#moira o'deorain x you | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

pochipop · 5 months ago

Text

＃OVERWATCH !! ♡ — DON'T WASTE YOUR HEART IN MOURNING ME (MOIRA X READER).

#. synopsis! — left to grapple with moira's sudden departure from your life, you spend a harrowing afternoon reminiscing on the good, the bad, and the deliciously bittersweet . #. characters! — moira .

#. warnings! — angst, liberal use of curse words .

#. word count! — 6.1k .

#. others! — navigation & masterlist .

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

The apartment feels larger now than it did before. It’s quiet in a way it never was when Moira was around, —always with her little tics, tapping her long, ever-manicured nails on the kitchen island or pacing about in one of the rooms. . . She did that latter thing a lot near the end, with more dramatic touslings of her hair than in the time before. For a moment, you fear the downstairs neighbors must be celebrating her departure, and the thought of it almost makes you laugh. The silence is laden with memories in every nook and cranny of this place, and it dawns on you now that it feels much like it did back when she and you were moving the first of many boxes in, ready to start a new life together.

Only this time, there’s no promise of eternal love or any of that other bullshit that she always warned you was a fool’s game to play with.

Moira, Moira, Moira, ever the pragmatic one. . .

There’s a faint scent of lavender-heavy perfume that lingers throughout, reminding you that she wasn’t just some figment of your imagination. At one time, she’d been the love of your life. Or, she was who you thought would take that title, anyway. Nowadays, you just aren’t so sure, and perhaps that’s been the hardest pill to swallow thus far. The scent reminds you of her, —of the way her brows would furrow deeply when she was displeased, of how she always took her coffee black and poked fun at you for the additives you refused to drink it without. It reminds you of her arms wrapping ever so sweetly around your waist, her chin coming down to rest on the crown of your head.

You blink and try to focus on something —anything— else. It’s hard enough to deal with it all, but you’re just torturing yourself with it at this point. Your eyes sweep the room, the cream-colored walls, landing on a painting you’d created several years ago. It was lackluster now in terms of honed skill, but there was something so endlessly passionate about it, so full of vibrance and promise. Reaching out, your fingertips graze the glazed canvas, and it’s like you’re right back there again. . .

The gallery buzzes with excitement, the sounds of light, casual conversation and clinking wine glasses echoing through the wide halls. You stand before your own work, amazed that it’s hanging here in this exhibit of your prowess, even if this gig had been a long time coming. To see it actually displayed here made your heart soar. It was the biggest step you’d taken in your career since moving to this city and it felt so incredible that your sacrifices were finally paying off.

You’re caught up in the whirlwind of congratulations, thanks, and small talk, —but none of that is enough to keep your eyes from drifting over to her; a tall, ginger-haired, sophisticated woman standing a few feet back from one of your pieces, staring at it intensely enough to feel unnerving and intriguing all in the same breath. Dressed in a finely pressed suit the same color of the wine in her glass, her sharp, calculating gaze turns to you as you approach her nervously, feeling small both physically and metaphorically standing beside her.

“I can’t quite tell if you like it or not,” you muse, trying to sound playful, even if the real intent was just to have her offer her unfiltered opinion so you could stop guessing what she thought of it.

The way she was staring at it made you feel like she thought there was some kind of hidden message carved into the paint strokes. When her eyes flicker to you, you notice that they’re different colors, —one red, one blue, both deeper shades, and you get lost in them for a moment before she laughs softly, and you have something else to fall into.

“Oh, I like it quite a bit,” she answers.

There’s an accent clinging to her words, but you haven’t quite placed it just yet. That doesn't stop it from making your stomach twist itself into knots though.

“It’s quite captivating.”

You almost blurt out that you could say the same of her, but you let that sentence die on your tongue before it has the chance to see the light of day.

“I’m glad you think so,” you smile softly, “it was my favorite of the bunch. That’s why I placed it in the center of the exhibit.”

“I’m inclined to agree,” she nods. “How much would it cost to purchase?”

Your eyes widen. It wasn’t necessarily unusual for paintings to be arranged to be sold during these events, but that tended to come with recognition from the local art collecting scene that you just didn’t have at the moment. For you, this exhibit was more about reaching a wider audience and allowing the public to see your pieces than it was making any kind of profit. . .

“Um. . . I— I don’t know, how much would you be willing to pay?” You swallow, at the risk of sounding unprofessional.

She gives the painting another glance over, then turns back to you.

“Does a grand sound fair?”

Your jaw almost dropped to the floor.

“S-Sorry?”

“Two?”

Holy shit. All of this seemed to have gone from zero to a thousand (or two. . .) in the blink of an eye, and you have to take a second to collect yourself, lest you seem anymore clueless than you’ve probably already come across as.

“Does. . . fifteen hundred work?” You dare.

