziegler for putting you up to this, —for deciding that you were just innocent looking enough to play a fools game with this woman before you. You’re certain now that the extra pay is hardly worth putting yourself through this just to see if Moira is really taking her position in the clinic seriously.

“A few hours,” you repeat, dropping the rest; but you know it’s already too late.

She’s annoyed with you. She’s sick of it here in this tiny room, and all she wants to do is put a stop to this ridiculousness and make use of her time her way. . . Which gets the cogs turning in her mind. If she has to be here, Moira’s going to make the most of it, —and what better way than to indulge herself in the sweetest little patient that’s set foot in here all day? It’ll be a bit before her clinic hours are up for now, and she’d much rather spend that time tying up some of her own loose ends than playing into Angela’s surprisingly spiteful hands.

“It’s a bit warm in here, no?” She says suddenly, straightening her back and standing to her full height as she shrugs off her lab coat.

“Uh. . . Yeah? A little, I guess,” you reply uncertainly, trying your best not to stare as she drapes the shed garment over the back of a chair and masterfully unbuttons the top of her white dress shirt.

The fabric is loose, and it sits against her pale skin like silken sheets atop a mattress. For all Moira is known for being: —cruel, sarcastic, brilliant, blunt— you can’t help but wonder why attractive doesn’t tend to make the shortlist. It’s far from the first time something like that has ever crossed your mind, of course, having worked in her vicinity for several months now, but it is the first time you’ve ever felt your insides twist themselves into pretzels at the sight of her.

She’s so tall, and even without the height, her personality alone commands the space she physically takes up. Moira is the kind of woman who doesn’t ask for what she desires, but simply demands it, and there’s something very stirring about that in a way you can’t quite seem to put your finger on.

“You guess, do you?” She raises an eyebrow, throwing you a blank glance.

Her hands come down to grip the edge of the exam table, the crinkly paper shuffling under the new pressure. She’s close enough now that you can feel her breath ghost against you, and somehow, her unchanging expression feels ten times more spine-tingling now that she’s less far away.

“Is there anything you’re certain of, y/n?” She questions, —and heaven help you, the way she says your name has your thighs itching to squeeze together where you sit.

“I-I. . .” You stutter pitifully, lost for words now that she's this close, eyes ghosting around her face, then around the room, just hoping to avoid her gaze.

“You. . .?” She prompts in a surprisingly gentle tone, removing one hand from the exam table to grab your face.

It's not a violent gesture, nor much of an unwelcome one, as her thumb sits on one cheek and four fingers press against the other. She steadies your head with the grasp, forcing the direction straight ahead, and your eyes naturally follow in suit. Moira can feel the way you swallow, watching as your throat moves to push the saliva down, and something akin to dangerous blossoms within her.

“You're a pretty girl,” she tells you. 

Somehow, the tone she uses when she says it makes it feel less like a compliment and more like a statement of fact.

“It's too bad you're such a quiet thing. I'm sure under the right circumstances, your voice is quite sweet.”

Anything you could have thought to say in reply seems to all but die on your tongue or lodge in your throat. A shiver creeps up your spine, tingling under your skin, scattering goosebumps all across your body.

“Do you have any idea how tiring this is?” She asks, standing to her full height again, clarifying quickly: “Working in this clinic? When I, of all people, should be doing something of actual substance. Forgive me if your headache isn't as interesting to me as my own endeavors, —but you must realize how pathetic it is to come crawling to me about something so minute.”

Finally, you work up the nerve to speak back again.

“I'm sure it must be frustrating,” you answer. “I'm sorry to have inconvenienced you, Doctor, I just. . .”

I didn't have much of a say in the matter. 

She sighs. 

“Did nobody ever teach you how to finish your sentences?” She asks, sounding rather incredulous. “Either out with it, or let me put your mouth to some proper use.”

You're not really sure what that's supposed to mean, but it's not as if you have much to say at the moment anyway. Anything you could have mustered up has gone out the window, drained like a pin-pricked egg.

A smirk tugs on her lips at your silence.

“Open,” she directs, a folded index finger sneaking under your chin and a thumb dragging your bottom lip down a bit.

In the moment, you hardly register the command, but somehow you manage to blink yourself back to reality fast enough to part your lips without her having to ask again. (Though asking wasn't really what she'd even done in the first place.) 

“Good,” Moira hums, appearing all too pleased with herself, “it seems you’re capable of following directions.”

Having acknowledged that much, she sneaks that thumb up, letting it pass your lips and nudge at your tongue, feeling the warm wetness of your mouth. You feel yourself burning up, and Moira presses in until the pointed middle knuckle of her thumb is barely ghosting below your cupid's bow.

“Close,” she demands, —and you do, suckling on the heat of her hand, eyes scaling up to her face.

She seems much too delighted by this, albeit in a subdued sense of the word. There’s always been an air of cockiness about her, but this really took the cake and ran with it, like she was so proud to have suckered you in even this deep. It’s then that you’re forced to question whether this is some kind of sick joke, or if she’s truly just that bored here in the clinical wing. It’s obviously not her favorite place to be, but doing all of this on the clock to make the time pass by faster is a little bit of a stretch, even for someone like her.

Moira glides her thumb to and fro, watching the way your lips move with her, still clasped around her digit so beautifully. She thinks to herself that you really are just such a pretty girl.

“Aren’t you just a sweet, obedient thing?” She muses, finally letting her lips curve upward completely.

You hum instinctively, and she can feel the vibration as it resonates from the back of your throat.

“Oh?” She cocks her head to the side, raising a single eyebrow, “was that meant to be defiant? Or perhaps just a correction, —that you’re only this malleable for me?”

She loves the way you look so dazed by every word she speaks, like you’re trying to interpret a foreign language. You’re so mystified by her very presence this close up, as if you can’t decide if she’s real or not.

Eventually, Moira decides she’s had enough and utters “open” again, to which you comply quickly, letting her thumb make its way out from between your lips. Ever the inquisitive woman, she rubs her thumb against her index finger, tapping them together, letting your leftover saliva string between them.

“Y/n,” she murmurs, turning that duel-colored stare directly on you so intently, “—don’t play so coy. There comes a time when every woman must stop begging for the things she desires, and I’m tired of your eyes begging for what your mouth refuses to ask of me.”

Your lips part now, brain convinced you have a solid idea of what you’re supposed to be requesting of her. Though your head is still swimming and a part of you just knows you’re better off leaving things here, as they are, you’re only human. . . So you let your shaky hands come up to grasp at the fabric of her partially unbuttoned shirt, and you pull her inward, not once, but twice, until her face is so close to yours that you’re practically sharing the same breath.

There’s a pause when you don’t make the final move to kiss her, half expecting that she’d have taken over by now, but she offers a low chuckle and snakes a hand up her torso, grasping at your own. It’s gentle for a moment —but only for a moment— before she forces your grip away in a single motion, the other hand wrapping around your free wrist, and pinning either of your hands down against the examination table.

“Go on,” she presses, “stop being so polite. Take what it is we both know you want. Do lions ask nicely before they tear their prey apart?”

You wonder which one you’re supposed to be in this scenario, —the lion or the prey. With the way she’s staring at you, you get the feeling it’s the latter. . .

Closer, closer, you lean, until Moira’s mouth is barely touching your own in a sort of off-handed, almost kiss that isn’t quite coming to fruition. Your neck is craned as far as your body will allow, and you feel the little tuft of amused breath that passes her nostrils ghost against your skin.

“You really are just incredibly novel, did you know that?” She asks, pressure increasing on your pinned down wrists as she finally goes in for the kill.

Her lips are surprisingly soft, and slightly sticky from the remnants of her off-orange lipstick. Even the way she kisses you commands a certain level of respect, and you hope to honor that by keeping up, letting your body react naturally to any and all of her ministrations. When her tongue slips into your mouth, you hardly startle at the feeling, letting her lick and taste as she pleases. The way she does so is like she can’t get enough, —and it crosses your mind very briefly that you may be the first person she’s come on to in quite a while.

Her job is demanding, and overwhelmingly isolating, after all. ..

Having stained your lips enough, both with her bruising kisses and the tangerine-ajacent cosmetics on her mouth, she pulls away for the briefest of moments, only to descend upon your neck like it was glazen with sugar. You can’t help the little gasp that escapes you, or the soft moan that follows, —or the way your hand reaches up to bury the fingers in those fiery strands of hair now that hers are no longer pinning yours down.

“Moira,” you hiss lightly, “—ah.”

Under any other circumstances, you’d have never uttered her name so plainly in lieu of her title, but with the way she was wearing you thin and prying you open with such apparent ease, you doubted she’d care much if you stepped over a line previously drawn in the sand. As far as you could tell, you were already lost at sea anyhow. 

It’s not much of anything, but you feel her smirk against your skin, then murmur: “She does speak.”

You’re on fire, inside and out, burning up so badly you fear there’ll be nothing left but ashes by the time she’s finished with you. Silently, you think it might be best for you to put a stop to this before it ends up going too far; before each of you are drowning so deep there’s no way to break the surface. Your lips part, ready to put an end to it all, —knowing you should. . . But you can’t. Not when she looks you over like you really are just her prey for the taking, for the feasting, the devouring.

“Darling,” she murmurs, tracing the back of her finger down your cheek, caressing you softly, “don’t be so shy. Learn to take what you want without pleading.”

Even then, it’s less of a suggestion and more of a subtle demand.

“I—” you start, but swallow just as quickly.

Sucking in a breath, you let your hands do the talking, gracing the flushed skin of her neck, then ghosting just above her sharp collar bones that peak out from her unbuttoned blouse. Before you have the wherewithal to tell yourself to stop, your shaky fingers begin fiddling with the rest of the clasps, going further down until you see the top of her bra (a simple, black garment, in true Moira fashion.) There’s something so stunning about the way colors lie against her, as if melding into her flesh, bending to her will.

She doesn’t stop you from unfastening the buttons, revealing more of her as you continue downward. She’s got no complaints to utter, no reservations present in her body language, and she sheds the top entirely when the last one has come undone. Moira takes a step back, tossing her shirt onto the small countertop, one of the sleeves dangling over into the sink. You take her fleeting absence from your body as an opportunity to admire her, —the sharp, almost jagged edges she carries around like swords. She’s so tall and slender, so striking in the way she moves as if everything is calculated and she doesn’t doubt for a moment that the world is ready to mold to her every wish and whim.

“Something to say?” She cocks a brow, tone smooth and almost melodic, that hint of an Irish accent clinging to every word.

Your mouth still feels dry, but you force yourself to say what’s on your mind, —even at the risk of coming across like some lovesick schoolgirl.

“I just think you’re pretty,” you answer.

Her lips quirk into another smirk at the compliment, and she runs a hand through her hair, letting you admire the motion.

“That’s very kind of you to say,” she replies.

It didn’t feel kind when you said it, really. . . It just felt true.

“Come,” she beckons, coaxing you off the exam table and closer to the wall, pressing your back against it.

It’s cold to the touch, but it does little to quench the fire still roaring in your guts. What’s more, you’re not entirely sure you want it to stop now anyway. From the corner of your eye, you can see one of Moira’s lengthy arms reach out to tap the middle of the doorknob with a long-nailed finger, popping the lock into place. You assume that signifies a sealed deal of sorts. . . That there’s no going back now; and heaven knows you’re not trying to.

Moira’s hands find their way to your waist, pressing firmly for a bit as she kisses you again; albeit somewhat slower and more intimately than before. It feels more like the kind of kiss you’d give a lover to show affection than one you’d throw at a midday fling. There’s little time to dwell on the thought, however, as she snakes herself between your thighs, dancing over the fabric of your dress pants.

Your breathing hitches a little at the feeling, your skin heating up, and Moira grins to herself before letting her fingers trail upward and curl inward, grabbing at your sweater. Untucking it from your pants, the elder woman pulls it up, looks to you for approval, then finishes the job as she yanks it over your head and tosses it back onto the examination table. The crinkly paper shuffles for a moment, and the sound is almost thunderous over the duet of breaths and heartbeats across the room.

She murmurs something about how lovely you are that you don’t quite catch, —but the real compliment comes from the way her eyes trace across your body, soaking up every inch so earnestly.

When you reach behind her slim back, fiddling with the clasp of her bra, she gives a hum of amusement.

“Eager one, aren’t you?” She asks, voice dripping with the only kind of condescension that tastes so sweet.

“I can’t help it,” you breathe quickly, almost in embarrassment, but still lacking the humility it would have otherwise carried.

You manage to tear the clasp open and the straps on her shoulders slump off. Moira readily tugs them down and sheds the last garment on her upper half, letting your eyes rake over the slight curve of her breasts. They’re not large by any means, but they suit her body so nicely, sitting perfectly on her chest with pinkish nipples you can’t help but think about clasping your mouth around.

She seems pleasantly surprised when you make the first move to do just that, even placing a long-nailed hand on the back of your head, guiding you to her body. As you offer a lick to the left one with the flat of your saliva-laden tongue, she lets out a soft breath, stroking your hair softly as if to encourage you to keep going. You do as she silently asks, parting your lips again and taking her in your mouth, suckling on one, then giving the same attention to the other. She seems to like the way you swirl your tongue, so you do it again, and again, and again, until Moira decides that this just isn’t suiting her fancy any longer.

“Good girl,” she mumbles, even when she’s pushing you away and tugging your bra off with ease.

This time, she doesn’t bother tossing the article of clothing onto the exam table behind her, she simply lets it hit the ground to join her own. Thankfully, the sanitation of the labs, and subsequently the clinical wing, has always been solid as can be.

With a clawed hand, she covers your mouth and keeps your head pinned back against the wall, ducking down to repay the favor. She takes her time reaching your breasts, but it’s hard to mind when she’s busy sucking love bites in a trail down your neck and upper chest. She bites your shoulder, feels you moan against her palm, then does it again to draw the sound from your throat once more.

When she finally takes a single nipple between her teeth, the sensation alone has you seeing stars. Her mouth is so wet and warm, so surprisingly inviting, and she’s so skilled with every little flick. Her free hand works what her mouth doesn’t, careful not to scratch or jab you with her nails. She stays attached for much longer than she allowed you to be, and it crosses your mind that Moira may not be much into the whole receiving end of things. Whatever the case, she looks too pretty like this, with her mouth leaving the rest of her faint lipstick around your nipples and on the column of your neck, for you to think too much of it (or be disappointed by it.)

You really couldn’t tell if all this passion and fervor was born of spite against Angela for setting this clinic up in the first place and making Moira work in it, the general frustration of being away from her own endeavors for so long today, the pent up ardor releasing after a dry spell, —or maybe some mixture of all of that and then some. Whatever the case, Moira wasn’t skimping on a single detail, and you were going to be the last person on the face of the planet to complain about that.

As she unbuttoned your pants and began to tug them down, allowing them to cling around your thighs, you were quick to take over and shed your own clothing at her silent demand. You were thankful you’d worn open-toed heels that day, knowing it wouldn’t have been as sexy if you’d had to have taken the time to slip your socks off during this little process. Moira doesn’t make any moves to mimic you, instead resigning herself to watching and holding herself back from touching.

When everything’s shed, you unconsciously cover yourself with your arms a bit, not necessarily to hide away from her gaze, but out of little more than whatever few shreds of humility you have left.

“Don’t be bashful,” she says firmly, grasping each of your wrists and planting your arms at your sides.

The transition back to the table feels like a blur, —a rush of so much at once that your mind goes a little foggy and the sound of that damn crinkly paper being pushed back to the top, along with the stray clothes, hardly registers above the ache in your core and the coolness of the floor beneath your bare feet. She instructs you to sit, and you do, and when she tells you to come closer to the edge and spread your legs, you do that as well.

“You’re so obedient,” she comments with a half-smile, trailing a finger down the barren skin of your inner thigh, sending shivers across your skin. “We could use more employees like you around here.”

A part of you can’t help but hope, in the moment, that those people never come around, that they never land positions in the lab, just so this endeavor can be your burden to carry alone. This side of Moira is still intimidating, but there’s a softness to be found in the way she looks at you, the way she mumbles little compliments against your skin, —the way she treats you like you’re made of something fragile.

She parts your lips with two of her long fingers, taking a moment to admire the way arousal has slicked your folds up so beautifully. It’s been a while since she’s seen firsthand the impact she can have on a woman, and your wetness strokes her ego more than it probably should have.

The moment the flat of her tongue pressed against you, your toes curled inward and your head fell back, a few breathy moans making your chest stutter. Through half-lidded eyes, you could only watch in bliss as Moira glanced up at you, her mouth suctioned around your needy little cunt, feeling every twitch and licking up every bit of juice.

“Oh my God,” you huff, reaching forward with one hand to grasp at Moira’s hair.

She seems to like the way you vocalize, and the way you grab at her like it’s something natural, even when it really isn’t. Her tongue works in circles, then lines, then a million other shapes and directions in a single moment, and you feel your body quiver from the tension.

A part of you feels pathetic, but it really can’t be helped that she’s already pushed you to the edge. Weeks of work had given you little time to yourself, and what time you had managed had been spent sleeping, eating, or trying to catch up on things you enjoyed in your personal life. Taking care of your more intimate needs just hadn��t really entered the equation as of late, but now all of that build-up was really showing its true colors (and so quickly at that.)

“I—” you suck in a breath, “I’m gonna cum—”

And she reaches around from the top, her arm hooked under your left thigh, pressing the pad of her thumb ever so carefully against your swollen clit.

You toss your head back and bite your lip nearly hard enough to draw blood. Your free hand grasps for one of your breasts, pinching a nipple between your fingers, letting her drive that stake in so fucking deep that you can feel your insides melting away into ecstasy. Her thumb massaging your clit, her tongue swirling around just below, and the utter depravity of having sex with your boss’s most disgruntled co-worker leaves you cumming on her face, muscles releasing all their tension and melding away into this fantasy world with her.

Oh, but she’s not done, —because of course she’s not. The quiver in your thighs isn’t steady enough, and she hasn’t felt you clench around her fingers, hasn’t felt you tug on her hair hard enough to rip some of the strands from her scalp, hasn’t quite had her fill of you just yet.

Moira brings her hand to her mouth, tearing the middle two nails off with her teeth and spitting them onto the ground beside the examination table. That’s probably a lot hotter than it should be right now, but there’s something about the way she tugs them off so effortlessly, grasping them between her canines, that has your core sopping at the sight of it.

“Just lay back,” she requests.

You do, without question, and you hear her offer up a low chuckle that resonates from the back of her throat.

“You’d just do anything I asked of you, wouldn’t you?” She asks, amusement clinging to every word.

“Yeah, probably,” you reply breathily, —and perhaps a bit too honestly.

But she likes that.

Moira pushes your thighs apart like they’re less so parts of your body and more so obstacles getting in the way of what she wants. She stands to her full height for a moment or two, but her back curves downward and she lowers herself over top of you as she flips her hand palm-side up and sinks those two de-nailed fingers inside your cunt. Your accumulated wetness allows for such an easy entrance, and she pauses for a moment at the hilt of her hand to relish in the way your walls thrub around her digits, almost pulsating, begging for more.

If there’s ever been something Moira has been happy to comply with, —it was this. She lets you adjust, but just barely so, and then pulls back a bit, letting the friction elicit a few soft moans from you.

