#moira odeorain | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

ddollipop · 10 months

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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.”

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pochipop · 5 months

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＃OVERWATCH !! ♡ — COMING BACK HOME TO YOU.

#. synopsis! — how they greet you after being gone for a bit .

#. characters! — pharah, moira, tracer, sombra, ashe .

#. warnings! — none .

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

#. others! — navigation & masterlist .

＃ PHARAH (FAREEHA) !! ♡

In spite of the soreness and the body aches from parading around in her heavy armor for the last few weeks, Fareeha’s face lights up with a smile the moment she sets her eyes on you. All those restless nights on duty simmer out to a distant memory now that she’s seen your face again. She doesn’t care who's around to see as she pulls you in, hugging you tightly, —almost crushingly (in a good way.) You bury your face in her chest, taking in her scent and her body’s natural warmth. In the embrace, she revels in your presence, allowing herself the time to reacclimate to your affection in lieu of the harsher conditions of battle. Though she’s trained long and hard to be the top-notch soldier that she is now, it’s hard to deny the downsides of her job now that she has someone waiting for her back home. The drawbacks aren’t enough to keep her on the ground forever, at least not right now, but one day she knows there’ll be a time when she returns, and it will be the last. The frontlines won’t call her name any longer. . . But you will. And you’ll let her hold you all the same. She leans in to kiss you, cradling your cheeks in her calloused hands, mumbling how much she’s missed you against your lips, and in a rare lack of stubbornness, she won’t argue when you tell her she should go and get some much-needed rest.

＃ MOIRA !! ♡

Moira doesn’t like to be fussed over, but she’s not beyond affection. Not in private, at least. Upon her return, she’ll take her time tying up any loose ends from the mission, walking through the labs on three hours of sleep at most, but her mind still sharp as ever. It’s incredible, really, the force that woman is even on the worst of days. She’ll make you wait until her work-related tasks have all been handled appropriately, —and then she’ll finally turn her attention to her sweet, lovesick angel who’s been waiting so long for her arrival. When she does, it’s almost like the weight of the world falls away, both from your shoulders and her own. She may not show it outwardly, but you can tell by the way her body loses the majority of its tension that she’s relieved, at least in part, to be home with you. The intensity of her focus is always the same, whether it falls on one of her experiments, or on you, —the one who waits so patiently for her to come back. There’s a warmth in her eyes when she looks at you that she seldom shows with others, and it leaves you weak in the knees. Although Moira isn’t keen on the over-the-top reunion sort of greeting, she’ll welcome you into her arms once the two of you are alone, and she’ll have no problem kissing you deeply, if only to remind you that she truly does love you, even if saying it isn’t her strongest suit.

＃ TRACER (LENA) !! ♡

Lena doesn’t waste a single moment from the second her two feet hit the ground. Any thoughts of a relaxing cup of warm tea or a hot shower to soothe the lingering aches are drowned out entirely by her tunnel visioned desire to see and hold you as soon as humanly possible. She’s been thinking of you the entire time, especially so since she began the journey back home, every inch of her just thrumming with excitement. The instant she sees your face, she meets your gaze with a wide, happy smile and dashes over, arms wide open to wrap them around your frame. She showers your face in a cascade of peppered kisses, hoping they might get her point across better than murmuring “I missed you” a thousand times over ever could. You giggle at the display, and she keens at the sound, —it’s like a long overdue melody that soothes all the bruises littering her skin. It’s all too easy to get lost in the togetherness, and Lena practically melts at the feeling your lips pressed against her own in an ardent kiss. Sure, she loves her job. She loves helping people, loves saving the day, —loves being a hero for those who need it. But at the end of all things, she knows the fulfillment of going on missions will fade one day, and when she’s left only with the bliss of savoring your lips on hers. . . Well, she thinks she’ll be just fine.

＃ SOMBRA (OLIVIA) !! ♡

For all the things she is, Olivia has never been particularly sentimental. She plays life fast and loose, taking risks that no one else will, —and sometimes it’s just for the sake of it. Still, she comes back and it’s like she left a little part of herself in your hands the entire time, hoping you’d keep it safe and secure. Though she teases you for tearing up or openly admitting that you missed her, there’s always an unspoken admission that she feels the same way, even if she’s a little too proud to say it. She isn’t too proud, however, to hold you close, —tightly enough to convey all the feelings she bottles up to keep herself from looking like a fool, stumbling over pathetic attempts at confessions of love. It’s easier this way, when you take her playful ribbings for what they are: a love language within themselves. It’s easier when she doesn’t have to bare her soul and strip herself apart for you to believe that she cares. She’ll jest with you about how smitten you are, never losing that nonchalant facade; but in between the lines is a warmth unlike any other. A love like hers really seems to transcend the need for explicit declarations of infatuation, so even when she doesn’t lay overt affection on thick enough for you to drown in, you never doubt that you’ll always be the first to know when she arrives back home.

＃ ASHE !! ♡

When she’s certain that all of her ducks are in a row, Ashe doesn’t mind letting you fawn over her a bit behind closed doors. If you were anyone else, she’d be halfway to biting your head off the moment you smooth your hands over her shoulders, asking if she’s hurt, —if things went well, if she needs anything from you now that she’s back. . . But you aren’t just anyone, and she’s begrudgingly accepted how much she cares for you, even on her worst days. She never goes into much detail about what happens while she’s away. That’s for her to know and you to stop thinking about, but she’ll offer little tidbits every now and again, and she’ll talk to you in that smooth, southern accent that drips just like molasses until she grows tired of the monotony of conversation and shuts you up with her mouth on yours. Words become obsolete, and the warmth of her lips speaks volumes that even prose never could. The unspoken parts of her endeavors might remain locked away, but the sweetness of her affection is an open book. As far as she’s concerned, letting you sit on her lap is proof enough that she’s just fine, and you’ll get the hint sooner or later. You’re a clever one, after all. Above all else, Ashe isn’t keen on living in the past. When things happen, the pieces fall where they may, and she’s long since decided that it’s better to just move forward, closure or not. Needless to say, she’s found that a little make out session never hurts to push the progress onward in that regard, so you can keep her company for a bit before she returns to her typical position, and she’s always sure to make it worth your while.

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