“Certainly,” Moira nods decisively.

You give her your information so she can send the money your way in a few days time when she comes to pick the painting up at the end of the exhibition. And when the time comes, you walk away with one less painting to lug back to your apartment, fifteen hundred dollars richer, and with a new phone number added to your contacts with her name attached.

It was almost funny. Maybe you’d have laughed if you weren’t already on the verge of tears. All of this has really come full circle, and you’re just not sure you appreciate the irony of it all in the moment. Here you are, standing in front of this goddamn painting, the one that had acted as a catalyst to meeting Moira in the first place. . . And it’s back in your possession, because she couldn’t even be bothered to take it with her. As much as you love it for what it represents, there’s a part of you that wants to pluck it off the wall and slam it out the window right about now. Or maybe beating it with a baseball bat or something would feel more satisfying.

Whatever the case, you’re getting tired of looking at it, so you avert your gaze elsewhere and let your back touch the wall beside it. Stupid painting. Stupid apartment. Stupid Moira and her stupid decisions that have plagued your life for the past five years, and those stupidly long nails that traced perfect shapes along your hip at night, and her stupid lips with that goddamn orangeish gloss that always stained yours when she’d kiss you—

“Ugh!” You groan.

All this reminiscing has reminded you of how electric it felt to be in her presence back then, how magnetic she’d been from the start. Those sharp eyes that matched her wit, those clever jokes she’d throw your way (some of which went over your head, admittedly), —and the sweetness of her voice when it came to you. She was kinder with you in subtle way, would place her hands on the small of your back in public, taking care to tuck loose strands of your hair behind your ears if the need arose. You hate that this fallout has left you wondering if it was ever truly affection at all, of if she was simply protecting her own self-image.

You’ve questioned a lot of things about her over the years, but whether or not she was genuine in her love for you had rarely been one. But now, that conversation is back on the table, and it’s woefully one-sided this time.

One text lead to many. At first, it was hard to tell if she was simply interested in you as an artist or if that interest expanded to you as a person, but she quickly put your worries to rest when she began flirting with you in a way that even you, in all your obliviousness, had to acknowledge was more than playful banter between friends. Slowly, your life became intertwined with hers, and looking back, it seemed to happen in the blink of an eye. One late night date at a fancy bar and you were practically groveling at her feet, so desperate for her to see you as her equal. She spoke with you about science and philosophy, —her words acting as a forewarning for what was inevitably to come, even if you didn’t realize it at the time.

She was very hush-hush about her working endeavors, but you knew she was employed by Overwatch. That alone explained why she couldn’t divulge all the information of her duties to you, and you were okay with that. The secrecy got worse as time went on. Especially after she was publicly shamed for her “poor regard for the ethics of the scientific community” or whatever. The city isn’t small by any means, but it wasn’t large enough to spare you the fate of being tied to her name. You’d been seen attending various events with her, and many of the wealthy clientele that purchased paintings from the local galleries soon put two and two together. At that point, your paintings began selling at a much slower and much less financially liberal rate.

Moira insisted that it was okay. That it would pass eventually as she became involved with a different organization, —or. . . A different branch of the same organization? You weren’t sure. She never explained much, and you didn’t like to pry. If Moira wanted you to know something, she would tell you. Anything beyond that was best left alone.

Equally mesmerizing and maddening all at once, she insists that all is well. That everything will be okay. That all of this heat on her name is a fad, that once she proves herself, the tides will turn in her favor. . . And you believe her. You take smaller, more intimate jobs and refrain from showing your face at the local galleries for a while, waiting for the heat to die down. She talks you into moving in with her, taking you from your one-bedroom studio apartment to the top of the most affluent building in the city. You tell her it doesn’t feel much like anywhere you could call home, and she brushes your concerns away.

“It’s all the empty space,” she says. “We’ll decorate.”

You do, and somewhere along the line this apartment begins to feel exactly like you insisted it couldn’t. You sleep on sheets that smell like her, bury your face into her pillow to breathe her in when she gets up at ungodly hours of the morning to leave for work. She hangs that painting she bought from you about a year ago by now up on the wall near the kitchen and the living room, and she glances at it often when she sits at the counter. When she manages to make it home in time for dinner, you sit together and eat. . . Sometimes she’s just shy of talking your ear off, and others, she doesn’t say much at all.

She cups your cheeks and insists that everything will be okay when you get overwhelmed. She learns how to be gentler with you, learns how to be more sensitive. You learn how to trust her more and how to avoid stepping on her toes when her days are hard. Sometimes, you convince her to turn that magnificent brain of hers off and watch something stupid on the television with you, —trashy reality TV that she doesn’t really get, but likes to watch you giggle at more than anything else. If you’re lucky, she won’t wake you when you doze off in her lap, she’ll just gently massage your scalp and let you rest against her.