“Fuck,” you whimper, eyes rolling back a bit, cunt clenching around Moira’s lengthy fingers, the ones she knows how to work so well inside you.

It once again seems like every move she makes is calculated and precise, evoking something so primal inside you, unleashing some kind of desirous beast that just can’t get enough of her.

And there you are on this uncomfortable exam table in this God forsaken clinical wing that neither you nor Moira have ever been very fond of, bare back pressed against the weirdly textured leather, dripping and convulsing around the lecherous fingers of the same woman you’ve heard nothing but complaints about from your boss since you first began working under her. You’re sure that if Doctor Ziegler could see you now, she’d have you fired on the spot, —and something about that makes this so much fucking hotter.

You’re whimpering at every touch, so vulnerable for her eyes only. She prods at every inch of your insides she can touch, moving her fingers in time with every little noise that’s ripped from your throat, leaving you moaning like a slut in heat; and the cycle continues until your body has just had more than enough.

“Moira, I—” a breath cuts you off, nails scraping against that odd-feeling leather beneath you. “Please don’t stop, please don’t stop, holy shit—”

She doesn’t stop. She wouldn’t even dream of it when you’re begging like that, when the pretty pussy she’s hammering out with two fingers is just begging for every ounce of her desire and attention.

The knot inside you unravels, and she basks in the way you spasm around her digits, back arching up off the table. Moira lets you ride it out before slipping out, drawing a few lines up and down your glistening slit before pulling her hand away and reaching for the paper towl dispenser that hangs on the wall. She pats her hand dry and silently collects the clothes strewn about the room.

It takes a moment for you to get your bearings, but you manage to redress without making a fool of yourself.

“A word of advice,” Moira finally speaks, “you’re a good time, and I’m sure an adaquate employee, —but acting isn’t much your forte. Next time Angela sends you here to spy on me, spare me the pleasantries and let’s just skip to the good part.”

You can feel your ears burning, but you force a nod anyway.

“Yes, Doctor.”

#overwatch smut #overwatch #overwatch x reader #overwatch x reader smut #moira o'deorain #moira #moira odeorain #moira odeorain x reader #moira odeorain smut #moira o'deorain smut #moira odeorain x reader smut #moira o'deorain x reader smut #moira x reader smut #moira x reader #moira o'deorain x reader

[cezgez]

“You main Moira cause you can’t aim” no I main her cause she’s fucking hot get with the program

#overwatch #moira o'deorain #moira ow #moira overwatch #moira o'deorain x reader #moira x reader #overwatch moira #moira odeorain

[pochipop]

＃OVERWATCH !! ♡ — LION TAMING (MOIRA X READER).

#. synopsis! — here you are again. there she is. but at what cost? and just who has she become while she's been so far away? and worse yet, what happens if it just doesn't seem to matter?

#. characters! — moira .

#. warnings! — angst, explicit and substantial age gap, mentions of bodily wounds + war .

#. word count! — 4.4k .

#. others! — navigation & masterlist .

#. alt accounts! — @ddollipop (nsfw), @hhoneypop (moodboards) .

It’s been a long time since you last saw Moira, —before the fall of Overwatch, before the world divulged into more madness than anyone knew what to do with. It’s been years since you were taken off duty, but not a day has gone by that you haven’t felt like a soldier. Wherever you go, the memories linger, and they tie you down like cinder blocks always trapped around your feet. You’ve tried therapy and medications, yoga and meditation; even flew out to some tropical island unmarred by the vestiges of war for a while, only to find that it wasn’t a matter of where you were or what you were surrounding yourself with.

No, in the bitter end, the truth was that it was you.

You and your mountain of feelings that no psychologist could shave down, because you didn’t know where to begin. You and the itch that lingered during times of peace, because you yearned for conflict, even if you’d spent too much of your life now trying to snuff it out. You and your incessant inability to thrive without feeling like a time bomb.

Now, the scientist you first met when you were both younger and a bit less wise, stands before you. . . Or, above you anyway, leering down at your form, taking your face in as if she’s trying to recall where she knows you from. She’s as intimidating as ever, those sharp, dual-colored eyes and that scarily pointed stare directed right at you. Once upon a time, it felt nice to be the center of her attention. You were fresh faced and newly twenty one, and she was a few years over forty, though she didn’t look it. You stood with your back painfully straight, posture perfect, eyes directly ahead, and she’d seen right through all the training and the uniform you wore with such a stupid amount of pride.

Her tone is much the same as it was back then as she leans down now, crouching at your side.

“Long time no see, luch beag.”

You can’t help but scowl at the nickname. You never protested it before, content to be her precious, foolish little mouse when the barracks got too full for your liking and you’d shack up with her in the Overwatch laboratories. She’d go on and on about new discoveries and shimmering breakthroughs, —and you’d sit there on the edge of her desk, just listening and nodding along. Your skills were in reconnaissance, mostly, though you had an okay eye for sniping if it came down to the wire, and your close combat was acceptable in spite of its mediocrity. A few times, you’d even done espionage missions with varying degrees of success. All of that to say: Moira’s work was above your pay grade.

Still, you never minded giving her an audience. She was good at putting on a show, so endlessly enthusiastic about her work and all the ways she was bending the world around her. You wish she’d have been even half as enthusiastic about the way she wore you down.

“Talon?” You question, venom in your tone. “Really?”

You’re disappointed, but can’t say you’re surprised. Moira always had an uncanny ability to move through the world like it was hers to mold and snap and kiss just right under dim computer lights—

“Spare me the lecture,” she answers bluntly. “You’re hardly in any position to be passing judgement.”

Her eyes trail from your face to the wound you’re clutching on your abdomen. When the first of many explosions had gone off, you’d been separated from the rest of your group. It was some stupid vigilante sector working to take back control of Oasis. A pointless pipedream, and you knew it, but you needed the rush, needed to be out on the field again, working, doing something. Discharge had left you stir crazy, and you were done trying to find yourself in tattered self-help books that insisted drinking more water and spending more time with the friends you didn’t have would make you happy enough to leave this life behind you.

That was the problem, really. . . You didn’t want to leave it behind. You liked the adrenaline and the thrill of knowing your life was on the line, and even now, with some big chunk of metal embedded in your stomach, you enjoyed this. In some strange, twisted way, this was where you felt at home.

“You never did know when to quit,” she tells you, a smirk pulling at the edge of her lips.

“Oh, and you do?” You retort.

Her smirk fades, and you almost wish you hadn’t said that.

“I at the very least have a sense of self-preservation,” she answers plainly. “Something you still seem to lack. Severely.”

“Whatever, Moira,” you mutter, letting your tired head drop back onto the rubble behind you.

“Very mature,” she says, sarcasm dripping from her tongue.

Even now, a part of you wants to lick it off.

“On a scale of one to ten, how much pain are you in?”

You huff a little, staring up at the late evening sky. Stars have timidly begun to emerge from behind whisping clouds, and you’re reminded that this little unit you traveled here with couldn’t have cared less about you. They held no loyalty to you. You were expendable. . . And worst of all, you don’t even have the energy to be upset about it.

“Like a six,” you shrug.

You’ve definitely been through worse.

She raises a brow, reaching out to gently pull your hand away. The jostling, slight as it may be, makes you wince.

“Okay, Jesus, maybe a seven,” you correct, taking a sharp breath in.

The air is chilly against your skin, and especially so against the jagged gash in your clothing that gives way to the explosion’s cruel momento lodged in your skin. Moira’s nimble fingers gently explore the area, making use of whatever shreds of daylight are left. A sizable piece of metal is embedded in your stomach, roughly an inch above your belly button. The wound is angry and inflamed with dry blood crusting around the edges. She doesn’t ask how long you’ve been stuck here, and you’re trying not to think about it.

Moira sighs in both frustration and what you can only assume is concern. Maybe it’s all frustration and you’re just holding onto the past, —but either way, she looks toward your face again to speak.

“It’s obviously not fatal, but I can’t imagine it feels very nice,” she states.

“No, it feels like there’s metal in my stomach,” you answer sarcastically.

“Lovely to see your sense of humor hasn’t gotten any better since we last spoke,” she comments.

“Oh, so sorry,” you roll your eyes, “it’s just that if I laugh, I think this fucking thing might puncture one of my kidneys.”

“Small intestine would be more likely.”

You have to bite your lip to stop yourself from giggling, and once again you’d really like to think there’s something just short of fondness flashing in her eyes.

She moves with clinical precision, checking you over, trying to do as little damage as possible in the process.

“You always did have a knack for finding trouble,” she comments, tone a curious blend of amusement and camaraderie.

For a minute, it’s almost too easy to pretend like you’re still that young recruit seeking shelter from your training and the gossip of the barracks in her lab, or the corporal who snuck away to lie in her bed at night. Those were really the glory days, —when your life was always in the balance, hanging by a thread, waiting to be snapped by either an enemy bullet or a quick slice from one of Moira’s long, pointed nails.

“Trouble has a way of finding me,” you muse, offering a half-hearted shrug that sends a twinge of pain bursting through your abdomen.

You grimace, then find your voice again.

“I’m just trying to keep it entertained.”

She laughs, low and from the chest, shaking her head.

“You’ve certainly excelled at that,” she remarks.

There’s a brief silence as she continues to check you over, assessing the damage. As she so gracefully pointed out just a bit ago, it’s not fatal. It’s not deep enough to leave you bleeding out, —but it damn sure doesn’t feel nice. Aside from that, you’re no doctor, but you’re pretty certain a wound like this open in a war-torn city is just a recipe for utter disaster, especially given its placement.

“So then,” she muses, “how’d you get yourself in this position?”

“Take a wild guess,” you reply, gesturing to the blown up buildings and roadways around you.

“That much is obvious,” she answers. “I’m asking why you’re even here in the first place. You must know how dangerous this area is. I’d like to think you’re not naive enough to have been working with that ragtag bunch of so-called rebels.” 

You frown. It’s hard not to when you know she’s right. You’re better than this, —better than putting your neck (and apparently your abdomen) on the line for people who would leave you behind without a second thought. Nobody came back for you. Either they all failed and were blown to pieces in record time, or they’d gone on without you and couldn’t have cared less about the person they left sifting through the wreckage to survive.

“We all make choices,” you mumble bitterly.

“Clearly. I just never pegged you as someone who’d make such a stupid one.”

You don’t answer.

“Did you really miss all of this so horribly? Enough to come out here, underprepared with a pack of morons who don’t have two braincells to rub together between them?” She questions.

“I needed something,” you snap a little. “I was losing my mind. Call me what you like, but I’d rather be here with this shit stuffed in my gut than be back home doing nothing. It doesn’t even matter what I’m fighting for anymore, just as long as it scratches the itch. I thought the chaos might give me some goddamn purpose, and I feel like you of all people should be able to understand that.”

She looks unimpressed by the reply.

“And now?” She presses. “Found your purpose, or just more chaos?”

You purse your lips into a tight line for a moment.

“Definitely more chaos, and not even the good kind,” you admit. “At this point, I’m less of a person and more of a walking disaster. Just a casualty of my own recklessness.”

Moira seems almost sympathetic as she regards you now, for whatever that’s worth coming from her.

“You’re not the first to fall for the high of it hook, line, and sinker, and you won’t be the last,” she says. “War has a dastardly way of distorting motivations. You’ve turned your personal desires into misguided ideals. But. . .” she pauses, offering you the slightest hint of a smile, “you’re still alive and breathing. That has to count for something.”

“Can’t say it feels like much right now,” you answer honestly. “Just look at me. A heartbeat away from strung out, left for dead by the same people I knew along would turn and run with their tails between their legs from the start. Some accomplishment.”

“Yes, well. . . I’m not sure I’m the right person to be offering you any comfort,” she stands to her full height again.

“I get it,” you reply. “You’re disappointed in the person I turned out to be. That makes two of us.”

Moira shakes her head.

“Let’s get you up.”

“Huh?” You utter, dumbfounded by the mere insinuation. “Up? Do I really look like I’m in any condition to be going anywhere?”

“Well I can’t very well kneel here and pull that thing out with my bare hands and no medical equipment, can I?” Moira questions in return.

“You could.”

“It would be foolish,” she states plainly. “In any case, will you be taking your chances here on your own, like this, or would you rather give yourself a fighting chance and come with me?”

“To where?”

“My laboratory,” she replies.

You’d have laughed if you’d been certain it wouldn’t drive that piece of metal into your small intestine.

“Talon gave you a laboratory?” You question. “And just what have you been up to for you to have worked your way into their good graces like that?”

“Nothing that proves to be of any concern to you,” she answers coldly.

Well then.

That’s certainly a far cry from the woman who used to enthusiastically usher you into her little realm in the late hours of the night to have you perch on the corner of her desk and listen as she rattled on and on about anything. It’s a far cry from the Moira who used to sneak her hands beneath your shirts just to feel the warmth of your skin beneath her palms.

“Are you coming with me, or would you prefer I leave you alone to lament in the rubble?”

The choice was easy. She helped you to your feet, let you lean on her slender (but surprisingly sturdy) shoulder, and by the skin of your teeth, you managed to make it back with her before that so-called seven rose to a ten. At the very least she had the decency to try and numb the area before carefully pulling the shrapnel from your gut and cleaning the unpleasant wound it left behind. You knew that look she wore on her pretty face and kept your mouth shut as she worked.

This new lab of hers is sterile, —a stark bit of contrast to the chaos outside. It’s hidden underground, but it was easy to forget that once you stepped inside with all the sharp, fluorescent lights that shone in the halls. The tech and machinery is wildly different to the type Overwatch had provided her with. You couldn’t be sure, but you were definitely willing to bet it was something close to state of the art. The air smells heavily of antiseptic now as she sits you up slowly, pausing when you wince as pain shoots through your abdomen.

Looking up at her now, there’s a clinical detachment that wasn’t there before, and you can’t say you like it.

Lost in the motions, she doesn’t seem to notice the way you stare, and you’re thankful for it. Her hands move with practiced precision, but you can’t shake the memories that have wriggled back up to swallow you whole, feasting like maggots on whatever rot she’s claimed inside you. You’re both different now, but this proximity, this touch, —her eyes raking over your skin. . . It all feels strangely familiar.

For the briefest of moments her eyes met yours, and you could almost swear you caught a glimpse of something beyond the stiff exterior she was presenting you with. Whether it was regret or desire, well, that was still up in the air. As quickly as it was there, it was gone, replaced by the mask of composure she chose to don like armor, even in your presence.

“Try not to move too much,” she murmurs, those nimble fingers adorned by prettily painted nails tracing the edges of your jagged injury as she wound bandages around your waist.

The contact was cold and dispassionate, but you couldn’t shake the lingering sense of intimacy that persisted, dancing between what was and what could have been. Maybe if she’d stayed a little longer after Overwatch fell, things wouldn’t have ended up like this. Maybe if you’d been less destroyed by the disbandment, had perked up earlier, —things would have been different. But here you are, Moira nursing you back to health again. . . And it feels nice. As nice as it can be to have a woman you loved once (and quite possibly still do, albeit differently now) taking metal from your gash and patching you up in the wake of it.

There was tension now between yourself and her that just didn’t feel quite right. You felt the weight of all the loose ends you never thought you’d have the opportunity to tie up, and it made the silence all the more palpable.

“Do you ever miss it?” You inquire, though you’re not sure if it was spurred more by curiosity or by the desire to put a cap on the quiet. “The time before Overwatch fell.”

She pauses, in the midst of winding some unused bandage wrap back around itself to store it away.

“You know my opinion on that organization quite well,” she answers markedly.

She’s right. You do. Overwatch had provided you with an outlet, had awoken something difficult to manage inside you, —but something they fed so deliciously everytime they sent you out into the field. For Moira, though, she felt they stunted scientific progress and refused to let her ideas thrive, skimping on resources for the research and experimentation teams. It wouldn’t be a stretch to say she loathed Overwatch, and you always knew she wasn’t sad to see it go.

“So no,” she adds. “I can’t say that I do.”

It’s probably not as personal as you’re taking it, but hearing her say that really throws a wrench in the whole ‘I think I’m still in love with you’ thing you’ve got going on.

“Still,” you say, voice cautiously casual, “do you ever think about it?”

In the time it took you to find the nerve to speak again, she’d finished wrapping the bandage and had begun reaching for the kit she claimed it from.

“Nostalgia is a luxury we can seldom afford in times like this,” she comments. “And I prefer my conversations more to the point. Just what is it you’re trying so hard to ask without asking?”

Her response leaves a bitter taste in your mouth. The time before was far from perfect, but it was such a delicate mix of pain and pleasure. Now, it just feels far too much like Moira is determined to bury both beneath the rubble of the present.

“Just. . .” you hesitate, feeling the words die in your throat the minute she meets your eyes.

You swallow their corpses like bile and try again.

“What we had. . . Did it mean anything to you?”

Oh, joy. Now you’re fairly certain that you’re just coming across like some lovesick little girl who never got over her first crush. It’s embarrassing enough to make your insides churn a little, although thankfully only in a metaphorical sense, because you’re pretty sure that would have hurt fairly badly on its own, and that pain would only be amplified by the wound on your stomach.

“What we had?” She echoes, one of her thin brows arching.

A part of you is almost expecting her to laugh at you, but she doesn’t.

“It served its purpose,” she shrugs, tone even.

“And that’s all?” You press, even though sirens are going off in your brain, begging you to reel the conversation back in or try to steer it in another direction entirely.

There just has to be something more beneath the surface.

“We both got what we needed, did we not?” Moira questions. “You got to rest your weary head on a warm body, and I had someone to speak with, —even someone to take some frustration out on. Nothing more, nothing less.”

What she said was true, but it still made your chest ache to hear it out loud.

“And now?”

“Now what?” She inquires.

“What’s our relationship now?”

Moira pauses, her gaze lingering on your face as if she’s weighing her options in real time. The sterile air of the lab seems to thicken with your anticipation, and you brace yourself for her reply. 

“Now?” She muses, tone cool and detached. “We’re. . . Acquaintances, of a sort.”

“And that’s all?”

“That’s all.”

Acquaintances. It’s a word that feels more distant than the war-torn landscape outside, and it shreds your stupid little heart like it's been raked over a cheese grater. It fucking stings. A woman you used to run to seeking solace and what always felt like protection is now something less than even a friend. You’ve been reduced to some kind of footnote in her life story.

At this point, all your pride has gone out the window. Or, it would have done so if this place had any, but being underground, that wasn’t exactly a reasonable ask. Instead, it’s wilting in front of you like a discarded rose, shriveling up all the more when you decide to open your mouth again.

“Do you ever think about it? About me?”

Moira stills for a moment, as if the question caught her off guard.

“What’s there to think about?” She answered your question with one of her own.

“Us. What we had. How it felt.”

Silence lingers, stretching into uncomfortable territory before she finally fixes her tongue to say: “I try not to dwell on the past.”

She’s diplomatic, even in her evasivness.

“Dwell on me then,” you dare. “I’m here now, aren’t I? That’s hardly what I’d consider a thing of the past.” 

She busies her hands with something on a table nearby.

“I try not to dwell on any one thing for too long,” she revises. “Lots of things require my attention. Stagnancy is hardly a luxury I can afford.”

You can’t help it that her vague replies make you well up in frustration,

“You can’t just pretend like it didn’t happen.”