Slowly but surely, the apartment is filled with lots of things. Books, trinkets, little pieces of decor. . . Love. She doesn’t declare it often, but every now and again, she’ll get the urge to remind you. Usually it’s just before you fall asleep, her long arms pulling you against her chest, mumbling a confession so quiet only you can hear it above her heartbeat; like it’s a secret she’s keeping from the rest of the world.

You feel bad that sometimes you wish it was.

“Do you even understand what’s happening?” You ask one afternoon, frustrated and angered by her continued neutrality towards it all. “To me?” You add. “To us?”

Those eyes that you’ve always loved so much flash with anger and a hint of something else, something you don’t really recognize on her. . . Guilt?

“What is there to understand?” She challenges. “My work is important. I thought you understood at least that much.”

“And mine isn’t?” You counter.

“I never said that,” she shakes her head. “I’ve never not supported your career choices, —need I remind you how we met?”

She says that and gestures to the hung painting on the wall. You nearly scoff.

“It’s one thing to support me, Moira, it’s another to be proactive about it.”

She frowns.

“I’m sorry our relationship has caused you so much distress,” she hisses.

“That isn’t what I’m saying,” you bite back.

“Then what exactly are you saying, y/n?” She questions, but you can tell by the way she says it that she’s not really looking for an answer.

You still offer one anyway.

“I’m asking you when enough is enough, Moira.”

Her expression hardens, a shield silently snapping into place.

“Enough is never enough in science,” she says to you, like you’re some underling in her lab she’s giving a lecture to.

There’s a cold, detached sentiment in her tone, —one that makes your heart ache. Because you love her, in spite of all this.

“Progress requires sacrifice.”

You laugh, but it sounds so bitter that you hardly recognize it came from you.

“Sacrifice? You wanna preach to me of all people about sacrifice? —What about us, Moira? What about the sacrifices I’ve made, endless ones, mind you, to be here and stand with you and back the things you do? This kind of mindless complacency because I care, and I only ever want to assume the best of you. But what about me? What about the life we’ve built together? Does that mean nothing to you?”

Moira’s eyes flicker with something you can’t quite place. Regret, maybe, or something like fleeting sorrow.

“Of course it means something to me,” she says softly.

You hurt her, and you can see it on her face. A part of you wants to reach out, take her by the wrist, kiss this better. . . But you don’t. The argument hangs heavy in the air, a chasm widening between the two of you. She turns away and leaves the apartment for a while. It’s nearly midnight when she returns, and she sleeps in the guest room for the next few days. You catch brief glimpses of her every now and again when one of you is coming or going, but there isn’t really anything to say. It’s a stalemate, and you’re both a little too stubborn for you own good.

Moira cracks first after four days, a rare showing of compassion on her part. You come home to a nice, home cooked dinner, and she coaxes you into sitting down and eating with her. It’s not like it takes much convincing. It’s been a while since you’ve seen her cook, but you’re reminded of how much you’ve missed it as you eat what she’s prepared. After some awkward small talk about what you’ve both been up to over the past few days, and you holding your tongue on any snarky quips, she sighs.

“I’ve been thinking about what you said,” she tells you. “About us.”

In the back of your mind, a part of you steels for a breakup. For some dissolution of everything you’ve put your heart into, and somehow. . . It feels like something that was bound to happen. And that’s the worst part. Still, you nod and put your fork down, giving her your full attention as she speaks with careful measure. It’s the first real conversation you’ve had with her in over half a week, and you’re determined to make it count for something.

“My work is very important to me. You must know as much by now. But I do understand your frustrations, and I’m sorry that my career has interfered with yours. There isn’t much I can do about it, but I acknowledge your frustrations, and if I could make this easier for you, y/n, you know that I. . .”

You sigh.

“I do,” you say softly. “I know.”

She nods.

“I also know that I can be difficult to be with at times. I know that I get so caught up in my experiments that I fail to leave time for anything else, but I try. Because I care for you very deeply, and I don’t want to lose you. I don’t want to lose what we have together, what we’ve built. . .”

“I know,” you repeat.

Moira sighs.

“You’re still angry with me.”

“I am,” you admit. “But I appreciate that you’re trying to make things right, and I. . . Should apologize to you too. For what I said. I know that you care about me, and about our relationship, and I’m sorry that I questioned that. It was wrong.”

She seems pleased with this, —more than willing to let it be water under the bridge.

Things admittedly don’t get much easier in the fallout. Not in terms of your career, anyway. Your works are tainted by the woman you call a lover, and your name is blackballed across the community. It’s a constant struggle to reconcile your own morality with the dubiousness of her’s, and yet you really can’t imagine life without her. So you stay, and you sleep in her bed; —your bed. The one you’ve built with her. You stuff it down and vent your frustrations to the walls of your painting room.

You glance to the door but make no move to go near it. God, all this shit those walls have heard over the years. . . You don’t even wanna think about what kind of therapy they’d need if they were sentient. It’s almost enough to make you shiver. This entire apartment, for that matter, is like some kind of twisted mausoleum of memories; good and bad. The bed you’ve slept alone in more nights than you can count over the years is the same one she undressed you so many times on, picking you apart like you were perfectly cooked ribs just sliding off the bone, and fuck it makes you so mad that she’s just thrown everything away like this. That couch you’ve cried on out of sheer overwhelming frustration is the one where she urged you onto her lap, the one she covered you up with a blanket on those times she came home to find you napping there.

It’s been three years since that argument was settled at the table. It’s been three days since she sat you down in the same chair, in the same room, at that same goddamn table, to tell you she was leaving. That she didn’t know when or if she’d be coming back. That Overwatch was just too stifling, that she needed to get away, to explore. . . And in the process, she’s left you alone. Again. The echoes of that last conversation haunt the empty space. You’re mad. You’re so, so angry that this is the way she left things, and it’s eating you up like boiling water in your veins.

All that time you’d spent making sacrifices, letting your art be devalued so she could search for some secret key to humanity’s shackles while keeping you chained in this fucking apartment. The chandelier hanging from the ceiling just didn’t fix everything the way it should have for the way it raised the rent of this goddamn place. You check your phone, knowing there won’t be any kind of message or call from her, but silently hoping there might be. That maybe, just this once, she’ll prove you wrong. . . That she’ll just come back and say she’s sorry, that she made a mistake and wants to make it right again.

But there’s nothing. You choke back a sob and train your eyes on the apartment walls again. They’ve seen nearly everything from start to finish, and yet you just don’t feel like you can let them watch you weep now. They held your back when Moira pressed you against them, her hands traversing you with more muscle memory of you each time, and they held it again the night she said she was departing while you slid down it, heart heavy enough to pull you like gravity itself.

Now, these walls bear silent witness to your grief. The silence wraps around you like a cold, unwelcome blanket, frigid on your skin like her hands tended to be. It amplifies every thought in your head, every memory of her, all the things she’s just left behind now like it was easy. Like it was all meaningless fodder for her when to you, it was just shy of everything. It was what you fought for the hardest, what you sacrificed for the most, what you were willing to crawl on your hands and knees for above anything else. It’s hard to believe that she’s gone, just like that, but the absence of her presence now, the absence of her things, makes it all too real.

You let your head tilt upward, catching the barest sight of the painting just up and to your left. The thing that started it all, the beginning of the end, and it feels like such a cruel joke now, —like a reminder of everything you’ve come to lose.

More than anything, you want to be angry. You want to tear this place apart with your bare hands, destroy every reminder of her, every piece of her that still lingers in this god forsaken apartment. . . But you can’t. You just can’t bring yourself to do it, and not just for the fact that the costs will be far too much to repay in the aftermath. Instead, you simply slump further against the wall, letting the tension melt into exhaustion, and letting all this weight crush your spirits in way only something uniquely Moira ever could.

The love you held, the love you received, the dreams you shared, —all of it and more is tangled up in this place, in the memories that permeate every room. You’re surrounded by it, but even if you leave, you know all too well that it’ll just travel with you. There’s no escaping this, and that’s the scariest part. Your hand drifts to your phone again, almost involuntarily, as if by some miracle there’ll be a message from her; something to explain that her hand was forced, that she’s sorry, that she didn’t want things to end the way they did either. Maybe there’ll be a goodbye that doesn’t feel so goddamn final, maybe she’ll ask you to wait for her because she knows you would if she requested it.

But there’s nothing.

Just the same void that’s been growing since she walked out the door.

The tears come before you can stop them this time, a pent-up release of all the emotions you’ve been stuffing down for three days. Anger, sorrow, confusion, frustration, all of it and more, mix together and spill out through your eyes as you curl up on the cold floor, folding in on yourself, trying to feel as small as possible in hopes that you might just disappear altogether.

You can almost feel her hand atop your head in a comforting gesture, the way she used to pet you like a cat because she wasn’t sure what else to do when you cried. You can still hear her voice ringing in your ears.

“We should talk,” she says, a sense of hesitation present which was wholly uncharacteristic of her. . . Moira wasn’t the type to hesitate.She never had been.

Her usual confidence has been replaced by something tentative, and that cut deeper than any words ever could.

“Is something wrong?” You ask softly, because something surely was, even if you didn’t know what just yet.

“Just sit, please,” she requests, and you do, ignoring the sense of deja vu.

“Moira?” You utter, and she cringes visibly at the desperation on your tongue.

“I’m leaving.”