“I could,” she states, letting her gaze rise to snag yours. “But I didn’t. I told you; what happened between us served its purpose. Now, it’s time to adapt and move forward.”

“Adapt and forget?” You challenge.

“Adapt and survive,” she corrects.

“Neither of us are exactly the type to just want to survive and leave it at that,” you remind her. 

Moira drops the tool in her hand and looks at you pointedly. You flinch at the noise it makes as it clangs against the table.

“What exactly are you fishing for?” She questions, frustration seeping into her tone. “Some kind of senseless confirmation that you were more than just something familiar?”

“I don’t know. Maybe something like that,” you admit, and immediately a part of you wishes you hadn’t, and yet you continue. “Maybe I just wanna know that it meant something to you beyond serving a purpose.”

“You want to hear me say that I loved you.”

Your blood sort of runs cold, but you don’t bother to deny it. That is what you’ve been clawing for this whole conversation, —you just hadn’t expected her to put it so bluntly, even if that’s just within her nature. Still, there’s a vulnerability on her face that you hadn’t quite expected.

“Love. . . Love is a complicated word. It carries weight, and expectations, and a host of things we never explored. What we had was different. But in saying it’s different, I don’t diminish the significance. It’s a differentiation, but not one I feel matters more than the facts at hand. It was mutually beneficial, and I have a great deal of fondness for you as a result.”

“A deal great enough to think of me as an acquaintance,” you say.

“At the moment,” she states. “But in the past, which I’m still not keen to be dwelling on, —we were something more. I don’t let mere acquaintances sleep in my bed.”

“In the past,” you echo, seeming almost disenchanted by it all now.

“Things change,” she tells you. “You and I know that better than most. Circumstances evolve. I’m not negating or denying what we shared, —I’m telling you that the present demands a different perspective.”

That’s a hard pill to swallow, to say the least of it.

“So what now then?” You ask. “You stay here in this lab alone, and I go back out there? Maybe we cross paths every once in a blue moon, and we stay acquaintances forever?”

“If that’s what you need to give yourself some closure on the matter, then I suppose so,” Moira replies.

“I don’t need closure,” you tell her. “I don’t want it. What I want is. . .”

You pause. What exactly do you want? Something close to what you shared with her those few years ago? Something more, something less? Maybe it’s just that you miss the way she’d kiss you, because nobody has done it since then. Maybe you’re just touch starved and feening for the only woman who ever knew how to push all your buttons in all the right ways.

You swallow, steeling yourself to finish.

“What I want is you.”

Moira’s lips twitch into a small smile.

“You always were stubborn,” she notes.

“Only when it matters,” you reply, not bothering to bite back a grin.

“And you think it matters now?” She asks.

“I think it matters now more than ever,” you answer, tone earnest. “I miss what we had, Moira. I miss you.”

She studies you for a moment, as if she’s weighing the sincerity of your words. Finally, she breaks the silence.

“You do realize that things won’t be the same, correct?” She questions. “I don’t know where you’ve been or who you’ve become in the time we’ve spent apart. Not that I’m unwilling to learn, —just to say that it won’t be exactly how it was. Not now, not for quite a while, and perhaps maybe never.”

“I know things won’t be the same,” you confirm. “But maybe that’s not such a bad thing. Maybe this can be something better.”

Moira can’t deny that the possibility intrigues her. She loves a good hypothesis, after all. Her analytical mind seems to weigh the pros and cons, calculating the risks involved and the potential for something grander than what it once was at its inception. Something more than a stifled set of hookups and entangled nights. A hint of a smile graces her lips.

“I’m willing to take the risk if you are,” she concedes. “But I make no promises about the end result.”

You remove yourself from the table, feet hitting the cold floor of the lab, emboldened by the diluted pain and the urge to be closer to her now more than ever. She nearly opens her mouth to advise you to sit back down, but doesn’t in the end.

“I don’t need promises,” you insist, reaching out to take her hand. “I just need a chance.”

She smiles honestly, and it’s like watching all her sharp edges soften. Her free hand cups your cheek, cold to the touch even as it warms your heart. Her thumb caresses your skin gingerly as she leans down slightly, speaking softly.

“Granted.”

#moira #overwatch #moira x reader #moira o'deorain x reader #moira odeorain x reader #moira o'deorain #moira odeorain #moira overwatch #overwatch x reader #moira reader insert #moira x you #moira o'deorain reader insert #moira odeorain reader insert #moira x y/n #overwatch imagines #moira imagine #overwatch x you

[astarlow]

hello! would love to see widow, mercy, moira, and ashe reacting to their long lost female s/o who was brainwashed. thank you and stay safe!

Characters: Widowmaker, Ashe, Moira Form: Mix Warning: Character death (Ashe's part) Synopsis: After being together for quite some time, s/o disappears without leaving a trace, making their partner reacts Word Count: 2 377 A/n: Hey! I didn't include Mercy because I have done something similar and you can find it here I hope you'll like it for these characters tho! And for the anon that has requested this, sorry for the wait. The draft has been sitting for 3 years ;-; and I just had the motivation to finish it

Widowmaker

🕷️Her sudden disappearance did not concern her, at least, in the beginning 

🕷️As time passes, she does get slightly worried but never will she ever admit or show it 

🕷️She knows something is amiss when even Sombra can't tell her where she is 

🕷️The pain and doubts never fade but she is trained to be a stone-cold killer, she is a fool to believe she could love again 

🕷️The next time she meets her, she's in a reclused village in France. 

🕷️The place where she met her for the first time and decided to spare her. To this day she still doesn't understand why she did it

She walks in the street, strolling down the path she used to take with her lover. It is only memories now, fading where it belongs, in a void deprived of any emotions. She hides her face with a scarf, her blue skin with gloves and not an inch of her body is visible. Only her face is. She stops in front of a church, next to it is a crèche. Her body halts for a millisecond, recognizing the face leaving the building right away.

She watches her go to the centre of the village, to the garden. She follows her from afar, just like a shadow looming in the dark, like the assassin she is. 

She sats on a bench surrounded by children. She takes a book out of her bag, reads it to them and entertains them. A smile graces her face but it is quickly replaced by a frown.

'What is she doing here? After all this time, why is she suddenly appearing before her?'

"Watcha doing love?" This voice belongs to someone she personally knows and not in a good way. She curses internally for allowing herself to grow dull. She didn't notice them coming up nor did she expect Overwatch agents to be in such a small and calm city. Although as a Talon agent, she should be on her guard every time. 

She inspects all of her options, weighing each one of them. Tracer shakes her head, pointing at the people posted behind her. "Nu-uh you're not escaping this time love. What are you doing here?" She stays calm, face stoic as she watches her fading into the distance, ushering the kids to go away. She scoffs, what else should she expect?

"This doesn't concern you-" she raises her eyebrows. "-and I am not here to cause trouble." 

"I'm not believing in a lie, come on, what would a renowned Talon assassin be here, in a small town like that?" That is indeed a question she couldn't counter. If she did, she would show her weakness. She is surprised when someone links their arms with her own.

"Sorry, sorry. I was so caught up in my storytelling with the kids I forgot about my meeting with her." That is a voice she longed to hear, even if she denies it now. She surprised herself when she stays, arms still linked with hers.

"Uhm- are you sure about that?"

"Yes, you must have confused her with someone else. We'll be taking our leaves, sorry for bothering you." She drags her away under a confused-looking Tracer and a furious soldier. Once they are in a calmer area, she scratches the back of her head with a sheepish smile. A pink hue dusts her cheeks.

"Sorry, I don't know why I did this but you seemed quite uncomfortable in this situation and... It might be silly but it feels like I know you from somewhere." So she has forgotten about her. At least, she got out of this tricky situation thanks to her. Should she pursue their conversation? Mingling her with Talon once again? It is a selfish wish. She already had gone through this one time, why should she a second time?

"You must have made a mistake." And with that, she walks away. She doesn't expect her to block her way.

"Then how about I invite you to drink in a little café? That way, I could get to know you truly." 

Ignorance is bliss, she shakes her head, convincing herself she wouldn't drag her one more time through this hell.

"I need to go," she says hastily, voice turning ice cold. If she stays any longer, she won't be able to say no to her. She stares at her form, deflated a bit but a grin on her face nonetheless.

"I'll see you around then Amé!" She almost whips her head around at the mention of her name but she knows better than to do so. It would make her hope, make them hope.

"Such a foolish girl," she mutters through an imperceptible smile.

She doesn't know why she chose this name. Maybe it was those scarce visions appearing before her. Maybe it was because of this little voice in her head repeating the same name, again and again. Once it does pass her lips, it feels natural to her.

Her first love was free and an experiment, the second time was a punishment. She wouldn't allow herself to love a third time. Who knows what unfathomable thing would happen to her? She already lost her memories and it was already enough.

Ashe

🧨she isn't worried when she disappears, not one bit

🧨they are used to living apart, without any info about the others for months

🧨she starts to have her doubts when even members of her gang don't know where she is. She tells her crew to keep an eye out for any info they could gather about her

🧨she curses herself when they don't find her after intensive searches

🧨she'll keep up her job as the boss of the Deadlock gang but she is worried about her s/o, BOB can tell it and soon, the members of the gang notice it too

🧨She doesn't expect her at all, in front of her, stopping to pull out another heist

Ashe always has a backup plan. She always expects something to go wrong during her mission, that’s why she is prepared for everything and anything. Although this time, she has to admit nothing could prepare her for this situation. 

"What's all this about?" She shouts to know what is causing so much trouble to her men. They shout over each other and it becomes a mess to understand what they are trying to say. At some point, she became used to this.

Shots are being fired and she hears the sirens of the police. She reloads her rifle, whistling to get the attention of BOB. She takes a bag filled with loot but drops it when someone shoots at it.

"Boss... we have a problem," one of them mutters and she rolls her eyes.

"No shit." 

They are surrounded by police officers and if she could see clearly, even some Overwatch agents. What on Earth are they doing here? She restrains herself to spit at the face of an old comrade. 

"Of course, I had to find you here," she spat out with animosity laced in every word. He shrugs smugly, puffing out a cloud of smoke from his cigar. No one is shooting yet, but they all know it'll start soon.

"Don't blame me, Ashe, just trying to figure out why on Earth she joined us." He points at something behind her and she tilts her head to look at it. Her eyes widen before they are filled with anger. She throws herself at her, ready to punch her but she avoids her blow easily. Cassidy stares at them for a moment before leaving them alone. He'd better help his friends.

"So there you were, hiding all this time and working with the law, I should've known you were just like him!" She aims, shooting at her. She takes cover and the rain of bullets starts. "BOB, shoot!" He wakes up from his slumber, attacking all of his targets one after another. Those who escaped the first round of bullets are hit by successive waves of bullets until BOB had to reload. Ashe lets him take care of them while she pursues her once lover and partner in crime. 

She finally catches up with her, taking her down with a bullet in the leg. She tumbles to the ground, her weapon falling from her hand. She stomps on it, glaring at her with her teeth gritting each other. She didn't expect her to cry when she finally faces her.

"Now why would you traitor want to cry? I should be the one upset right now, you betrayed us!" She doesn't struggle, she just keeps crying uncontrollably.

"I-I don't even k-know you-" she lifts her by grabbing her collar, staring at her right in the eyes.

"Tell me this once again, in the eyes." She keeps her eyes on her, tears flowing freely on her face.

"I don’t know you! I don't know who you are, yet-" she brings a hand to her face to wipe them to get a clear look at her. "-yet why am I crying over a stranger? Why is my heart hurting me in the worst way possible? Why is it that my chest hurt so much when I look at you?" She drops her to the ground, examining everything about her. It hurts her to admit that she doesn't lie. What has she gone through to not remember a single thing about her? After everything they have been through. Their heists together, planning them in the dead of the night when no one else was awake besides the two of them, their love...

"I can't recall a thing, but those feelings... Why won't they go away?! I am supposed to hate you, you're breaking the law but- why is this sentence haunting me everywhere I go? Why can't I remember anything else but this: 'Don't work with the law and always punish betrayal'" She walks away, taking her rifle in her hands.

"And I will. You betrayed us, you betrayed the Deadlock Gang... You betrayed me. I'm not gonna let this slide." There is only one way to get rid of this feeling. She turns around, ready to aim before she changes her decision. Although the pool of blood on the ground makes her aware of things she hasn't acknowledged yet. 

"What?" She coughed blood and following her instincts, she placed her hands on her wound and put some pressure on it. Ashe rushes to her side, feelings clashing with her logic. Her eyes quickly scan her surrounding, falling on B.O.B.

"Damn it..." The shot came from him but it's too late anyways.  

"I'm sorry... I can't remember your face and the things that we went through. If I could- I know I'd be more than sorry-" "Shut it. You have no right to apologize after disappearing like that!" Tears are flooding from s/o's eyes, smiling apologetically while her consciousness slowly slips away.

"I know but I feel like apologizing for all the unknown hurt I've caused you... Sorry, Ashe, for everything." Ashe grips her by the collar.

"Don't you dare die on me like this s/o!" B.O.B comes in, scooping Ashe away as the police officers finally caught up to them.

"Shoot at them!!" Ashe struggles against B.O.B's grip but he carries her away from her once lover. The last thing she sees was s/o lying on the ground, bleeding to her death.

Moira

🧪Moira doesn't even notice in the first few weeks, being busy with her experiments and field research

🧪Sombra being her coworker do tell her her s/o has been missing for a few weeks

🧪She's not going to search for her intensively, rather, she'll ask Sombra do to the search for her

🧪When she comes back empty-handed, she knows she's not going to have much luck with her search as well

🧪So she gives up on the search but will look out for any pieces of information related to her s/o. She asks Sombra as well to be on the lookout

🧪When she comes face to face with her, it's a rather interesting conversation that ensues

Moira rarely leaves the talon base. Whenever she does, it's to gather data for her research or to pick up test subjects. So for her to be outside the base at this hour of the day, it's rather a curious decision. News of s/o has been spreading. Thanks to Sombra's research, she has been seen around Talon's base. With no memories of her life. Moira doesn't fully believe those rumours, but they couldn't have appeared out of nowhere. 

She has a book with her, to read while she sits in a cafe. Her mind on her book while her eyes scan the people walking in front of her. She doesn't try to be discreet, she doesn't care about people's judgement. She flips another page of her book and she raises one of her eyebrows when someone approaches her.

"Oh! I read this book not long ago, someone recommended it to me but I can't recall their name. How are you founding it so far?" 

"Fascinating. Truly fascinating..." she mutters to herself as s/o stands in front of her. Seemingly not recalling she's the one who recommended this book to her.

"Right? Ah- sorry, I hope I did not interrupt your reading." Moira observes her every move and words. Anything that could hint why s/o doesn't recognize her. Amnesia, brain tumor, dementia? What could possibly cause this sudden memory loss?

"Of course, not. It is always more entertaining to discuss a book with someone else rather alone. Take a seat. Let's discuss further."  

"Oh, alright." As the discussion progresses, Moira notes some elements. S/o doesn't remember much. She lost most of her memories. She started to keep her memories one month ago. That coincides with when she disappeared. For the moment, it makes sense. 

She still has to figure out why it happened. Or how. She doesn't want to rush this. After all, it'll be suspicious for her if she keeps insisting on knowing her past. She's willing to expand the time of her experiment if it means she's going to have an answer in the end. How fascinating, truly.

"Today has been interesting. Would you like to meet up again?"

#overwatch x reader #widowmaker x reader #ashe x reader #moira x reader #ow writing #asked and answered #amélie lacroix x reader #elizabeth caledonia x reader #moira o'deorain x reader #amélie x reader #elizabeth x reader #overwatch mix

[tonberry-yoda]

Yo Tonberry! Could I get some Moira smooches? Please and thank you! :D

OMFG YES!! Sorry for it being late, you sent it to me right when I was getting to bed last night lol, but I am so so happy to do this for you (I'm not gay, but godamn Moira, why you built like this???) Thanks for the request!!!

You had this scientist wrapped around your finger. The woman who refused to come out of her shell, the woman who never had emotion, the woman who was unethical, impractical, and a villain.

The woman who was now yours.

"Moira," you gasped when she stepped down the stairs, a shiny black dress clinging to her body. "Moira, dear, you look beautiful." You kissed her hand and helped her down the rest of the steps. You admired her in all her beauty. You rarely got to see her all dressed up like this.

"It's nothing, really," Moira chuckled and looked at you. You were just as dressed up as her. "If anything, you're the beautiful one here, rabbit."

"Moira, don't. You can be happy to be in a dress every now and again."

Moira jokingly rolled her eyes, but looked at herself in a nearby mirror. Her eyes lit up, to your surprise.

"See, love," you said, wrapping your arms around her waist. "You look beautiful."

Moira blushed and turned to you. "I suppose I am.... just a bit though."

She pressed a kiss onto both of your cheeks and tucked your hair behind your ear. "You're the stunning one here, y/n."

You wrapped your arms around the back of her neck and pulled her closer. Moira placed kisses up and down your face, making you giggle before pulling you to the car to go out for dinner.

~~~~~

if you want smooches, just send in a character name and i gotchu!

~~~~~

#i hope you enjoy #god moira doesnt have to be this fine #asks #writing #fanfic #my writing #<3 #fanfiction #tonberry answers #overwatch #overwatch x reader #moira #moira x reader #moira o'deorain #moira o'deorain x reader

[deadeyeedangel]

trial run - moira o'deorain x intern!reader

˚✩ ⋆｡˚ ✩ hi ! it's my wife's birthday today, so naturally i thought i'd finally get around to those hcs i was planning on writing! these posts will probably never be formatted with those pretty little headers i see around and i'm pretty unapologetic about it, i can't lie i kiiiinda care a lot less about the presentation and more about the actual writing and i'm a pretty busy person, soooo... sorry i guess? anyway sorry for yapping and i hope you all enjoy, HAPPY BIRTHDAY DOCTOR O'DEORAIN!!!

˚✩ ⋆｡˚ ✩ TAGS: sfw, reader was meant to be fem but tbh no gendered terms are really used so reader can be seen as gender-neutral, age difference (reader is implied to be a doctoral student in early 20s), canon-divergent/au because i'm projecting my own internship problems here i cannot help it, moira being moira but it's way tamer than usual, actually kinda really fluffy i needed some comfort oops, mayyy make a part 2 with the date if you guys reeeeally want it :p

✧˚ · . suffice to say she wasn't a fan on your first day- to be honest she wasn't a fan even before then. the doctor preferred to work in solitude and silence, and hearing that she would have to practically babysit a doctoral student for a whole summer? forget it.

✧˚ · . she very begrudgingly opened up to the idea of having a shadow, however, after she found out her lab would be receiving more funding as a result of the research you were being hired to do. unfortunately that still didn't mean she liked you, though.

✧˚ · . you were young, fresh-faced and naïve, and when you shuffled in through the doors to her lab you were met with a cold presence that you didn't necessarily care for at all. it was what you were expecting when you were told who you would be working with, though, so it didn't come as a surprise. after all, no matter how much better you thought you would fare working alongside your sweet professor dr. ziegler, there was only one in the facility that could find even some use in a bioinformatics student.

✧˚ · . you barely had a moment to introduce yourself before the lanky irishwoman waved off your extended hand.