Your mind stills. There’s no way you heard that correctly, or perhaps you just need to clarify what she means, maybe she’s going somewhere for a time, but surely she’ll return, surely she’ll come back—

“L-Leaving?” You repeat after a few moments of silence. “What do you mean leaving?”

She looks to the floor, like she’s searching the grooves of the tiles for the right way to explain.

“Overwatch. . . Has made a fool of me for too long. And I’ve stupidly allowed it for the sake of access to their equipment and their people, but no longer.”

This wasn’t news to you. She’d always shown a slight disdain for her employers, but her relationship with her superiors had gotten notably more hostile in recent months. She spit more venom when speaking of them now, scowled when she saw anything to do with Overwatch in the media. . . But you never thought it was this bad.

“So you’re leaving your job?” You seek to clarify.

“Yes, but. . .” she pauses. “I’ve been presented with an opportunity that I cannot pass up.”

“A job offer?”

“Something like that.”

You frown.

“This is way too cryptic for my taste, Moira, can you please just—”

“I’m going away.”

Another pause, this time from you as you let her words digest.

“. . . going where?” You ask eventually.

“I cannot tell you,” she replies decisively, and for the first time, you’re tempted to ask why.

For so long, you’d been fine to simply accept what she couldn’t divulge to you. It was what it was. But not this time.

“Don’t you think I deserve some kind of explanation for all of this?” You question, raising your voice slightly. “You can’t just tell me you’re leaving, that’s not how this is supposed to work, Moira, we’re partners—”

Her face tightens, uncertainty morphing into resolve. Her tone is pointed as she cuts you off.

“I know it’s not fair,” she tells you bluntly, voice steadier than before. “But this isn’t about fairness. This is something I need to do for myself.” This only makes you angrier.

“And what about me then? The person you’ve, I don’t know, —built a fucking life with? What about me in all of this, you can’t just throw me away and give me no explanation! If you need space, just say that you need space, you don’t need to play a cryptic game with me, I know you! Why the secrecy with me of all people?”

The woman you’ve always known to be so confident now seems so vulnerable before you, and it almost makes you feel guilty for being upset.

“It’s not about secrecy. It’s about protecting you, protecting myself and my work. . . If I told you everything, it would compromise too much. I will not put you in danger.”

“But putting the woman I love in danger is just fine by you?” You hiss. “Don’t tell me you’re protecting me, don’t make this out to be some noble act on your part. What are you so afraid of telling me?”

“The information you’re after is something I cannot disclose to you.”

“Don’t speak to me like I’m a stranger meddling in your affairs, we are partners! We’ve been together for half a decade, we share a home, you can’t just leave!” You shout. “Don’t you think I deserve a proper explanation after everything we’ve been through? After everything you’ve put me through?”

“What you deserve and what I can give you are rarely the same thing, and you know this.”

You scoff.

“This isn’t about you,” she continues. “This is about protecting the things I value, which includes you, whether or not you believe as much right now. If I were to reveal details, it would jeopardize everything: my work, my safety, your safety, and I’m doing what’s necessary to prevent that. I’m not willing to risk it. Because I know you as well, and I know how stubborn you are. I’m doing everything in my power to keep you out of a situation that puts you in harm’s way.”

“And what about the risk of losing me, huh? The risk of losing everything we’ve built together? You’re just walking away without giving me any proper closure, —dropping this bomb on me and expecting me to take it in stride? Just swallow this like it’s not going to turn my world upside down?”

Tears threaten to spill down your cheeks.

“How is this any better?” You demand.

“It has nothing to do with you,” she retorts. “It has nothing to do with walking away from you.”

“Yes it does, because that’s what you’re doing!” You argue.

“I am making a choice that I believe is best for my career and for both our safety. I’m ensuring that my choices don’t put you in danger. You of all people must understand that by now.”

The silence stretches after her words and you feel the weight of them mix with your mounting frustrations.

“You think you’re protecting me by shutting me out like this?” You question, hurt evident in your voice. “By just up and leaving without giving me any real explanation? How is this supposed to make anything better?” “I never said it was supposed to make anything better.”

You laugh, bitter and sarcastic. Her frown deepens.

“I’m not doing this to hurt you,” she tells you in earnest, but it’s hard to believe it in the moment.

What do intentions matter in this case if it hurts you all the same?

“What about us?” You question, voice breaking. “What about the life we’ve built together? You can’t just erase it all and pretend like it never happened. You can’t do that.”

Her eyes flicker with a brief flash of something like guilt, but she masks it quickly.

“My decision wasn’t made to erase our past—”

“Our past?” You interrupt.

She runs a hand down her face in frustration.

“My decision is not about erasing you,” she revises. “It’s about ensuring that my actions don’t put you in a position I can’t protect you in. I’m taking the steps to ensure that my choices don’t harm you.”

“You’re harming me right now!”

“And you can heal from this!” She snaps. “But there’s no guarantee you’ll heal from what could happen to you if I don’t make the choice I’m making right now. I’m taking the necessary steps to protect what’s important, and that includes making tough decisions.”

You feel your hands start to tremble. Because of what, you’re not sure. . . Maybe it’s anger, maybe it’s anxiety, maybe it’s grief.

“Don’t try to justify this to me,” you shake your head. “Don’t try to pretend like you’re doing this for anyone but yourself. After everything I’ve done for you, all the sacrifices I’ve made, you’re throwing everything away like it’s worthless? How is that protection?”

Her gaze hardens.

“You know well and full that I do not make uncalculated decisions. This is no different. I’m making a choice that keeps you safe, even if you don’t recognize that right now.”

“It’s not about what I do or don’t understand!” You shout. “It’s about trust! It’s about being fucking honest with me! You’re not even giving me a choice in this, and that’s not fair! You’re making choices for the both of us alone that we should have been making together!”

“I’m not asking you to like or agree with what I’m doing, I am telling you what’s taking place because I care for you, and I believe you deserve that much,” she states. “But this conversation does not change what has to be done.”

“So that’s just it then?” You question in disbelief. “You’re throwing me away and I don’t even get a say? You’re just gonna up and go and leave me to pick up the pieces by myself?”

The rest is a blur. She gathered her things while you sit around in a daze, pinching yourself every so often, convinced that you’ll wake up and it’ll all just be a nightmare. You’ll tell her about it when you wake up and she’ll tell you you’re ridiculous with a lopsided smile on her face, and she’ll roll her eyes when you wrap your arms around her waist and bury your face in her chest. It’ll all feel better when she kisses the crown of your head and mumbles that she’ll see you when she gets home from work.

But she doesn’t.

“Moira,” you practically whimper as she emerges from your shared room with items smushed into a travel case. “Don’t. Don’t do this.”

She pauses, unable to meet your gaze completely. Like she’s ashamed in all of this, as much as she wants to hide that away.

“This isn’t easy for me either,” she tells you.There’s a twisted coolness to her voice, like she’s rehearsed these exact lines so many times before now.

“But I’ve made my decision. There’s nothing more to say.”

“Please,” you choke out, not caring how pathetic or childlike you sound as you beg for this woman not to exit your life and leave you high and dry. “Please don’t do this, don’t leave, please don’t go, we can figure something out—”

“We can’t,” she shakes her head. “I’m leaving, and I don’t know when I’ll return. I don’t even know that I’ll be coming back at all.”

“But I love you,” you utter in desperation.

“I know,” she says, her voice colder than you ever thought it could be. “But love isn’t enough right now. This is bigger than us, and I can’t ignore that.”

You reach out and grab the sleeve of her button-up shirt.“Don’t do this to me,” you plead.

But when you look into her eyes, all you see is resignation.

“I wish things were different,” she murmurs, her voice softer now, but still laced with that same finality. “But I can’t change what I have to do. This isn’t about us, it’s about something far bigger, and I need you to trust me like you always have.”

“Moira.”

Her thumb strokes your cheek in a tender gesture that feels like a cruel contrast to the words she’s saying.

“You’re stronger than you think, and you’ll be okay,” she continues. “And maybe there’ll be a day when I can come back. But for now, you have to let me go.”

You feel sick to your stomach, hand clutching so tightly around her’s that it likely hurts, but you can’t help it. You shake your head as your throat squeezes and you open your mouth slightly to speak, but nothing comes out.

She pauses in the doorway, her back to you, and for a moment you think she might turn around. But she doesn’t. Instead, she simply says, “Take care of yourself.” The memory fades and you feel hollow. Raw, like the wound has been ripped open all over again. It stings like it’s been covered in salt. You blink, realizing now more than before that you’re alone, on the floor in this cold, empty apartment. The echo of the door as it closed behind her for the last time rings in your ear, over and over, a sound you can’t shake no matter how hard you try. So you don’t. You sit and let it fester. And maybe you’ll wait around for her and she’ll come crawling back some few odd years later. Maybe you’ll move on and search for her in the face of every potential partner you sit across from at warm cafes. As you sit there, the painting looms in your vision, its once comforting brushstrokes now a bittersweet echo of a time when everything felt whole. It’s a reminder of what was and what might never be again and it makes you nauseous just to stare in its tainted direction. But you’ll keep it hung no matter where you go, and you know that. . . Because Moira loved it. And you love her.

69 notes · View notes

weeping-statue · 2 months ago

Note

also if u don't mind,,, could i ask a small hc or drabble of ditzy reader who's also moira assistant... mutual pining but moira wayy too 🙄🙄 to admit it so moira is alll forlingering touches and glances... even protective is someone tries their advances with u

do u see the vision cos im giggling and kicking my feet

I see it and I’m here for it!!!