"wasting time will get you nowhere. unless you wish to bring me my coffee and just sit there every day, make yourself actually useful."

you were silent after that, doing exactly as she said and leaving her alone. no words were exchanged for the rest of the day.

✧˚ · . your first week was pretty unremarkable, but you were easing into the schedule you had made, making a small dent in the large workload you had to do for your thesis. moira was always just moira, working silently in her own corner of the lab and occasionally taking a break to examine your own work but saying nothing at all. by week two, however, the silence was beginning to drive you insane.

✧˚ · . your first real conversation was initiated, surprisingly, by moira. the older woman was hovering over your shoulder as usual, examining your catalogs of the dna structures and compositions of the various modified rabbits she kept in the lab, and she decided to snarkily point out you had missed a section. expecting that to be the only thing she had to say, you sighed and corrected it before moving on but she kept speaking, pointing out areas that you missed in a tone that you could only describe as pointed and patronizing.

✧˚ · . in certain... other situations, you'd find being talked to in this manner by a quite attractive older woman to be much more pleasant, but this was your hard work she was critiquing.

✧˚ · . don't worry, though, it's her love language. she might not say it but she wants you to succeed.

✧˚ · . expect more conversations about your work and hers. you begin to speak more in the mornings when you first walked in, and at nights when you left.

✧˚ · . as the days went by and your final deadline for your thesis was approaching quicker and quicker, you ended up spending nearly all 24 hours of each day in the lab, and of course, moira had noticed.

✧˚ · . she leaves small things out for you that she'd usually leave for just herself: two mugs of coffee now, two plates with some small meals, two shot glasses in case things got rather dire... but don't ask her about them, she'll shut down that it was her doing quite quickly.

✧˚ · . one very early morning she returns from the bathroom to find you slumped over your desk, fast asleep. your face was smushed against your keyboard, keying in a constant and ever-growing string of the letter h into your catalog. if you ever found out and asked, she would have simply said she didn't want the data to be messed up. however, that was most certainly not the case as she gingerly lifted your head up carefully to delete the keyboard smash, saving your work and turning off your computer before leaving you back to your rest.

✧˚ · . she was back at her work for a good five minutes before she decides to take her lab coat off, draping it over your still-sleeping form like a makeshift blanket. you woke up that morning confused but grateful, with a slightly flushed doctor o'deorain saying she simply didn't want you to get sick, as it was cold in the lab anyway.

✧˚ · . your thesis was due the day before your last day of work, and moira was quieter than usual. you've been stressed and working dilligently all day, but when you finally submit it right before the clock struck midnight, moira got up from her side of the lab, and retrieved two glasses and a bottle of champagne.

✧˚ · . you never thought she'd be the type to celebrate this sort of thing, especially when it took her away from her work, but when she motioned you to come over, you couldn't help but listen.

✧˚ · . clinking your glasses together, moira congratulated you on your work, and over the alcohol, conversation brewed quickly. you spoke of your plans for the future, your research, her research, discussion flowing for hours, as if it were meant to be. a well-received moment of relaxation for the doctor, you assumed, surprised she'd spend it with you rather than alone.

✧˚ · . she never got the chance to ask if perhaps the two of you could see each other... outside of the lab, maybe for dinner or a coffee. a trial run if anything, she said.

✧˚ · . or- well, she didn't really say it. angela came up to you after a class and told you on her behalf. nerd with a crush doing nerd with a crush things, i guess.

#overwatch #overwatch x reader #moira o'deorain #moira overwatch #moira x reader #i heart my bitch wife that wants to kill me #moira o'deorain x reader

[colemorrison]

Hi!

Would I be able to ask for Moira x gn!reader? Specifically her new skin from the battle pass.

With the scenario being: Moira convinced reader to join her with the group, [Cult? I think so.] in her eyes she can finally give the reader affection now that they've joined her.

Have a good day / night!!

I LOVEEE THIS IDEAAA, this skin has me down bad.

The relationship had changed, now the thin metallic fingers slid over your own while you two sat next to each other or stood close enough.

“You have earned this you know? You have joined us, joined our cult, you are one of us now."

Her words we're smooth but they seemed to boom in the back of your head, like her voice was inside your mind. Like she was inside your mind.

"So now that I'm part of... This we can be affectionate?"

Moira got closer, the darkness inside her hood seeming to pull you in, it formed lips, kissing you. It was hot, so incredibly hot it felt like it was burning you but it wasn't, it made your head spin.

"This is what you wanted, is it not?"

"No, no it is."

The metal carassed your skin, so cold to the touch but it was inviting, she was dragging you into her somehow. Maybe it was magic or manipulation but all you knew was that you craved more.

"Then here it is. The affection you oh so dearly craved."

————

Smash.

#overwatch #overwatch2 #overwatch imagines #overwatch 2 #moira o’deorain #moira x reader #moira o'deorain #moira o'deorain x reader

[gl0v3s]

The Sacred Pen

Pairing: Moira O'Deorain x Reader

Summary: You lost your favourite pen, and it turns out it's with Dr Moira.

As you observe Dr. Moira from your hiding spot, a chill runs down your spine, recognizing her as one of the most intimidating figures you've ever encountered. Her presence exudes an aura of authority and power, making you feel small and insignificant in comparison.

'So what are we doing?' Kiriko's unexpected whisper startles you, you can't help but yelp in surprise, drawing Dr. Moira's attention towards you. The way she turns her head, her gaze piercing through the shadows, sends shivers down your spine, and you instinctively duck behind the desk, hoping to remain unnoticed.

You shove your hand on Kiriko's shoulder, annoyed that she almost caused you to get caught. Watching your frown, Kiriko chuckles softly and furrows her eyebrows at your preoccupied attention, her kitsune bandana glimmering in the light.

'Wait a minute....are you stalking Moira?' Kiriko widens her eyes, exaggeratingly, but you don't answer her, causing your best friend to let out a frustrated groan.

Your frustration mounts as you watch Dr. Moira casually pick up your pen, your most cherished possession. It's not just any pen; it holds sentimental value and significance beyond measure, a symbol of luck and protection. Seeing Dr Moira handle it with such disregard fills you with anger and dread.

A grimace forms on your face as your eyes follow the doctor's movements. An idea forms into your head and you slowly and eerily turn to Kiriko, who is grumbling beneath her breath at how its rude to ignore your best friend and that she won't be sharing with you any doughnuts anymore. She sees your eerie grin and widens her eyes.

'Kiri...can you do me a favour..' You ask sweetly, which leads to Kiriko narrowing her eyes but sighs with a whisper. 'Fine, what do you want?'

'I need you to teleport to Dr Moira's desk, grab my pen and teleport back,' You place your hand behind Kiriko's neck and force her to peek at Moira who is casually using your pen without a care in the world. You clench your jaw in annoyance. Clearly, the doctor has no respect for such a beautiful special pen.

'I love you, Y/n, but I'm not that crazy,' Before you can react, Kiriko teleports in a blink, leaving you alone with the person you dreaded most. Your heart pounds in your chest, and a sense of impending doom washes over you. How are you going to retrieve your pen now?

The best solution would be to get the pen when the doctor won't be here anymore. However, for some crazy reason, she is always in the lab. Like, go eat or something!

'You have permission to come out from your hiding spot,' You hold your breath and swallow harshly but remain hidden. Dr Moira was probably talking to someone else. Which makes you unnecessarily curious. Could it be you weren't the only other person who forgot something in the lab?

'I'm speaking to you, Y/n, not the ghosts in the walls.' Hearing the deathly calm tone In Dr. Moira's voice, you bite the inside of your cheek. So she knows it's you and your name. You don't remember ever speaking to her except hearing about the rumours circulating about her, mainly from Kiriko.

However, you're too scared to exit your hiding spot. You peek just a bit at the desk, but you don't see Dr Moira anymore. But a towering and overbearing presence makes you turn around and your eyes lock onto Dr Moira who has a perfectly raised eyebrow as she stares down at you.

She is watching you, holding your pen in her hand like a trophy. You feel a pang of secret admiration mingled with fear. Despite her intimidating demeanour, there's something undeniably captivating about her, something that draws you in despite your better judgment.

In her hand is what you've been after the entire time. Your pen. Which Dr Moira seems to be enjoying as she twirls the pen and elegantly waves it at you.

'How childish can you be for such a mundane object. Pathetic.' Even though it might seem trustworthy, you purse your lips at the insult. Scraping some of your dignity, you stand up from your position, and as expected, the height difference is large since you have to tilt your head to stare at Dr Moira in the eyes.

You fix your clothing and dust off imaginary dust.

'I fell.' You lift your head, trying to show Dr Moira that her analyzing attention on you didn't affect you in the slightest. Which, of course, you did, and by her obnoxious smirk that she directed to you, she knew how her presence affected you.

You clear your throat. 'Excuse me,' You muster your most confident tone and leave the lab. Although a few steps outside the lap, you mentally facepalm yourself as you realise you still didn't have your pen.

---

Entering the lab with your head held high and a straight face, you walk towards Dr Moira, who holds your pen in a way that she knew you would come back for it either way.

As you stand before her, trying to maintain a façade of confidence, you can't help but feel a surge of conflicting emotions. Beneath the fear and resentment lies a hidden attraction, a forbidden desire that you dare not acknowledge, even to yourself.

Dr Moira's smug smirk only serves to fuel your frustration, but deep down, you can't deny the thrill of being in her presence, even if it scares you to admit it.

'Thanks..' You force out and grab your pen, walking out of the lab.

'If you wanted an excuse just to speak to me, all you have to do is ask..' Her voice echoes through your ears. However, you don't pay her any mind and continue to walk as she chuckles darkly.

As you walk away, her taunting words echo in your mind, leaving you torn between attraction and repulsion, longing and fear.

#overwatch 2 #reader insert #overwatch x reader #overwatch fanfiction #x reader #overwatch #overwatch 2 x reader #moira o'deorain #moira o'deorain x reader #original fic #writeblr #writblr #writing blog #writers on tumblr #writing wip #writers #writerlife #amwriting #aspiring writer #aspiring author #authors of tumblr #kiriko #kiriko x reader #dark #humour

[mekakitsune]

Hi! sorry to bug but i saw ur requests are open and i wanted to request some moira x reader, i just really need more love for her 😭😭 can be sfw or nsfw that choice is up to you 💖💖

hi !! i can assure you this isnt a bother! i was very excited to see my first req was for moira <3

i will do a bit of both;

CW: kinda toxic bc its moira but that's okay bc shes hot :) nsfw and sfw headcanons! not proof read bc i fear nothing

SFW:

moira definitely loves in her own ways

pda is probably a no, for the most part. maybe sometimes she will hold your hand and give you a little kiss on the cheek

def the type to grab ur waist while moving past you... heart eyes

she just gives dominance and power in and out of the bedroom. you can always sleep well knowing you have her by your side

doesnt get jealous and fully expects you to know your place, which is with her

i see her as someone who cares deeply but silently yknow? its subtle things like making sure you are ok after a particularly rough mission, or asking you if you are getting enough rest. just little things that confirm that shes thinking of you

wife material imo

NSFW

spreading the "calling hot women daddy" agenda! makes her feel fuzzy inside to hear you utter such a name

isnt big on receiving much! but she assures you always that she takes pride in seeing you crumble for her

isnt above pulling you somewhere to the side and finger fucking you in public <3

dirty asf she has many toys and such she likes to use on you

yes. you will be bent over her desk and fucked from behind

disrespects you respectfully. slaps you around a lot, its all in good fun, you are hers to play with after all arent you?

#moira x reader #moira smut #moira o'deorain #moira o'deorain x reader #moira o'deorian smut #overwatch fic #overwatch x you #overwatch smut #overwatch x reader #nsfw.mp3 🫧

[nyctophiliq]

Hey can you do headcanons of cute romantic stuff Moira would do with gn/reader, please!! You can do spicy stuff if you want!!

MOIRA CAN BE ROMANTIC TOO! moira o'deorain x reader

description. headcanon type of writing of moira doing romantic gestures for her s/o

cw. lowercase writing intended, sfw content, moira is romantic in her own twisted ways

moss' notes. moss loves themselves this cold and cruel lady, they are so in love if moss wasn't already married to mercy and d.va they would marry moira :D hope you enjoy !! sorry if this is short

— moira isn't too romantic, she doesn't tolerate pda but in her closed-off lab she lets herself be a little more cradled by her feelings. she touches you gingerly, she puts her arms around your waist, or even plants kisses on your cheeks when you bring her food.

— a very romantic thing she does, unfortunately for you or not, showing you the test subjects she had gathered for her new experiments. she even lets you play with them before telling you all the gruesome testing she will put them under. poor fluffy bunnies :/

— it's rare for the two of you to go on dates but when you do she always buys you flowers, a big bunch of whatever is your favorite but notes it every time that you might be happy for them, it bothers her.

— you know the coffee/tea she brings you every morning? she does so with a huge grin on her face, planning how she will wake you up or offer you the cup to drink.

— moira is an accomplished genetic scientist which means money is not really a factor in her everyday life. you wanted this or that? as soon as she can she gets it for you, puts a little pathetic bow on top of it (as she calls it), and pretends she knows nothing about how it got there. she grins behind that huge newspaper she read with her cup of coffee every morning as you are in awe of the present.

— she never lets you do chores, it's not that you can't do them properly- she just has this tingle in her chest whenever she sees you cleaning up after her. she has the same clean environment as in her lab, everything neatly packed away while you do nothing but sit pretty and let her do it.

— if she has to go on a mission and has no time to tell you she leaves a small note somewhere noticeable in either your shared room or her lab. it usually says that she is out and will be back before you'd know it, that you have nothing to worry about because she has everything handled. sometimes she leaves a couple of hearts or maybe an x at the end of the paper too.

— quality time with moira is often short walks outside of the base or the nearby park, wandering on the long corridors. she won't take your hand in hers, but rather walk really close to you with her perfect posture, shoulders brushing against each other. if it's late and nobody really waltzes around the place she might even hook her pinky with yours.

#📼 › moss tapes #moira x reader #overwatch moira x reader #overwatch 2 x reader #overwatch #moira o'deorain x reader #overwatch 2

[pink-valkyrie-writes]

Hi! Can I request reader getting comforted by Mercy, Ashe, Junkerqueen, and Moira? Maybe they fell while out on a walk or something and needs some love from their girlfriend? Or you can do what you want, I don’t mind. I’m just in love with these 4 😭

this is so cute 😭thank you for requesting! My computer has been a little wack but the problem is fixed! Hopefully I can get out some fics sooner!!!!

Mercy, Ashe, Junker Queen and Moira comforting their s/o

Mercy

-Angela sat in her office, filling out paperwork and typing numbers on her laptop. She barely noticed when you opened the door and called her name

-You decided to visit her office after a hard day. Your computer was still messed up from the last week IT promised you they would fix and you spill your coffee all over your desk with important paperwork. After waiting almost 2 hours, your computer was fixed but you were now swarmed with work

-After getting angry phone calls all day and sending emails, you just wanted to spend time your girlfriend. The last thing you need was to trip over your own shoes. You looked up and recognized some of Angela's assistants...that just watch you trip over yourself. They seem to be giggling while walking away

-That was your breaking point, eye stinging as tears threaten to fall from your eyes. You got up and speed walked over to her office, wiping your face hurriedly while sniffling

-When Angela looked up from her laptop, she saw that you were in tears, "Liebling, what's the matter?". You couldn't answer her, you just put your face in your hands and cried. It seemed her just asking what was wrong was the last thing to make you break down

-"Oh my baby...Come here mien schatz," She whispered, stretching her arms out for you to come sit on her lap. You immediately went to her and sat down. She rubbed your back, "Let it out, tell me what happened," she asked

-Through tears and sobs, you told her your day. The last bit of her of her assistants ticked her off, "I'm sorry about your day liebling...and I will say something to those two, don't you worry," she promised, moving your hair out of your face

-You gave her a smile, "Thank you baby, you're an angel," you said, giving her a kiss on the lips <3

Ashe

-Elizabeth was having B.O.B run errands as she filled out some paperwork. Being head of a gang isn't easy work physically, but also financially

-You walked into her office unannounced, this annoys your girlfriend but after the shit you had to deal with? No, you need to be with her

-Earlier while training, you hurt your shoulder while shooting off a shotgun. What made the pain worse was her gang was laughing at you, pointing and rubbing it in

-You almost wanted to cry, the tears sat in your eyes, but you sucked it up and kept going. Even after training you were still teased, "I could see you were about to cry", "You were acting like a little bitch, it doesn't hurt that bad!", and "You're such a crybaby"

-The last comment hurt the most, you're not a crybaby...you just got hurt and it was a natural reaction to pain

-Ashe looked up from her work, "I told y'all to knock- Oh, hey sugar, what's wrong?" she asked, putting her work down. You shook your head, holding your shoulder, "I hurt myself.."

-"Aw pumpkin.." she got up from her seat, embracing you in a hug, "Tell me everything that happened," she cooed, kissing your forehead. As you explained the story to her, she cut you off, "What do you mean they were making fun of you?! I'll gut them like fishes!" she yelled, grabbing your hand and dragging to your shared bedroom

-Elizabeth had laid you down and put a heating pad under where you hurt shoulder is. She kissed your forehead, "I'll take care of this baby, you just lay here and I'll take care of ya. But for right now, I have some business to take care of.." she mumbled, kissing you before leaving the room

-You laid comfortably in bed, warmth embracing you as you heard you lovely, sweet girlfriend yell and scream at her gang in your honor <3

Junker Queen

-Again, again, and again. You were trying to weld two pieces of metal together but kept failing. For a couple weeks now you have been making your own armor and weapons

-You wanted to show off your own work and prove to the people around you that you are handy and can live in your junker town, but to also you're useful

-The sparks flying kept hitting your skin, making you more frustrated by the minute. Your forearms were almost burnt for sure due to the heat you were working with you. A stray spark flew and hit your shoulder, causing you to jump in pain

-Groaning, you threw the torch down and removed your mask. You were officially over this. You got up, almost stomping away like a child. You found your girlfriend slouching in her throne. Without saying a word, you sat in her lap and hid your face in her neck.

-"Woah..Hey babe, what's the matter?" she asked, awkwardly resting her hand on your lower back. You went on and explained your frustration, "I've been trying so hard, so hard...And I can't.." you choked, tears of built up frustration coming out.

-She wrapped her arms around you, "Aw baby...I know it's really hard, I never could do it in the beginning and that stuff does take practice. But for now take a break and relax, I got ya.." She whispered, kissing your temple

-Odessa let you sit in her lap and relax. She kept kissing your head and whisper comforting words you till you fell asleep. She decided to lay you down for the night. When you're in bed, Dez kisses your forearms, hoping her kisses would make your skin feel better

-When you woke up the next morning, you saw your armor that was barely assembled, built completely. You got up to examine the work, Odessa definitely saw your concept sketches and finished it for you <3

Moira

-Her lab was extra quiet today, nothing and no one was bothering Moira with her test. This was heaven... unlike her door opened

-She would've told that person to leave right away but she heard you pained voice, "Dear...why are you crying?" she asked you as you made your way towards her

-You were obviously crying, holding a towel over your hand, "I-I was making lunch and.. I cut my hand really bad and it's bleeding.." you sobbed. Moira saw the red stain on the pristine white towel

-"Oh gosh.." she mumbled, immediately taking you over to a clear table. She sat you up on the table, removing the towel, "You cut deep, no matter, I can fix what is broken..". Using her biotic grasp, she held your bleeding hand in her damaged one as the normal one sprayed out a yellow healing "spell"

-You felt a slight sting at the first but soon you started to feel more relaxed. You looked up at your lover, seeing her focus at her work

-"Thank you Moira.." you mumbled, feeling small as she meets your gaze. "It's my job to take of you..." she said, pulling away to dispose of the bloody towel

-You rubbed your now healed hand, "I know, but I still am thankful for you taking care of me...and I did interupt your quiet time," you smiled at her. She couldn't help but smile back, making her way back to you. She stood between your legs, her hands cupping your face, "I couldn't let anything happen to my one and only favorite person," she teased, leaning down to kiss you. "Now I can also spend of my 'quiet time' with you,"

-Moira picked you up, went and sat in her personal chair, and held you in her lap. It was hard for her not to go back to work, but she decided for now at least, she would hold you in her arms <3

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

Thank you for reading!