“In a crowded room full of people I know, my eyes will always look for you.”

Contains; a lot of fluff; Moira can’t come to grips with her feelings; pls be patient with her;

Moiras lab partner was to put it nicely, uncoordinated. They always thought you wouldn’t last five minutes with her. Oh were they wrong, especially since Moira actually enjoyed your company, and help. Sure there were times when you’d drop an important vial and the toxic liquid inside would burn a hole into the floor, making it so she not only had to start over but also fix her once nice floor. Yet behind all those mishaps, were quiet times, and yearnings for one another.

Moira can’t come to terms with the fact that maybe, just maybe, she cares about anyone other than herself.

It sounds crazy to her, that she adores your nervous laughs when you accidentally drop something again. And it kills her when you trip, adding another bruise to your legs, along with another gray hair from worrying about you.

She’ll be as silent as she wants to, as poker faced about it, but no one can deny the soft spot she has for you.

Even when she sees that you’re branching out, she’ll gently coerce the others away, making it so you’ll come back to your rightful spot next to her. But she won’t say a word about it when you wonder why they don’t stick around to hang with you.

In reality, you didn’t think you were hiding your crush behind your shy or clumsy behavior. Unknowingly to you, Moira can’t really tell if you’re just nervous around her like most are or if you want to kiss her as gently and as passionately as she does.

While the back and forth of, do we have something or do we not, go on, Moira will take any physical touch or time you give her and cherish it forever.

Sometimes she’ll replay the memories in her head whenever you’re not there or if she sees something that reminds her of you.

Moira wonders if you’ll ever let her hold your hand in private while she reads a book. Or if you enjoy cuddling, and if so do you dream of being in her arms?

So many questions and not enough answers.

As a scientist like herself, she strives for results, and soon she’ll get them when she finally musters up the courage to act on her longing desires.

So sorry that it took me this long to finish it, I’ve just been busy and tired <3

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

28 notes · View notes

acradelius · 10 months ago

Note

hi! could you do a dom, giving moira and sub, receiving fem reader? i love how you write her :) maybe some action in her office/lab with a strap too ? tysm!

"Let's See How Well You Handle This One, Coinín~"

Fandom: Overwatch / Overwatch 2

Pairing: Moira O'Deorain x Female! Reader

Rating: Lemon [🟡] - (NSFW!)

Warnings/Mention Ofs: MDNI, Implied Non-Established/Possibly "Secretive" Relationship, Scientist / Scientist Assistance Relationship, Female x Female Relationship, Female Pronouns For Reader, Dominant! Female x Submissive! Female, "Mean, Punishing"! Moira, Possessive! Moira If You Squint, Strap-on Usage - Giving! Moira/Receiving! Reader, Clit Teasing, Nipple Play, Silicone P in V, Orgasm, Teasing With Cock-warming.

Word Count: 768 Words

Notes: This piece is technically considered to be a sequel part to this piece: "Quite The Punishment, Isn't It?"

If you'd like to be tagged for all posts, for certain fandom posts, or certain character posts then feel free to message me!

Those neat stacks of paper of research from the laboratory assistants that had taken quite some time to go through and essentially grade were now a disheveled mess amongst the floor, yet, Moira didn’t necessarily care for that at this moment. Why would Moira need to worry about some feeble papers about research that she was probably already aware about when she has something better presented in front of her? Despite that she was completely flustered, her skin slightly flushed from the situation at hand, that (Y/N) still looked absolutely stunning laying bare naked on Moira’s desk, clothes tossed aside on the floor to be forgotten about for the time being. “You did such a job well done, my dear Coinín~ While I would state that I’m surprised that you made it through the presentation without completely losing yourself to the immense please, you’ve been alongside me for quite some time now, so possibly you’re growing familiar to the punishments that I put you through~”

Moira could essentially state anything that she wants in that moment, but (Y/N)’s too preoccupied with the sight in front of herself despite laying on the desk to actually give a response. Especially since it was finally there for (Y/N) to actually view, for her to actually get to touch and experience with, that special gift that Moira had been hinting at for the last couple of weeks now. A custom made strapon. Being seven inches in length and three inches in width, colored with swirls of a glittering gold and an enigmatic purple from the tip down to the base of the cock. How it’s snuggly strapped onto Moira’s hips to rest against her pelvic, and how it just naturally blends in with Moira’s persona and aesthetic. Even for a moment (Y/N) swears that she could even see the cock throbbing, but it could be the arousal that was overtaking her mind.