Likes, comments and reblogs are appreciated! <3 :)

#overwatch fanfiction #angela ziegler #angela ziegler x reader #mercy x reader #mercy ow #mercy overwatch #ashe x you #ashe overwatch #ashe x reader #elizabeth caledonia ashe #junker queen #junker queen overwatch #junker queen x reader #moira o'deorain #moira x reader #moira o'deorain x reader

[ddollipop]

TILL I'M FINALLY FIXED. . . ! — ( MOIRA O'DEORAIN. )

#. synopsis! — you know this is a nasty habit, but it's not one you're willing to break until it breaks you first .

#. contains! — f!reader , explicitly nsfw content , lesbian smut, female on female, dirty talk , explicit age difference , references to power imbalances , oral sex , cunnilingus , dom!moira , sub!reader , one-sided stimulation , giving preference (moira) , praise , sort of birthday sex , collaring , mentions of alcohol (past) , mentions of smoking + cigarettes , toxic relationship dynamics , explicit references to mommy issues , implied rough childhood (reader) , usage of a sex toy (vibrator) , thigh riding , multiple positions , multiple orgasms .

#. word count! — 4.1k .

You know you shouldn’t be here, —but here you are yet again, coming to Moira’s every beck and call. All it took was one text and you’re standing in front of her door in a nice little dress that won’t stay on for much longer anyhow, but you wanted to wear it because you bought it less for yourself and more for her. You want her to see you in it, take a moment to admire the way it flatters your figure, hugs all the right places, let her eyes rake over you like you’re some kind of fine arts exhibit before she takes her sweet time stripping it off and tossing it to the wayside. And then you’re sure she’ll trail those nails of hers along the bare skin of your arms, toying with the straps of your lacy bra before she finally unhooks it from the back and discards of it as well, leaving lipstick stains on your chest when her mouth meets your skin. She’ll whisper that you’re pretty, and you might just believe it for the night, and then she’ll make you believe it when she kisses you hard enough to steal your breath away, and—

Your thoughts still when she opens the door for you, giving you a knowing smirk. There was never a question of if you were coming, just one of how quickly you’d be arriving, and here you are, even though you shouldn’t be. She invites you inside and lingers behind you under the guise of closing the door, but you can feel her piercing stare on your body as she flips the lock. You leave your heels at the door, as always. 

No, it’s not a good idea to be back here again, but you’ve convinced yourself by now that sometimes it’s okay to live a little. Moira is a lot of things, but she’s someone you trust enough to let see you in very vulnerable positions, and you like to think that’s enough. It might be a naive perspective to have on the matter, —but that’s to be expected of you, so young and pliable. You met Moira on the night of your twenty-first birthday, celebrating alone at a bar where she was sipping on straight whiskey while you nursed a poorly prepped martini (and found that alcohol in general just isn’t much to your taste.)

Nearly thirty years your senior, she felt like she was taking a chance on you that night. It’d been a rough day, and she’d gone so long only caring about her work and all the ways she was looking to change the world that her desire to want and be wanted had since fallen to the wayside. But there you were with those lost, innocent eyes, glancing around like you hadn’t a clue what you were doing (because you didn’t.) She was so confident and smooth in the way she moved down the bar to sit next to you, then let her hand rest on your thigh after a few minutes of chit-chat. One thing led to another, she bought you a few drinks to try, and then took you to a nearby hotel for the night where she sank her teeth in deep enough to keep you around for a while.

Nearing twenty-two and just as eager to please her, you accept her kiss with parted lips, letting her tongue rake itself over yours.

“You’re beautiful as ever,” she says, running the back of her slender index finger down the length of your cheek, “—is that a new dress you’ve got on?”

You know it doesn’t mean anything that she noticed. Not really, anyway. It’s in her job description to be observant, and her memory is impeccable, and yet you let it get to you that she noticed. You let yourself think that she really does care beyond what you’ve got between your legs that she really likes to press her mouth against until you’re left a quivering mess.

“Yeah, it is,” you nod, a bashful smile tugging at the corners of your lips. “I thought I’d treat myself. Do you like it?”

“I do,” she confirms, letting her eyes trail down the length of you once more. “An early birthday present to yourself, I presume?”

“You remembered?”

She remembered. Heaven help you, she makes this so much more complicated than it needs to be. Or, she helps you make it much more complicated than it needs to be, anyway. You know it’s a fool’s game to chase after her like she’s some kind of prize to be won, but. . . She’s so mature, and she makes you feel so special.

Long story short, you’ve got a down-bad case of mommy issues, but when you’re all tied up in Moira’s arms and she’s kissing every inch of you, wanting you down to the marrow, —it’s hard to let yourself be sad.

“Of course I remembered,” she replies so tenderly.

But tender like a bruise.

“Come, I got you something,” she beckons, moving her hand from your cheek and down to your wrist.

Moira pulls you along to her bedroom, the one you’ve been in many times before with a large sliding-glass door that leads to a balcony overlooking the city below. You’re not sure how much her rent is each month for this luxury apartment of hers, but you know it can’t be cheap. Sometimes you stand with her outside in the late night air, one of her button-up shirts hanging down to your kness with nothing but panties underneath after a nice time together. She’ll smoke a cigarette under the moonlight and press it to your lips every now and again, letting you take small hits that you never really breathe in.

“You really didn’t have to get me anything,” you tell her in earnest. “Besides, my birthday isn’t for a few more days. . .”

“Oh, hush,” she tells you, sounding more playful than scolding as she hands you a gift bag.

It’s a solid crimson color, which you can’t help but think is oddly befitting of her. There’s no glitter, frills, or ribbons, no bells and whistles to name, so you move to open it, but glance up at her in hesitation, as if asking for permission. She nods, to which you swallow and push some of the tissue paper aside, digging your hand into the bag until you touch something smooth toward the bottom.

Confused, you pull the item out and feel your face heat up. It’s a leather collar.

“Do you like it?” She inquires, leaning down to whisper in your ear. “I think you should try it on.”

You nod and hand it over to her, pushing your hair out of the way so she can fasten it around your throat. It seems like such an easy process for her, and you can’t help but wonder if she’s ever done such a thing with anyone else. Once it’s secured, she moves in front of you and takes a step back, admiring the accessory.

“What do you think?” You ask, sounding somewhat sheepish.

“What a sight you are to behold, a ghrá,” she hums. “It even matches your dress.”

Black leather with a little black dress, it’s kind of hard to go wrong there.

“Come,” she all but coos, taking a seat on the edge of her king-sized bed right next to the oakwood nightstand.

It has three drawers, the top of which is always filled with various items you’ve had on or inside you over the past year; a few vibrators, various lubricants in different flavors, body oils, —and now, a silver chain. . . Like the kind you might use to keep a dog in place for a bit or curl around your bike to stop it from getting stolen. You stand between her thighs as she lets the length of it fall to the floor. Your guess would be that it’s only five feet or so long, but you’re sure she’ll make do with it just fine.

“Lean down for me,” she requests, and you do, no questions to be asked on the matter.

Moira smirks as she hooks the chain to the collar on your neck.

“Such an obedient thing, aren’t you?” She quips, then gives the chain a little yank for good measure. “Kneel.”

She feels her hunger grow the moment you comply so easily, as if she’s your master and you’ve been trained ever so perfectly to follow her every command without question.

“Good girl,” she murmurs, wrapping the metal links around her knuckles, then folding her fingers back over them.

She places a fingernail beneath your chin and tilts your gaze up until you’re transfixed on her irises.

“You’re so pretty like this, did you know that?” She inquires rhetorically.

The nail against your skin becomes the whole of her palm against your cheek. Her hand is cold, but you can’t seem to care beyond the brief initial shock.

“Don’t think your efforts go unnoticed, darling, I know exactly who you purchased that dress for,” Moira smirks. “And I’m enjoying every moment of seeing you in it, just as you intended.”

And that’s really all it takes. This love might bleed like an open wound, might fester until you stitch it up again, —but it’s here that you don’t mind all the nights you craved validation for every good deed that went unnoticed. Maybe Moira isn’t praising your straight A’s or being proud of just how much like her you look, but what’s the fucking difference if it fills the same void? What does it really matter if it helps?

“Open,” she utters, and as you do, she places two fingers from her opposite hand against the flat of your tongue, drawing little circles in your saliva.

Then she rests an elbow against her knee and leans down a little lopsidedly, replacing her fingers with her lips, kissing you sloppily, capturing your mouth and keeping you there until she’s had her fill of it. When she breaks away, you feel her fingers searching for your dress’s zipper along the back.

“I really hate to see this go so soon, but certain sacrifices are in order,” she sighs a little playfully, tugging the zipper down about halfway before standing upright and using the chain on your neck to pull you with her.

On your feet again, she helps you out of your dress and makes a show of folding it ever so neatly, then placing it on the nightstand in front of her lamp and her alarm clock that’s woken you up too soon far too many times for your liking. Moira lays you down on her bed, and it’s so large that it reminds you of the one you’d search for at night when bad dreams took hold of your fragile little heart and squeezed just hard enough to crush it into pieces at will. Only this time, there’s warmth awaiting your endeavors, and you’re not a lowly little child that has to beg for affection.

She rubs a few teasing lines down your slit through the black lace of your panties, teasing you briefly with her touch. For as long as you’ve known her, Moira has never been very keen on reciprocation, preferring to give rather than take. She likes the control and the motions of it all, likes to know that she has the upper hand, —and she always does when she’s with you.

It’s only been a few moments, but it feels like a lifetime and then some by the time she hooks her fingers under the waistband of your underwear and begins to tug them down your thighs. You feel the scratch of the materials against your flesh as you lift your hips off the sheets to make it easier, and she’s much less careful with your panties than she was with your dress just a bit ago. They wind up somewhere on the floor at the foot of her bed.

You gasp a bit when the pad of her thumb slips past your lips and nudges along your clit almost instantaneously. The quick reaction makes her snicker a bit.

“Sensitive as ever,” She comments offhandedly.

The unspoken part of that is something along the lines of I’ve always loved that about you.

After a year’s worth of hookups, late nights, and hellishly early mornings spent together, Moira is virtually an expert in all things pertaining to you. Such is only exemplified by the way she teases you for a bit with her tongue before letting it slip past your lips to lap at your inner folds.

You choke on a few curse words just above her, already clawing at the sheets as she flicks her tongue against you, pulling the chain that still remains clutched in her hand a bit tighter. It’s not enough to cause any pain, but it squeezes your neck from the back and makes it ever so slightly harder to take in gasping breaths of air.

She was more than right when she called you sensitive, —both to her touch and everything else about her. You’ve always been so eager to make her happy, and she loves that about you. You’d jump through rings of fire for her, and she knows it.

The mixture of your arousal and her spit makes for a delicious squelshing sound at every move she makes, tongue thrusting in and out of your soaked cunt, abusing your clit for her pleasure while you whine and whimper above her. This kind of pleasure has always felt overwhelming in a good way; the kind that gets your blood pumping, heart racing, and inhabitions lowered enough to fall for someone like her, even when you know it’s bad for you.

Moira feels the stress of her work and the critics of her methods melt away when her tongue is busy torturing you so sweetly, lapping at every glistening inch she can. She’s mind-numbingly thorough, and it leaves your thighs quivering long before your orgasm begins to prickle just under your skin. For as good as she is with words, it comes as no surprise that she’s just as skilled with her tongue in all areas of her life.

It doesn’t take much more of this to have you cumming on her tongue, cunt spasming so helplessly under her touch.

Fuck, you’d do anything to have her like this every night when she gets in from work and needs something —someone— to take her frustrations out on. You’ve always been good for that.

“Tired?” She muses, regarding you a bit sweetly as she sits upright and wipes her mouth with the sleeve of her button-up shirt.

“Just a bit,” you answer, breathing slightly easier now that she isn’t pulling as harshly on the chain clipped to your throat.

“Not tired enough to stop now, I’d hope?”

What you really wanna say is that you’d never stop until she told you that you could, gave you explicit confirmation that enough was enough, —but you can’t. You know deep down that it’d scare her off, and you just couldn’t handle that kind of rejection, so you shake your head instead.

“Good,” Moira replies. “It’d be a shame to pause here when I have so much planned for you tonight. That was merely the tip of the iceberg.”

An appetizer, one she was wetting her chops with.

She digs around in that drawer next to her bedside, pulling a vibrator from the inside. You’re not so sure she’s ever used this one on you before, but if there’s one thing Moira always knows how to do right, it’s give you pleasure, so you resign yourself to laying there on her bed as she presses one of the pebble-like buttons on the shaft and feels the item begin to shake in her hand.

“Turn over,” she quips, thinking you’ve had enough cool-down time between sets of stimulation, —and you do, hiking your ass into the air and speading your thighs apart to give her ample access.

You feel her nails scratch thoughtfully over your goosebump-ridden skin, pausing for a moment to knead at your flesh a few times. Then she runs a hand down to the small of your back, wordlessly encouraging you to rest your head against the mattress and let her get to work. A needy moan is drawn from your parted lips the very second she presses the vibrator to your pussy lips, causing shivers to wrack through your body.

The soft hum of the toy speeds up into more of a whirring sound as she increases the tenacity and pushes it inward, slipping past your folds to pulsate against your desperate clit. Moira seems rather satisfied with the sounds you’re making, even as she reaches just under your body to snatch the chain still dangling from around your neck. You feel it jostle as she wraps it around her knuckles once, then twice, pulling taunt while she begins drawing blissful shapes into your snatch that have your eyes rolling back into your head.

Then from the soft melody of the toy’s buzz came a sudden crescendo into a firm, droning noise that made you cry out a bit from the intensity.

“Ah,” Moira says, almost in amusement, “I take it that’s the one?”

“Yes,” you reply quickly, the word coming out so ruined by no fault of your own.

“Very well,” she notes, swirling the tip against your clit again before pulling away and repeating.

It’s like she’s teasing you, though you’re not sure if that’s the intention of it all. Either way, you make no attempt to complain. It’s impossible to even think about doing so when you’ve got stars swashing across your vision. You’re sure you’d have been drooling between your legs by now, dripping all over her sheets, if not for the knob of the vibrator catching and returning it, slicking you up even more.

Your neck is beginning to ache from the position you’re laying in, but you ignore the signs from your body to move and find a more comfortable posture. All you can focus on is the heat between your legs and the toy she’s now pressing so roughly against you that you can practically feel the vibrations in your womb. The pressure builds once again, your stomach twisting into knots, —and then you finally let out the breath you hadn’t realized you’d been holding as an orgasm wracks through your body. It was so much easier to elicit the second time around, almost enough for you to be embarrassed.

Moira pulls the toy away slowly, letting your lips kiss it softly goodbye as she switches it back to a stationary position.

“To your liking, I take it?” She asks, and you can hear the smirk in her voice.

“Yeah,” you huff, “—definitely.”

It just always is when you’re with her, no matter what she does, or even if she only uses what she has readily available. Anything she offers is enough. You’d do anything just touch her, feel her skin against yours, feel her lips ghost against you like they always do. You’re left to toe another dangerous line between ecstasy and infatuation.

She tugs the chain and you find yourself on your knees, kneeling a bit unsteadily on your thighs that haven’t quite stopped quivering just yet. You lower your ass to your heels on the mattress as she wraps an arm around your waist, tugging you a bit closer to trail some peppered kisses down your jaw. It’s hard not to feel special when you have her like this, —when she showers you in all the adoration you missed out on in your younger years. Sure, maybe it’s not the same, and maybe it is just placing a bandaid over a gash deep enough to need stitches, but it’s the best you can do. There’s no amount of therapy that can really change the past, and if Moira is what it takes for you to feel like you’re worth something for a while, then so fucking be it.

By now, your pussy’s sopping wet and swollen, but still in desperate need of her attention. Moira kisses you again, but your lips this time, slipping her tongue into your mouth and swapping your spit for her own.

You swallow down the I love you that rises in the back of your throat like bile. You can’t say that. . . You won’t. You can think it all you want, because she can’t read your mind (as much as it feels like she can sometimes) —but you can’t say it out loud. Not when you know it means throwing away this already pitifully fragile balance.

“Come,” she says simply, moving to sit at the head of her bed, long legs stretched out and clothed in black dress pants with the texture of rough denim.

She situates you as she pleases, one leg on either side of her right thigh, one hand on your hip to keep you steady while the other fiddles with the chain. She coaxes you down until your pussy is flat against her, taking in a sharp breath from the warmth and the friction.

“Let’s get this out of the way, shall we?” She comments, both hands meeting behind your back to unclasp your bra, —the last item of clothing left on your frame.

Once it’s shed, she gives you another look-over, admiring you like she’s never seen you this way before. 

“Your wrists,” she requests, to which you comply so obediently, like a pet she’s trained ever so well. 

Moira wraps the length of the chain around your wrists a few times, tucking the end through the space in the middle. Under any other circumstances, you’d have easily been able to wriggle your way free, but you allow yourself to be bound for the sake of her pleasure; leaning forward to rest against her shoulder.

“Sweet thing,” she murmurs. “One more? They say third time’s the charm, after all.”

“Whatever you want,” you answer, even at the risk of coming on a little too strong.

Luckily, she doesn’t seem to mind the intensity of the statement and appears to chalk it up to pillow talk.

With both of her hands free now, she plants one on each side of your hips, nails digging slightly into the plush of your skin. A whine clings to the back of your throat as she guides you, coaxing you into a subtle grind against her clothed thigh. Sharp prickles run along your spine as you move a little faster, chasing a final high that really can’t seem to come fast enough.

Moira seemed more than content to lie back and watch you drive yourself wild in her lap, her hands less guiding your motions now and more just coming along for the ride that she’s letting you set the pace of. You spur between quick, jagged motions and slow, deliberate ones that really send shocks throughout your body, all of which meld deliciously together and leave you love drunk atop her.

You know the wetness from your pussy is staining her pants, likely more than enough to seep through the fabric, but she doesn’t seem to mind at all. With your heart pounding like a drum in your chest, you almost have the wherewithal to wonder if she can hear it. You find it’s harder to breathe now, lungs aching a little from the inconsistent amounts of air you’re taking in a series of random gulps, then sputtering out between desperate moans of pleasure.

“Moira,” you hiss, —and she squeezes your hips in silent response.

The heat in the pit of your stomach has begun to spark like a live wire, just begging to catch ablaze. You bury your face in the crook of her neck, muffling the ragged sobs that you can’t hold back any longer, eventually sinking your teeth into the junction of her slender shoulder when your climax hits you. 

Moira listens to the uneven rhythm of your breathing as it steadily calms into something less strangled, trailing her fingers down your naked spine. When you’ve come down from the high, she unravels the chain, then removes it entirely, and stuffs it (as well as the vibrator) back into the drawer they came from. The collar comes off just as readily, and she takes a moment to check on the condition of your throat in the process. Best of all, you just know it’s going to be one of the better nights when she reaches off to the side of the bed, plucking her half-empty pack of cigarettes from the nightstand to place one of them between her lips.

#overwatch smut #overwatch #overwatch x reader #overwatch x reader smut #moira o'deorain #moira #moira odeorain #moira odeorain x reader #moira odeorain smut #moira o'deorain smut #moira odeorain x reader smut #moira o'deorain x reader smut #moira x reader smut #moira x reader #moira o'deorain x reader #kinktober #kinktober 2023

[cezgez]

Yes, yes I am 🫡

This woman fine as fuck power to the Irish yall really did that chefs kiss💋

^me when I see and enemy Moira xoxo I don’t care if I’m gonna die I’ll heart emote to the grave🤪🤪

#moira ow #moira o'deorain x reader #moira o'deorain #overwatch #overwatch x reader #overwatch moira

[pochipop]

＃OVERWATCH !! ♡ — LET ME PAINT YOUR SKIES (MOIRA X READER).

#. synopsis! — moira, a frustrated geneticist in the throes of an impossible war against her superiors, meets a despondent young artist drowning sorrows at the bar. as it turns out, the latter is a particularly good listener, and the former is the type of woman you’ve only met in your wildest dreams .

#. characters! — moira .

#. warnings! — light angst, mentions of alcohol consumption, extreme slow-burn .

#. word count! — 11.7k .

#. others! — navigation & masterlist .

#. a/n! — sorry i've been gone so long, got busy w/ school and irl stuff :// feel free to hmu to play overwatch lol (i swear i'm not ass all the time!!) anways, moira kissers, this one's for you!!

This place is as rundown and decrepit as they come these days, —a hole-in-the-wall type of establishment with old, creaky stools and paint that chips off into the drinks from time to time. Fruit flies are more regular than most customers, and they provide little bits of extra protein to those either too wasted to fish them out of their shots or unfortunate enough to not notice them. It's incredible that this place hasn't been permanently shut down, actually, with health and safety hazards galore. . . And yet, despite all its undeniable (and very obvious) flaws, you quite like it here. It's where you come when you're stuck in a rut and need to drink away some sadness.

Sure, it's not the healthiest of habits, but everyone has their vices. This is yours, —but it's an occasional thing, for the most part. You go months at a time without so much as glancing in the direction of any alcohol whatsoever, and most times when you indulge, it's more of a social thing than that of a desire to get plastered. Unfortunately, old habits die hard, as they say, and being an artist has its ups and downs. The highs are more intoxicating than any alcoholic beverage could ever be, but the lows hit you like a semi truck. They claw at your ankles and pull you down into the depths so mercilessly, as if feeding on your sorrow is the feast of a lifetime.

Thus, here you are again for the first time since mid-November of the prior year. It's been roughly five months since you've sat on this stool, ordering shots from the grumpy bartender who never remembers your name and doesn't care much about conversing with his customers. This time, however, a fresh face stands out to you. She'd come in when you were still nursing a whiskey on the rocks, insisting that tonight would be different, that you wouldn't leave with your head all foggy or your balance thrown completely off. You've since changed your stance on that, of course, —as one simply does when they're wrung dry of artistic inspiration and turn to seeking some sort of haven in an unhealthy vice.

Still, the woman at the other end of the bar has your full attention, even if she hasn't realized it yet. Even from her slouched position you can see that she's quite tall, —and equally as thin. She's dressed in more formal attire than yourself, a starkly white button-up and a pair of black dress pants as opposed to your own ill-fitting jeans and a greyish-blue sweater you'd picked up simply because it was seventy-five percent off. It's certainly comfortable, but stylish is most definitely up for debate.

Her foot taps against the bar counter, the toe of her black flats ringing out in little thumps that nobody seems to notice but you. She swirls a shot glass in her elegant hand, —her long, lithe fingers adorned with lengthy nails all painted a uniform shade of violet. Strands of short, ginger hair fall over her forehead, clearly unstyled after a long day. Whatever she's going through, you're sure it isn't pleasant for her to have ended up here alone on a Thursday night. Even so, you silently wonder if she's aware of just how attractive she is. In a sense, she's almost ethereal to you, with her extended limbs and sharp lines. . .

You reach for a napkin and are pleasantly surprised when the rusted dispenser sitting loose just a seat away isn't completely empty as it usually is by this time of night. Digging in your bag for a moment, you find an old ballpoint pen buried at the bottom. You try to take something to write or sketch with wherever you go, —but sometimes you still find yourself wholly unprepared for when inspiration strikes.

It takes a bit of scribbling before the ink begins to flow. Even then, it's rather choppy and doesn't come out in a smooth line. But, it's the best you have on hand, and so you're sure to use it to your advantage in whatever way possible (which isn't many.) Your gaze flickers between the woman at the end of the bar and the napkin you're sketching her likeness on in inconsistent ink. It's certainly rough, but it's the first thing you've drawn all week that you haven't felt the urge to light on fire, so you're considering this a win. 

You get a little carried away with the shading and the general environment, adding flowers that aren't there and little markings all around for some additional texture and pizzaz.

"Interesting," a low-toned, curious voice says from just over your shoulder.

You startle at the sudden interruption, nearly scribbling a horrendous line across the center of your sketch. The woman had been so silent in her move, (or perhaps you'd just been too engrossed to hear her make her way over) that you were left flinching under her looming shadow.

She seems fittingly confident for the aura she gives off, —like some kind of CEO.

"Uh. . . Sorry," you apologize, hoping the mood won't become too awkward. "This must seem pretty weird."

This is pretty weird, actually, and you can acknowledge that much. After all, when someone trudges to the bar late at night, it's not as if they go there expecting that some equally as frustrated stranger will see them and be unable to resist the urge to sketch their likeness on a painfully thin napkin.

"I've seen weirder," she replies, —and though you don't ask for examples of that, you're rather curious about what she'd give as some.

She sits next to you now, on the bar stool just to your left. Her knee brushes against yours as she does so. 

"You're an artist then, I presume?" She asks without missing a beat.

You nod, letting your pen drop to the bartop, giving her your full attention now. Something about her demands it (not that you're complaining.)

"Yep," you answer, though you can't bring yourself to sound particularly stoked by that admission at the moment.

She takes notice of that much too quickly for having just met you.

"You don't seem very pleased about it," she notes. "Trouble in paradise, perhaps?"

An Irish accent clings to her words; not a heavy one, all things considered, but more than enough to be obvious. It's quite attractive.

"Yeah, something like that," you say with a bitter laugh, —one directed more at yourself than her statement. "Nothing I'd want to bore you with."

She hums in acknowledgement, not trying to pry anything out of you that you aren't readily willing to share. That makes you like her all the more. 

"I understand that quite well," she seems to sigh. "I'm a geneticist, —seasoned and well-ingrained in my field."

That makes sense. She speaks with an air of confidence that you assume comes with not only age, but experience, and it's clear she's well-educated.

"Yet here I am, constantly being pestered and questioned by those around me," she complains. "They insist upon checking and checking and checking again for ethical violations, —as if any true scientist has ever been able to examine the fullest potential of life without bending a few rules."

You gather rather quickly that she likely just needs someone to vent to, and a stranger is as good as anyone else. Though you're sure it won't be long before she gets into specifics and you lose the plot entirely, you have no qualms about keeping her company for the time being. In fact. . . This might as well be just as much for you as it is for her.

"They say rules were made to be broken," you quip, hoping it'll be enough to keep her talking.

"I don't know that I'd go quite that far, —but what I will say is that being ethical will do no good if it leaves us plateaued and unable to advance," she says. "Humanity is shackled by so many things. I am searching for the key to those shackles, —searching for the means by which to unlock the true potential of human beings. Just imagine what could be achieved if every individual was consistently performing at their highest levels of functioning. Productivity would skyrocket, advancements that have taken decades in the past would come about in less than half the time. . . There's so much waiting to be discovered, and yet so many seem to want to stand in the way of that."

"I'm sure that's frustrating," you acknowledge. "Obviously I'm not familiar with your field, but it seems a bit counterintuitive to stunt your progress when advancement is such a crucial part of today's society."

At this point, you're just speaking and hoping something sticks. It'd be nice to have someone to share time with, even if all she does is rant about things you're nothing short of completely removed from. 

"Exactly," she practically hisses. "Sometimes, I'm utterly convinced that I'm surrounded by fools. Fools who haven't a clue what it means to strive for the betterment of humankind."

Truth be told, she knows you don't get it. She knows you're telling her what you think she wants to hear from you. . . But, at this point, it's enough. She doesn't have the patience to keep it all bottled up anymore, and your vague attempts at encouragement are something she's rather pleased by (for the time being, anyway.)

As a result, she goes on, and on, and on, well into the early hours of the morning. She drinks, but seems to hold her liquor so well that it hardly affects her at all. Or, perhaps you're just a bit sensitive in that department. Either way, she finds you to be a tantalizingly good listener, even if she lost you the moment she started detailing something about stem cell research and the possibility of using the brain's localization to its 'fullest potential.'

By the end of your time with her, you're drunk less on the drinks you've admittedly been nursing, and more on her. A woman of such. . . Confidence and refinement. Perhaps in great contrast to the artist at your core, who craves some semblance of chaos and passion that burns so hot you can feel it course through your veins.

It's only after you've parted ways with her that you realize you never caught her name.

You return to the bar several times after that, though you seldom have the urge to drink any of your problems away. Your long, strange conversation with that enchanting force of a woman weighs heavily on your mind. Her very likeness on its own had helped to chip away at your stunted inspiration, giving birth to new designs and a perhaps pretentious series of paintings in which long, slender fingers with sharpened nails painted a deep violet color held different types of flowers. A part of you wonders if she’d like them. . . After all, they were born only because you’d had the chance to meet her (and spend at least a good two hours staring at her hands.)

Now, however, you’re content with staring at the art displayed at this gallery. It’s clear many of the paintings are uninspired, simply taking the form of references, —which is all well and good, of course. . . But there’s a sense of romanticism missing from most of them that isn’t quite scratching the itch inside your chest.

You stand before one such piece; a beautiful painting of a teacup filled nearly to the brim with amber liquid. It’s accompanied by a few cookies, ones that look delectable in spite of their bland appearance. The scene is nothing revolutionary, but there’s a sense of warmth it exudes that the other works here lack, so you’ve chosen to camp here for a bit, if only to bask in its delight for a while longer.

“I don’t presume this is one of yours.” You’d know that voice anywhere.

Perhaps a bit too quickly, your head whips to the side, eyes immediately scaling upward. You meet the duel-colored stare of the woman you’d met at the bar, and the intensity of her gaze leaves butterflies tickling your stomach. She’s dressed much the same as the night you first crossed paths with her, but her hair is pushed back completely, —not a single strand out of place. She wears some subtle makeup, a bit of color on her lips and liner on her eyes. You couldn’t even begin to picture her in casual clothing.

You blink, clearing your throat as you remember that she was likely looking for a response.

“No, not quite,” you reply.

She hums in acknowledgement. Her hand almost looks empty without a glass in it, you note, but choose to say nothing of it.

“I’m y/n, by the way,” you introduce yourself, hoping that she’ll follow suit. . . Hoping that she’ll take it as a sign that you’d like to see her again at some point, even if just at random.

“Moira.”

You swallow. It’s a name that sounds so elegant, and it suits her completely. Before you can compliment it, she turns her full attention to you, no longer dividing it between the painting. She never seemed particularly interested in that one anyhow.

“Are any of your pieces displayed here?" She asks. "I'd be interested to see them."

You swear the smallest semblance of a smile quirks at the corners of her lips as she speaks now.

"No, unfortunately not," you reply. "The deadline was too tight, and. . . Nothing I'd created recently felt worthy of the spotlight."

Untrue. The few paintings you'd stayed up until ungodly hours to finish were more than suitable; but they were of her. Only her hands, thus far, but. . . You still felt the urge to keep them to yourself. That's why you'd lugged them back to your apartment instead of keeping them at your worn-down studio.

She hums in acknowledgement.

The conversation is running thin, and you feel your chest tighten. She’d gone out of her way to speak to you first, so you assume there’s some semblance of a spark here, even if only a little one. You yearn to keep it safe from anything and everything hellbent on snuffing it out before it even has the chance to burn brightly.

“How’s work been for you, then?” You ask, somewhat desperate to keep her talking.

Moira heaves a heavy sigh, —not so much at you, but at the mention of work. You take that as ‘less than stellar.’

“It could be better,” she replies bitterly.

It’s then that you let impulse take over. Working as an artist is the culmination of your life’s devotion and effort to refining your skills. . . But it can be a bit lonely. Usually, that doesn’t bother you much, —it’s a feeling that rarely bubbles up enough to even cross your mind; but since you’d met Moira, it’d been much more difficult to ignore. In the end, you took a chance, perhaps a bit rashly. And yet, it paid off.

“I’d be willing to listen, if you’d like someone to talk to,” you offer. “There’s a little cafe just down the block. I’ve heard the pecan pie is to die for.”

She stares for a few moments, as if eyeing you down like prey. At the very least, Moira seems to be giving some thought to your offer, and you consider that as good a sign as any. Eventually, she breathes out through her nose just loud enough for you to hear it (and make note of the amusement it carries.) A smirk tugs visibly at the corner of her pretty mouth, and this time, it’s not one you’d have to squint to catch sight of.

“Suppose I am feeling a bit peckish,” she notes, then tells you to lead the way.

You’re almost dumbfounded that you’ve gotten this far. It’s all too easy to abandon the gallery and travel with Moira to the newly opened cafe just a ways off. You’d stopped by a few times since its grand opening just a few months back, but had never ordered anything more than a simple drink. You’d also never taken the time to sit down and enjoy the sweet atmosphere of the establishment, always rushing about too frantically to even consider the possibility.

This time is different. You sit with Moira by a large window, tendrils of sunlight pouring in from above, creating long shadows on the table between the two of you. She orders a simple cup of dark roast, but decides for the both of you that the pecan pie does, in fact, look too heavenly to pass up; so she requests one slice with two forks.

She tells you about her day, —about her work and her ongoing struggles to convince her superiors that she knows exactly what she’s doing and should be permitted to do as such. You still don’t understand most of it, but you make sure she knows she has your full attention nonetheless.

And then she makes the decision to turn the direction of the conversation.

“How has life as an artist been treating you since we last spoke?” She inquires.

You’re almost thrown off by the sudden reciprocation of curiosity. Between the both of you, you’d simply assumed she was leading the more interesting life, and had been completely content to listen to her spew her frustrations while sipping on coffee for an hour or so.

Still. . . It felt nice to know she cared about your own ventures, if only out of politeness. (Though, really, Moira didn’t seem like the type who’d ask a question she didn’t care about receiving a genuine answer to for the sake of saving face.) 

“Better,” you smile softly. “I was struggling to find inspiration, —worried that everything I was producing was just bland and uninteresting. But, after speaking with you, I started digging myself out of that rut. Since then, things have steadily been getting back on track, so I suppose I should thank you for that.”

Moira hums in acknowledgement.

“I’m happy to have helped, though I’m not certain I truly know what I did to spur any of your artistic inspiration,” she admits.

“You’re alluring,” you tell her without thinking the compliment through. 

You qualify: “Unique. Very visually striking.”

She raises an eyebrow at the sentiment, then offers you a low chuckle in reply.

“Is that why you asked me here?” She questions, though she doesn’t seem perturbed by the idea. “To be your muse of sorts?”

Your heart thumps a little louder in your chest now, though you’re not sure why.

“No,” you answer honestly, shaking your head a bit, “—but I’m sure that’ll be a secondary benefit.”

Will it ever. 

“I take it you simply enjoy my company then?” Moira continues.

“Precisely,” you nod. “It’s exactly that.”

She stares at you for a moment longer, her eyes all but boring holes into your own. In a good way.

Finally, she cracks an amused smile, and mumbles: “Likewise.”

At that, you’re certain you’ve won the lottery. You talk with her a bit more about a variety of things; what it’s like to be a full-time artist, about her nails (press-ons, apparently, —you could hardly believe the notion), —about how right everyone was about the pecan pie. She disappeared before you could say a proper goodbye, paying the bill and scribbling her phone number down on a napkin that she left at your seat while you were in the restroom. You grin to yourself the whole way back to your apartment, letting the day’s events wash over you like the evening tide.

Just before you turn in later in the night, you send a quick message to her phone thanking her for paying the tab and telling her that next time is your treat. She responds in almost record time, and you let yourself believe for a moment that maybe she’d been waiting around for you to reach out since she’d left the cafe.

Looking forward to it.

As late spring turned to early summer, you kept in contact with Moira, if only passively. She was a busy woman, unsurprisingly, and despite the continued conflict with her peers and superiors, she remained wholly devoted to her work and ideals. It was easy to recognize that you came second, —if you even made her list at all.

But that was okay. It didn’t weigh heavily on you as it might have if she were anyone else.

You saw her only a few times here and there over the weeks, returning to that same cafe to chat for a bit over coffees, venturing to a steakhouse on the far end of the city for a night of fine dining, and attending an opera performance with her after she’d been given tickets by a work colleague as a regifted-gift when that individual had no interest in attending themself. Each time, you saw a new side of Moira; getting to know her better, getting to experience the many shades of her. 

It was mid-June when you heard your phone buzz late at night, vibrating against the oakwood of your bedstand. On the off chance it was Moira contacting you at such a strange time, you shot upright, startling yourself awake in the process. You snatched your phone off the surface, squinting at the brightness only to realize it was a completely unrelated, automatic notification from an app. But you sat there that night, your stomach tied in knots, that device clutched a bit too tightly in your hand, only to realize something all at once.

You were falling for her. For Moira. And you were so certain that that was a terrible idea.

You laid awake, thinking about everything that could possibly go wrong in the face of this newfound revelation. Really, had anyone else had a say in the matter, the more shocking part of it all would have been that it took you so long to put two and two together. —She’s addicted to her work, utterly devoted to her job. That had long been established. Any plans you sought to make with her had to first be run through her hefty work schedule; the one that was so bizarre and so obscure that you’d given up trying to make sense of it a week into your acquaintanceship.

Any relationship you could hope to forge with her would be a lowly affair. Her first love was destined to be science. Still, you rationalized that Moira wasn’t much unlike you, in that sense. You too were deeply devoted to your career, thinking of it often, keeping your art at the forefront of your mind more often than not.

Even that aside, there was so much that could go wrong here. If she were to feel the same way, which seemed so unlikely to you that even considering it felt like something akin to a cruel joke, —it was more likely to be fleeting than anything else. Yet, a part of you still wanted it. . . Wanted the push and pull, the long weeks of her undoubtedly forgetting that you even existed, just to fall back in her arms at the first sign of affection. Foolishly, a part of you still wanted the late nights and early mornings, —wanted to feel your own heart break as you watched her slip out of your bed through hazy eyes, leaving you lonely without a proper goodbye.

Obviously, you were getting miles ahead of yourself.

Still, the fact remained that you liked Moira. . . You just weren’t sure what exactly you were supposed to do about that.

The summer heat became sweltering before long. Moira traded her long-sleeved dress shirts for short-sleeved ones in the same color and style, and you began to stare not only at her hands, but at her arms now when the two of you found time to get together. You’d sit and listen to her frustrations, —always about her working life and how it was so difficult to deal with being stifled, told that she couldn’t do this or that because someone had deemed it inappropriate by their own standards.

Admittedly, you still didn’t get it. Her work was so different to your own, and in the end, she didn’t really get yours either. But, each of you managed well enough. Your relationship was symbiotic. She had someone to vent to, you had someone to lust and desire for, someone to get your inspiration pumping. . . And that was good enough.

Until it wasn’t.

You did your best to drown your feelings out. There was too much at stake, what with Moira being your closest friend in the city, you assumedly being hers (since she often made note that you were the only person she spoke so candidly with,) —and you didn’t want to disrupt the balance the both of you had created together. It worked, and they say what isn’t broken doesn’t need to be fixed.

But it was breaking you, little by little. It was something you could ignore at first, until ignoring it became much more difficult, and you defaulted to stuffing it down on purpose, forcing thoughts about the bow of her lips and the dips of her waist into the back of your mind. If she ever caught sight of your wandering gaze, she never mentioned it. Still, you were prepared to chalk it up to admiring her frame for artistic purposes, and Moira likely would have bought that without much thought otherwise.

And then came the banquet, —the gathering, the party— whatever the hell it was. You didn’t really know what it was about other than that it had to do with Moira’s work, and that in itself was enough to signal to you that you probably wouldn’t have been able to make much sense of it anyway. She’d asked you to attend alongside her, saying that it would go much smoother with someone there to talk to (presumably so she could ignore everyone else that would be lapping at her ankles, vying for her attention.)

Whether her colleagues liked or disliked her and her methods, it was surely undeniable that Moira was intelligent and could provide insight into just about anything (within reason.) Thus, she’d requested that you come along as her so-called “plus one.” It didn’t help that when you mentioned that you’d likely be out of place at such an event, she responded by assuring you that many of the scientists would surely be taking their partners and spouses along with them.

“So, this is your way of asking me on a date?”

It was a joke. You gave a sly smile to project that, and it seemed that she understood the intention. You just hoped she didn’t catch sight of the desperation that lingered in the back of your stare, —desperation born from the desire to cross every line known to man and then some. 

The worst part is that she didn’t deny it. She seemed unphased by the proposition even, telling you to “call it what you’d like.” And you would, albeit not to her face again. In your mind, this was a date. Perhaps one of convenience more than anything else, —but a date nonetheless.

When the time comes, you meet Moira just out front of your apartment. It’s the first time you’ve ever seen her sleek, black car in person. She’d made mention of it before, (only when you’d asked first), but your get-togethers with her had been within comfortable walking distance of most things in the city. This time, however, the venue was a bit further out, and because the occasion called for fancier clothes, Moira decided driving there would be the best option.

You watched through the slightly tinted windows as she reached over the passenger seat, her long, slender arm easily reaching the inner handle of the car door. She pushed it open for you, and you got in, feeling like some kind of moviestar. It wasn’t often that you saw a car as expensive and luxurious as hers around your admittedly worn-down apartment complex. It was even less often that you got to ride in one.

“Wow,” you note, slipping your seatbelt on, “I figured you’d drive something nice, but this is really something else.”

She lets an amused tuft of air escape her nostrils.

You turn to look at her now, taking her in as the last rays of dying sunlight spill down from the sky. She’s in a nice suit, as expected of her, —one that compliments her lengthy stature noticeably even in a sitting position. The fabric of her blazer is a deep, crimson red, a few shades darker than the scarlet iris of her right eye, and it’s paired with a black undershirt and black dress pants to match. Her hair is slicked back, and her hands are hidden under a pair of black gloves. She’s almost too stunning to be real, you think as she seems to examine your own attire.

Though Moira pays you no compliments, the light smirk that curves her lips upward ever so slightly says enough.

“I’ll have you home before it gets too late,” she says. “This is more for appearances than anything else. Those matter much more than one might think in the scientific field.”

Unsurprisingly, she seems less than excited about all of this, and you temper your own expectations as a result. It wasn’t so much the event itself you were looking forward to, —it was just getting to spend time with her that really lit your fuse, so to speak.

“I’ve got nothing better to be doing,” you note. “I’m yours for the night.”

Maybe that was a little too forward. As soon as you’ve said it, a part of you wishes you hadn’t. . . But Moira gives you a little hum in reply, throwing you a final glance before fixing her eyes ahead, and that’s the end of it. You like to think she was pleased with that admission, though. The drive is quiet, but in a comfortable sense. She seems to be in neutral spirits in spite of her distaste for the final destination, and you’re glad for it (not that you mention it.) 

The venue was about as extravagant as you would expect; chandeliers hanging from the ceiling in the party hall, well-dressed staff members carrying platters of red wine and bubbling champagne, weaving their way through the guests with surprising grace and elegance. You can’t help but think to yourself that you’d never survive a day doing their job.

Moira snags the both of you some wine.

“Can’t help but think this is a bit nostalgic,” she comments as you put the rim of the glass to your lips to take a small sip.

The dark red liquid almost matches her outfit.

“I guess so,” you smile sheepishly. “It’s been a bit since we first met, and that’s the last time we drank together.”

“Indeed.”

She takes her own sip now, her lipstick clinging to the glass. You let yourself stare for a moment, gaze caught on her mouth. . . You let yourself wonder what it’d be like to pull her in, match your hand to the curve of her neck, —kiss her, taste the wine on her lips. It’s a bad idea, of course, but. . .

You just can’t help it.

“I suppose I should give you a proper thanks,” Moira notes after a few moments of silence. “I’m sure this kind of event isn’t much like anything you’d be used to.” 

“Not in the slightest,” you shake your head.

She appreciates the candid way you answer, not trying to soften the blow for the sake of saving face. Your honesty is part of your charm.

“Lucky you,” she notes. “These things are practically the bane of my existence. They’re just glorified circle-jerks, —everyone squanders their time meeting here to drink alcohol and grit their teeth while they speak with colleagues they haven’t seen since the last one, even though they promise to keep in touch every single time.”

You get the feeling she’s quite pleased they never actually go through with that. The very prospect seems more like a threat than a broken promise.

“Sounds. . . Fake,” you answer lightly.

“Utterly synthetic,” Moira says, venom lacing her words.

She really isn’t holding back tonight, and there’s a certain luster that comes with it, —the kind that makes your insides twist into pretzels. Though she’s seldom the type to be vulgar for the sake of it, her gloves seem to be off tonight. Metaphorically, anyway. The actual gloves on her pretty hands are still there, tightly fitted to her elegant fingers. You’d be a tad more bitter about the view they steal away from you if not for how nice they look on her.

“Worse off, you may think idle workplace gossip would be less common in a career such as mine, —but you’d be wrong,” she tells you. “The amount of nonsense they spew never ceases to amaze me.” 

And here you thought it was an impossible task to impress her. Imagine your shock when you found that a tried and true way of doing so was just to spout off pointless grains from the rumor mill. . .

“Seems hellish,” you remark.

You shiver at the mere thought of it, your eyes surveying the loose crowd now, looking for anyone who seems to be questioning your presence at Moira’s side or making assumptions about whether you really belong here. You don’t, and that just makes the anxiety worse. Another sip of wine down the hatchet, but your worries don’t go down with it the way you’d hoped they would.

“Hellish may be a bit of an understatement,” Moira mumbles sourly.

“Really though, a proper thank you for coming along is in order,” she sighs. “If you have anything you’d like in return, do tell. Money isn’t much of an obstacle, —within reason, of course.”

Unsure of how to say that all you really want is for her to pull you in and let her body meld into your own, you give her a little nod and a polite smile instead.

“I’ll let you know if anything comes to mind.”

She seems pleased enough by your confirmation, swallowing down the rest of her wine in a few ungraceful gulps. The way her throat contracts as she tips the glass back sends a shiver down your spine. Everything she does is so mesmerizing, and at this point, it’s just unfair. No one person should be able to captivate you; mind, body, and soul the way she always has, even from the very start. Sitting at a rundown bar, standing tall before a painting of tea and cookies, —drinking down blood red alcohol under dazzling chandeliers and crystalline lights that dance off her eyes like fireflies in mid-July. 

You stand by as the night drags on, going much too slow for Moira, and far too quickly for you. It’s clear she’s not content to just be by your side here, and that hurts a little more than it should. She has another two glasses of wine and leaves a lipstick stain on each of them. . . And she doesn’t know just how much you’d risk for her to leave that same mark anywhere on you. 

For the briefest of seconds, you consider asking that of her in return, but you banish that thought to the shadow realm just as quickly.

A few fresh faces greet Moira with varying levels of that synthetic politeness she’d mentioned not long ago. Seeing it in real time is like looking through a kaleidoscope of disgust, and you have to force a scowl off your face. You try your best to zone out when they come around, figuring that you’re not supposed to be privy to whatever information they’re sharing, —and that you wouldn’t understand much of it anyway. Unless they were suddenly struck with the urge to discuss color theory or artistic interpretation, you were pretty certain you wouldn’t be of much help. Moira’s field of expertise was worlds different than your own. 

“Doctor O’Deorain,” a pretty blonde woman greets, her hair pulled back into a sleek ponytail and a little black dress clinging to her body in all the right places.

Moira regards her with less hostility than the others, her expression softening a bit.

“I wasn’t expecting you to actually show up,” she continues with a familiar giggle, losing the formal nature of her address. “I’m almost afraid to ask what you were offered in exchange for your attendance.”

If she’s comfortable enough to joke with Moira, you assume she’s known her for long enough to have built that kind of comradery. Maybe it was just a hunch of yours, but you’d have been willing to bet that Moira didn’t ease up to people very quickly. You like to think you were a slight exception to the rule.

“More like what they threatened to take away if I didn’t,” Moira answers, that characteristic bluntness still present in her tone, —but it’s softer with this woman, for one reason or another. 

The blonde laughs again, seeming content in the redhead’s presence. Jealousy prickles at your heart, making you feel utterly ridiculous. Her blue eyes finally travel to where you’re standing, as if she’s just now realizing that you’d been standing there the entire time.

“You brought a friend along?” She inquires, her kind smile never fading. “It’s nice to meet you.”

You open your mouth to speak, but Moira beats you to the punch.

“Lover, actually,” she corrects, one of her gloved hands sneaking around your waist, pulling you closer and nearly knocking you off-balance in the process.

Your throat goes dry, face falling into an expression of panic, but you gather yourself before the blonde woman can take notice. Though you have no idea why she’d lie about such a thing, you can only assume that Moira has her reasons, and the last thing you’d want to do is correct her in front of a colleague, —even about something like this. You’ll probably never see this woman again anyway, so no harm, no foul. (Well, maybe some harm to your heart, but what else is new.) 

The woman seems shocked by even the idea of it. 

“It’s nice to meet you as well,” you say with a forced smile.

It’s not that she isn’t kind or easy to talk to. She’s both of those things, actually, and you can admire that (and you do.) But you’re still reeling from Moira’s sudden concession, and making small talk is the last thing on your mind. 

The rest of the conversation is a blur. You do your best to fall into the background, hoping that each of them might just forget you even exist. Your heart hammers wildly in your chest, beating something dangerously close to out of control.

The feeling of her hand on your waist all but burns itself into your flesh. 

By the time they’ve said their goodbyes, she’s taken it away. But it’s far too late to fix the damage she’s done.

Moira never does explain herself that night, and you don’t have the nerve to ask. Questions are ripe on the tip of your tongue the entire ride back to your apartment, but you sit in silence just as you did before, —albeit much less comfortably.

It’s then that you’re forced to acknowledge the crueler parts of her. . . And yet, you fear, you’re still falling for her anyway.

Communication is brief and inconsistent over the rough week and a half following the event. You send a few messages out of nicety, hoping she might choose to spark up a conversation. . . But she doesn’t, and you chalk it up to her being busy with work. At least, that’s the story your rational mind would like you to believe. The part of you that you’d like to shut out completely warns you only of the possibility that you’re being overbearing, and it’s pushing her further away.

You begin to worry that it’s now or never. If things continue as they are, Moira might as well just be another person who only contacts you when it’s convenient or they’re feeling a little nostalgic and want to hear a whisper from a ghost of their past.

As a means to counteract that possibility, you decide that it’s time to put that favor from Moira to good use. Best of all, —it’s utterly free of charge.

She agrees to meet you at your little painting studio to provide some assistance. Upon arriving, she walks around and gazes long and hard at each of your pieces, —finished and unfinished alike, sparing you the flurry of compliments she’s sure you’ve heard a million times over. If she were anyone else, her silence might have been a bad omen, but you know her well enough to understand that she means well.

“I’m not certain I can really be of any help,” she says, giving you a sidelong glance over her angular shoulder. “I enjoy art, but I haven’t the slightest clue how to create it. I leave that to the lot of you who’ve crafted your skills and put in the time.”

“For many of us, —myself included— inspiration is just as important as skill,” you reply. “These days, it’s been running a bit dry. But I was hoping you could get the wheels turning, if you know what I mean.”

Moira thinks she has a good idea of it.

“And how, pray tell, should I go about that?” She asks. “Do I just need to sit here and pose?”

“Actually,” you say, hoping to rip this off like a bandaid, —because you know it’s bizarre and that she might well say no, but you’re sick of wondering about it.

As it goes, you’ve prepared for the worst, but you’re hoping for the best.

“I’d like to paint on you.”

She looks at you evenly, as if she’s not shocked by the request at all. You’re more surprised by her lack of a visceral reaction than she is by your requisition.

“Interesting,” she notes, though it doesn’t sound like this is particularly intriguing to her, “—where, exactly?”

“Just like that?” You laugh. “No hesitation? You’re just gonna let me do it?”

“That’s dependent on the where,” she replies, an amused smile thinning her lips out. “If I’m right to assume you’re keen on keeping this within a certain boundary, I see no real reason to object. I do owe you, after all.”

Above most things, Moira is practical. She sees this as repayment, not only for your attendance at her working banquet, but also for the many afternoons, evenings, and nights she’s talked your ear off, sharing her own disgruntled feelings over coffee, steak, and whiskey neat respectively.

You offer her an appreciative smile, as if she’s done something so loving for you out of the kindness of her beating heart.

It’s more out of obligation, you fear, but you’re fine to ignore that for now.

“Will an arm suffice?” She asks.

“Maybe two,” you answer cheekily, and she doesn’t object.

You grab her a wooden stool to sit on, one much less rinky-dink than the barstool she’d sat on the night you first met as you go about procuring your materials; paints, brushes, —the necessities for this kind of ordeal.

“Can you roll your sleeves up a bit more for me?” You request.

“Would it be easier to just discard the shirt?” She asks.

Your breath catches in your throat. Yes, she’s probably right in some sense. . . That likely would make this process increasingly easier in a pragmatic sense, —but you’re certain seeing her in such a state would do numbers on your heart that you’re not sure you’re really equipped to handle.

“I. . . I suppose so,” you nod.

You try not to stare as her elegant fingers undo the buttons of her shirt with ease, like she’s a master of the craft. Her back arches ever so slightly as she slips her arms out, long and limber as they fall to her sides and she keeps the mess of white fabric balled in her hands now. Her bra is a stark black, the kind of deep shade that really contrasts with every inch of her pale, porcelain skin. You swallow nervously at the sight of her, taking the shirt from her hands to drape it over an unused easel.

She seems to have no reservations about this. Maybe it’s because she’s simply confident in every aspect of herself, —or maybe it’s because she trusts you enough to remain stoic in the face of it. You don’t ask, and Moira doesn’t tell.

“Any ideas?” She says instead, “—For the artwork.”

“I was considering something floral and nature-themed,” you answer, focusing in on that aspect of the ordeal so as to forget that she’s sitting in front of you like this, so much of her on display for your eyes only.

“Butterflies with carnations,” you add, “—or daisies, perhaps.”

“I’m impartial to hyacinth myself,” she notes.

It’s not so much a suggestion for your art piece as it is something Moira simply wants to share with you. Still, you think it best to run with it, and you give her a slightly lopsided smile.

“Hyacinth it is.”

She watches with curiosity as you go through the motions, —mixing colors, cleaning your brushes between them, dabbing them dry. It’s not often that Moira has the luxury of watching something like this in person. . . In fact, now that she’s thinking of it, she’s not sure she’s ever witnessed an artist work firsthand at all. In her lifetime, she’s seen innumerous things she would personally describe as incredible, —and unbeknownst to you, this is one of them.

“This is actually quite relaxing,” she says. “Like a massage. I don’t fancy those much, I loathe the thought of a stranger touching me so extensively, —but this is nice.”

You offer her a small smile.

“I’m glad,” you reply. “I knew it was a bit of a strange request, and I wouldn’t have blamed you for turning me away, but I’m happy you felt comfortable enough to allow it.”

“Perish the thought,” Moira shakes her head slightly. “If anyone knows about unconventional methods, it would be me. I know better than most that in order to reach one’s full potential, sometimes it’s necessary to step outside the proverbial box.”

That wasn’t quite your mindset going into it, but if she was ready and willing to place a perfectly good excuse for this in your lap, then so be it. Truth be told, you were simply a conduit of passion to your very core, and in a perhaps distorted sense of the word, this was romantic to you.

You hum in acknowledgement.

“While you’re here. . . Can I ask you something?” You inquire.

Though it feels like your heart is in your throat now, you manage to keep your hand steady enough to continue your work with little disruption.

“You can ask,” she says, “though my ability to answer might waver depending on what the question is.”

“At that event. . . You told that blonde woman we were lovers. Why?”

It’s been eating at you since it happened, in more ways than one, and now seems like as good a time as any to get it off your chest. You steal a peak at Moira’s face, noting the way she remains completely composed, even in the face of such an off-color inquiry.

“So I did,” she says plainly, certainly not the type to deny responsibility or deflect accountability for her own actions. “It’s an unfortunate fact for me that my colleagues can be quite. . . Eccentric. And by that, I mean they often poke their noses in the affairs of others with something similar to reckless abandon.”

Her brows furrow now as she thinks about it, clearly agitated.

“It’s not uncommon for them to pry into my personal matters, and I was hoping to quench their overbearing interest in my romantic life by giving them a glimpse into it, —if only a false one. Like I said before, everyone there is in it for themselves. It’s all synthetic. . . An act they put on to please one another a few times a year. That night, it was my turn to do the pleasing.”

“That makes sense,” you acknowledge.

Of course it did. You weren’t expecting anything less from her of all people.

“Did it work?”

A low rumble of brief laughter resounds from her chest, —husky and divine.

“Like a charm,” she tells you. “I’m sure they’ve found another staff member to harass with their incessant yammerings about intimacy and partnership.”

“You’re not a fan of those?” You ask, and the question is punctuated by the quiet ripples of your paintbrush through water as you clean it.

Moira is silent for a few moments, as if pondering on your inquiry.

“I don’t. . . Dislike intimacy,” she replies, —though she doesn’t sound as sure of that response as she normally would have had the two of you been discussing anything else.

“Rather, I don’t dislike the idea of it,” she corrects quickly. “In practice, I suppose that’s a different story. I don’t offer my trust like candy, and for me, intimacy only follows trust.”

“I’d argue this is quite intimate,” you note softly, blending two shades of deeper purples together on her bare skin. “Does that mean I’ve won your trust?”

You fear you’re pushing your luck here, but can’t stop yourself from asking. Eventually, Moira lowers her chin a bit, seeming amused by your line of questioning.

“I suppose so.” 

Bingo. 

If nothing else, that was your win for the day. If nothing else, —Moira trusted you. . . And that was more than enough for the time being.

You thrive off the high of that evening for the next several days. You don’t even worry when things go silent on Moira’s end. It’s all too easy to simmer yourself down now that you know for certain she trusts you, —and it’s almost elating to hold that information so near and dear to your heart. She invites you for a drink that Saturday night, in the cooling heat of summer, and you jump at the first opportunity to see her in person again.

This time, the bar isn’t quite so run down. It might just be the fanciest one you’ve ever set foot in, and the outfit you wore that you were worried would come off as overdressed now feels like the opposite. Things like this remind you of just how different you live in comparison to Moira. . . It’s easy to forget that she’s quite wealthy, and though you’re well past your struggling artist phase, you’re far from living the way you imagine she does day in and day out.

She’s not keen on discussing work tonight, so you sit around nursing lemon drop martinis with sugar-lined rims, hanging off her every word like the admitted lovesick fool that you are.

It’s nothing profound, nothing inherently important in the grand scheme of it all. . . But it’s nice to know that her favorite season is autumn, and it’s nice to know that she can play a bit of piano. It’s then that you really understand just how much little things really do matter, even within the finite days we’re given. Especially within them.

Just like your drink, it’s slightly bittersweet.

You talk with her well into the night, eventually forgoing the bar to simply walk around under the stars and the city lights. And maybe it’s alcohol or that aforementioned trust she’s placed in you, —but she tells you that she misses her home on nights like these, and when she sees you shiver, she drapes her jacket over your shoulders and walks a little closer to you now. So close that the back of her hand brushes against yours, —once, twice, thrice— but the fourth time never comes.

Instead, she reaches out in between the hum of passing cars and the hollow breeze that swishes by, and takes your hand in her own. You don’t bother to bite back the smile that graces your lips.

That night, you consider telling her all the things you’ve been keeping bottled up inside, —all the time you’ve spent groveling over her and her unfair ability to captivate you like no other. But, a part of you is almost certain she already knows now, as if the poetry written in your heart has all but flowed right into her own from the lines in your palm.

As summer moves both far too slow and much too fast all in a single breath, Moira becomes a semi-frequent guest in your studio. Sometimes she simply watches as you work on canvas, and at others, she becomes the canvas herself. You have a little collection of photographs of her now, —posed according to your will, displaying her painted arms in the process. It must be hours upon hours now that you've spent gracing her skin with your brushes, listening to her tell you about her day; the good and bad parts.

She leaves out the finer details, not wanting to bore you with the intricacies of a job one could only understand through years of training and experience. Still, you know more than you probably should about her research, and you're there when the scientific community at large decides that she's a perfect fit for their next public enemy.

For how harsh the punishment is, you'd think she would have been more upset, —but she remained indifferent to it all, as if taking it in stride was the only way she knew how to cope with it. Moira asked that if you stumbled across any articles of her, you pay them no mind. . . And you didn't. Maybe that was a naive choice, but her work was only your concern to a certain extent, and you were already well aware that she was prone to bending ethical guidelines. At the end of the day, you knew her as a woman rather than a scientist, and that was that.

You have to admit, it’s a little tortuous seeing her so often, being constantly reminded of just how hard you’ve fallen, and yet never having the courage to act on it. You often hype yourself up, readying yourself to shoot your shot, —but as soon as Moira is actually in front of you, all the confidence you’d spent the prior day and night building up all but crumbles to your feet in pathetic little pieces.

You sit with her at that cafe again, sipping on lattes together in the early afternoon. She seems more relaxed today than she is most of the time, —like something amazing has happened, though she hasn’t told you what. If anything even happened at all. For a moment, you let yourself believe that she’s just happy to be here with you.

The new employee of the quaint shop slips you a napkin with some scribbled numbers on it, and you feel a sense of deja vu. It wasn’t too long ago that Moira gave you her phone number in much the same way.

“His number, I presume?” Moira inquires. 

You nod.

“I was wondering when he’d decide to make a move,” she laughs. “He’s had his eyes on you since you sat down.”

“O-Oh?” You utter, heat rising to your cheeks, “—Has he? I didn’t notice.”

You were a little distracted by the way she held the handle of her cup, though you’re keen on keeping that particular detail to yourself.

“Indeed,” she confirms. “So, any plans to take him up on it?”

“Ah. . . No, I don’t think so,” you shake your head. “Don’t get me wrong, I’m flattered and all, I just. . .”

“He isn’t to your liking?” Moira guesses.

She’s so nonchalant about this that it’s close to driving you wild.

“I don’t know that I’d say it like that,” you mumble.

“He’s not your type, then?” She revises.

“I don’t think I have any specific type,” you answer.

“Perhaps there’s someone else?”

Your face falls and it doesn’t go unnoticed no matter how quickly you right yourself. There’s no hiding that it’s the case now, —but you have a feeling she already knows as much. She’d known it for days, weeks, —maybe months. Maybe she knew you were falling for her before you yourself had the wherewithal to pick up on it.  

“Something like that,” you mutter, taking a long, drawn out sip of your drink.

Something like that. 

She doesn’t press it any further, letting it drop completely for the time being. You part ways as you exit the cafe, and while she spends the rest of her day in her lab, you meddle about your studio, unable to keep your focus steady enough to get much done.

Perhaps there’s someone else. . .

You sigh deeply, frustrated and overwhelmed. If there was ever a time when you wished she’d be as blunt as she always seems to be, —it’s now. A part of you is certain even rejection would hurt less than this; less than the unknown. You’re sick of sitting in this pit of misty grey indifference, stuck in limbo, always waiting for the right time (that never actually comes.)

“Fuck,” you curse under your breath. “Fuck.”

You feel pathetically underproductive, sitting against the wall in your studio as the sun begins to set. You’ve done so little, but your mind has been racing for hours, and there’s still no sure-fire way you’ve found to reason yourself out of this mess. Telling her how you feel is always an option, but there’s a risk there that you’re just not comfortable with as things stand now. Moira pushes and pulls, and you don’t know what to make of it.

She makes that choice for you, as expected of her.

When your phone buzzes, lighting up with her name on the screen, you’re close to jumping out of your skin. It says so little, but it makes you feel so much.

Dinner? 

Though you’re not particularly hungry despite having eaten very little all day, you quickly agree, if for no other reason than to bask in her presence and soak her in for everything she’s worth (which is more than any simple number could ever do justice, no matter how large.) For the sake of having an idea of how to dress, you ask where.

My place. 

And so it goes. You get her address and she tells you to swing around by 7:30. You’re there by 7:28, spending the last two minutes outside her door, preparing yourself for whatever is to happen next. This building is incredible, —clearly high-class and unsuitable for the average working person based on price alone. You’d expect nothing less of Moira. 

The outside pales in comparison to the inside, however. Her bookshelves are filled to the brim with titles, —some academically inclined, and others more for pleasure (though you’re not certain Moira would see much of a difference between the two.) She greets you in her typical attire, dress pants and a white button-up, although the top two buttons are undone tonight and her hair lacks any form of styling. You’re staring as she sits you down at a table overlooking the city, but you can’t help it, and you can’t bring yourself to look away. There’s something about her tonight that has your heart shivering in your chest.

“Dinner will be ready in just a few minutes,” she tells you. “Feel free to look around. I don’t mind what you touch as long as it isn’t broken.”

There’s a twinge of a smile on her lips and eyeliner slightly smudged beside her eyes. This is probably the closest you’ve come to seeing Moira in her rawest state, topping even the version of her you saw that night at the bar. It seems like that was so long ago now, but also feels like it was just yesterday somehow.

“You’re cooking?” You inquire.

“I dabble,” she replies. “It’s a necessary skill. I’m no Michelin star chef, mind you, but I can manage a proper meal.”

She hasn’t even set the food before you yet, and you already know she’s being far too humble. In the meantime, she pours you a glass of champagne, apologizing for the fact that it’s all she has on hand besides whiskey. You think nothing of it. If you didn’t know better, you’d consider this a date. . . And maybe you will, if only to yourself.

While she’s off in the kitchen, you run your fingers along the many book spines of her collection, imagining what she’d look like just sitting near a window in this place, a cup of tea resting near her, those elegant fingers flipping through pages. 

Dinner is mostly quiet, but delicious. As you’d guessed, she was certainly being humble about her own culinary skills. She takes your compliments with lilted smirks. Moira seems more comfortable here, which makes sense. . . This is where she lives, after all, where she sleeps and spends a fair amount of time (you’re assuming) when she’s not in the lab or off doing something with you. She keeps her space impeccably neat.

You ask about the things strewn about her place, —about some of the awards she displays on a shelf all to themselves. It’s pressed into a corner, like she isn’t much proud they’re even there. She doesn’t seem to mind telling the tales, but doesn’t jump at the opportunity; like she’s doing it to quench your curiosity rather than stroke her own ego. She gives you a few book recommendations after gauging your tastes, —offers to let you borrow her copies, and you tell her you might just take her up on the offer, even if you won’t.

“It’s a bit late,” she says at a quarter past ten, “I hadn’t meant to keep you so long.”

But she doesn’t apologize for it, and Moira doesn’t seem sorry at all. 

“I can drive you home,” she continues, “—or I could walk with you.”

She leans in a bit closer now, and you swallow nervously. You’re convinced you’re misconstruing something, but her lips are so near to your ear that you can almost feel them ghost against your skin.

“Or you’re welcome to stay,” she says softly, “if you’d like.”

You’re scared she can feel your heart hammering away in your chest. A part of you wants to just do as she’s offering, —stay the night with her, let her crawl under your skin, let her wrap you up in her arms and melt into her. But you’re not certain you’re ready for that yet. It’s a leap, and the both of you know what happens between adults when the lights dim and you stay over.

When you say nothing, she places one of those beautiful, elegant hands on the side of your face, cupping your cheek. You never really knew Moira could be that gentle. She waits, watching as your eyes flicker about for a moment, then leans closer; almost touching, but not. Like she’s waiting for permission or rejection. You meet her gaze, then let it flicker off nervously, and a smirk grows on her face.

Moira’s lips fall just to the side of your own, pressing a light kiss to the corner of your mouth. She leans back, standing to her full height, letting her hand linger on your face before pulling away. You were hesitant, and she could feel it.

“Goodnight,” she says, —as if she already knew how this night was going to end.

She’s not upset, and you let yourself smile up at her.

“Goodnight, Moira.”

This thing with her is intoxicating. It’s like a drug, and it’s getting in the way of everything. You’re finding it difficult to even be in her presence now without your eyes wandering or thoughts sneaking off somewhere they need not be. You fantasize about her more than you’d like to admit.

And now, you know that she must like you to, —at least to a certain extent. There’s plenty you aren’t certain of, plenty you’ll likely overthink in the future, but. . . You want this. You want her. You’ve known that for weeks, and now the only question left is what the hell you’re going to do about it.

You tell yourself the next time she comes onto you, you’ll accept her advances more readily. You’ll ask for the kiss she silently offers, tell her you want to stay the night. . . Maybe you’ll take the initiative, grab her by the ivory button-up and stand on the tips of your toes to press your lips against her mouth, even if it’s somewhat out of your character.

But then what?

What happens after, when the heat has cooled down, when the water’s stopped boiling, —when her dry luster has dimmed and you’re tired of being tossed to the wayside everytime she’s set her mind to something else? What happens when you’ve fallen down the list of her priorities and she has a million and one things to think about before she ever gets to you?

What happens when you run out of excuses to make for her. . . ?

And why doesn’t that seem to matter to you as much as you know it should?

You wonder if that’s what it means to love someone. . . To know that there are parts of her you’ll likely wretch at the sight of, to know that there are facets of her that you’ll find absolutely fucking repulsive, —and you’ll love her in spite of it, just as you do now.

Or maybe you’re just a lovesick fool.

She kissed you a few nights later in your shabby little studio. Your eyes had flickered from the roses you were painting on her arm to the glimmering red and blue of her irises that still shone even in the yellow lighting of the dying bulb above your heads, and then to the bow of her lips. Moira reached out, tucking a few strands of hair behind your ear, as if this was how she’d chosen to test the waters. Your stare was so tender, and even she, in all of her romantic ineptness, could see that you were practically begging for her to make the first move so you wouldn’t have to be the one to break the ice.

You felt one of her fingernails trace your jawline from chin to lobe, then back down again. She cupped your cheek that time around, her surprisingly smooth palm sitting warmly against your skin.

You’ll never forget the way she paused just then, or the way she met your gaze just to lean in closer, a smirk tugging at the corners of her lips before she asked simply: “May I?”

And even when you were still uncertain of what that really meant, —uncertain of what she’d do in the moments that followed your approval, if only naively, you gave her a nod, because you trusted her.

Her lips were soft and imperfect, and her lipstick wasn’t the type she could kiss with and leave nothing of the remnants behind. The reddish-orange color left an imprint on your mouth, faintly, of course, but it was there. It served as proof that what happened wasn’t just in your imagination anymore. You felt your heart stutter when she pulled away, and your head was swimming.

Since then, you’ve gotten that same feeling more times than you can count. Sometimes, it seems to live in the marrow of your bones. You had it for hours on end the first night you spent with her, all but glistening in afterglow under your worn-out covers. She never complained about the quainter life you lived, even though it often paled in comparison to her own. Moira held you just the same whether on your creaky frame and dreary mattress or on the king-sized bed in her luxury apartment that overlooked the cityscape.

You get that feeling when she takes your hand in her own, —when she traces shapes and cursive letters against your flesh under humble moonlight. You get it when she peels you apart, when she looks inside your chest with a single glance, when she soothes your deepest flaws simply because she can.

And it’s not always perfect. Sometimes she’s snippy, sometimes you’re sensitive, and sometimes you sleep in the spare room of her apartment just to make room for your thoughts. Sometimes she doesn’t call when she knows she’ll be working late, and sometimes you don’t see her for a few days when her workload piles up too high and she shacks up in her laboratory. Sometimes she forgets to make the most of every moment, and sometimes you shut her out when you know deep down that you shouldn’t.

But there’s always love to be found, —no matter where you are. She attends company banquets with you on her arm, just to show you off like a prize. You sit and watch her with stars in your eyes when she cooks, when she reads, when she paints the press-on nails she wears like claws for protection. She makes your coffee for you in the mornings, memorizes the way you like it, and keeps the additives on hand (even when she drinks hers straight from the pot.) You make her your greatest source of inspiration, filling in page after page of her likeness, never tiring of a single thing.

It’s not always easy. Love never really is, —not even in most of the movies these days. But as Moira crawls into her bed, —your bed—, the bed you share now more nights than not, her hair ever so slightly longer now than on the night you first met, she drapes a thin arm over your waist and welcomes your warmth, pulling you closer, smelling faintly of the perfume you gave her for her birthday, —you’re certain some things are not just meant to be, but are meant to be maintained: and this love is one of them. 

#moira #overwatch #moira x reader #moira o'deorain x reader #moira odeorain x reader #moira o'deorain #moira odeorain #moira overwatch #overwatch x reader #moira reader insert #moira x you #moira o'deorain reader insert #moira odeorain reader insert #moira x y/n #overwatch imagines #moira imagine #overwatch x you

[astarlow]

Could you write some HCs for the Talon girls x a mtf trans s/o?

Characters: Widowmaker, Sombra, Moira Form: Headcanons Warning: Some bigotry coming from strangers Word count: 680 A/n: I did my best to search on the subject but if there are any mistakes remaining, feel free to correct me!

Sombra

💻Sombra's definitely her s/o biggest supporter

💻She's going to be with her through all the steps

💻She might be a little uninformed at the beginning but she quickly catches on. After all, she has the whole web at the tip of her fingers so she has many knowledge

💻She makes sure to listen to her s/o though, after all, nothing's more true than the experience of her loved one

💻If she needs any help to change legally her name, Sombra's here and in a snap of a finger, all the procedure is done

💻She is the best hacker in the world, after all, she ought to make the best use out of it, right?

💻If anyone deadnames her s/o, suddenly all their information is spread wide and far on the internet

💻Ooops, surely a mistake right? (It definitely isn't and Sombra will do it again if she has to)

💻A ton of outfit recommendations from Sombra for her s/o new looks!

Widowmaker

🕷Out of the three, Widowmaker is definitely the one having the hardest time to grasp around the concept of trans people and everything it involves

🕷As an assassin, she's asked to only remember the crucial details and to forget everything else

🕷She might have heard about it when she was still Amélie Lacroix, but now it's all forgotten

🕷That's why she makes a certain effort on her brain to remember everything her s/o tells her about the subject

🕷Of course, she's going to respect her new name and pronouns. She's a villain but not that kind of villain

🕷Just like any gals in Talon, if she hears someone deadname her s/o, that person's never gonna be heard of again

🕷Disappeared mysteriously, if someone asks her about it, she certainly never heard of them ever

🕷If her s/o needs any help in terms of clothing and/or makeup, she can give a few advices. Given, she might not know much but what she knows about is certainly on point

🕷She's certainly not the best if her s/o ever wants to have a shoulder to cry on or someone to comfort her

🕷She lost that ability many years ago but she's going to try. It might be through pats on the head when she notices her s/o in distress or a little word of encouragement

🕷"You're doing good ma chère," she'll say while passing next to her. It's almost taken away by the breeze because of how quiet she said it. S/o knows why, people are observing her and she cannot slip in front of them

🕷And maybe that's one way for s/o to know as well that Widowmaker cares, the fact that her lover would risk to be spoted by her superiors and yet still go out her way to reassure her s/o

Moira

🧪Moira is the definitely the most well versed in this domain out of the three

🧪If her s/o needs any help in more tangible matters, she's more happy to help

🧪Like any side effects of certain medications or what her s/o can expect if she wishes for a medical transition

"We need to make sure the process is safe and goes well, don't we darling?"

🧪Not sure if it's entirely for s/o she does it, maybe she sees it as another experience to test. S/o trusts her enough to let her help her through the entire process though

🧪Moira checks any medical treatment her s/o takes. If it's not deem safe enough or efficient, she's going to offer her another alternative or even make one of her one if she has enough time

🧪If her s/o seeks medically transition, she's going to recommend friends of hers that can help her with this step in her journey

🧪Unlike the two other Talon ladies, she doesn't have advice to give her s/o in terms of clothing or advice

"Wear what you wish and what you're comfortable in," is all she's going to say

🧪If she has a little bit of free time and if she's in the mood, she's going to go shopping with her s/o for her new wardrobes

#overwatch x reader #ow writing #asked and answered #moira x reader #widowmaker x reader #sombra x reader #moira o'deorain x reader #amélie lacroix x reader #olivia colomar x reader