There’s a brief moment where she proceeds to close her eyes in a moment of pleasure that courses throughout her body as Moira teasingly brushes the tip of the silicone cock against (Y/N)’s clit, chuckling softly. “Such an easy one to tease, such an easy one to please, aren’t you my dear Coinín?~” Watching as (Y/N)’s thighs twitch, clenching together slightly whenever that brief overwhelming rush washes over her body. Moira’s fingers trailing across (Y/N)’s skin, leaving lingering trails of an arousing fire, stopping amongst the various imperfections upon her skin as moreso a sign of reassurance that Moira loved (Y/N)’s body no matter how it looked. Gentle pinching and pulling at her nipples until they begin to perk and harden. Such a beautiful canvas waiting to be made into something more personal by Moira herself~

“More, please, Moira!~ F-Fuck, feels so good!~” (Y/N) manages to speak the words in between relentless moans and desperate whines, all those noises leaving her due to Moira’s rough, fast paced thrusts. Moira doesn’t mind that her thrusting is causing the desk to scrape against the floor, creating a loud scratching noise to echo throughout the air and scuff up the floor, she’ll get that fixed later. How (Y/N)’s fingers are tightly gripping the sides of the desk so much that they’re turning white, a feeble attempt to keep herself positioned on the desk despite moving quotes often from the force. A shiver courses throughout (Y/N)’s body at the additional sensations of Moira entangling her fingers within (Y/N)’s hair and firmly giving a yank followed by her other hand harshly smacking (Y/N)’s ass, a grin forming on her lips as the handprint, begins to form bright red and slightly irritated.

“Fuck!-” It’s quick to overcome and cause haywire to all of (Y/N)’s senses, the intense orgasm that finally unravels within (Y/N). How her body begins to tremble against Moira’s while her cunt flutters and proceeds to clench and unclench around Moira’s cock. Closing her eyes, (Y/N) lays her head amongst the desk as shaky breaths make way from her lips, basking in the afterglow of her orgasm. Only Moira knows how to give her pleasure beyond what she could imagine, and therefore, Moira is the only one that (Y/N) strives to be with, especially in moments as intimate as this one. “Such a job well done, (Y/N)~ Giving me excellent results as always~ Now, my dear Coinín, let’s see how long you can last keeping my cock warm while I grade the rest of these papers~”

#overwatch #overwatch 2 #moira overwatch #overwatch moira #moira o'deorain #moira x reader #moira x female reader #x female reader #x female smut #lemon rating #requests?! thank you<3

72 notes · View notes

pink-valkyrie-writes · 2 years ago

Note

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

593 notes · View notes

mekakitsune · 2 years ago

Note

could you do some moira romantic and nsfw headcanons? she got me in a chokehold frfr

moira nsfw hcs || cw: mind breaking, power imbalance, dom/sub dynamics

moira looks after her experiments, you mustn't disobey her rules for you, she knows whats best and always has.

follow her orders and you will be rewarded. shes patient, allowing you to fix your mistakes, but you must not make the same mistake again.

if you happen to disobey her? she will ignore you. ignore your pleas for her to touch you, use you, even speak to you. takes it too far, by the time she decides you are ready for her words, you are a mess, tears streaming down your face as you sit pitifully at her feet, muttering apologies.

you want her to speak? so be it. she will remind you of everything you did to make her angry, calling you names, reminding you of your place. breaking you down with venom in her voice.

"after all i do for you...what a shame" she spits, fingers laced in your hair. "get up."

she tugs your hair as she pulls you to your feet. you are standing in front of her fully clothed form, while you are completely bare.

"sit." she gestures to her lap. you hesitated, straddling her with a false hope of affection.

her hands find your hips, and you want to cry again. her fingers are mean, pressing bruises into plush skin.

you want to fall foward, into her chest, but you know not to touch without permission.

"if you want to cum, do it yourself. right here." her voice is low, making shivers run down your spine at her tone. you feel her thigh move between your legs, pressing harshly against your exposed cunt.

whining at the contact, you move your hips, humping her thigh as she watches you closely. she doesnt say anything, only deep exhales coming from her as you ruin her slacks.

"i-im close...please" you sob, needing her to do something, anything.

"already? arent you pathetic.." she coos. suddenly she stops you, moving her fingers past your hip, allowing them to dip into your pussy. you cry out in relief, hips bucking as you ride her fingers. her thumb finds your clit, rubbing tight circles that push you over the edge.

"cum then. go on little one..." she removes her fingers from your dripping hole, focusing her attention to you throbbing clit. she rubs hard and fast as you fall into her chest, sobbing as you are pushed over the edge, cunt spasming painfully around nothing.

shes ruined your orgasm, but you cant say you care. the neglectful behaviour made you greatful for anything she gave you. crying softly, she moves you onto a table, lab equipment falls to the ground as she towers over you.

"i wont remind you again. listen to what you are told, or i will find someone else to play with." her fingers grip your chin, eyes dark. you nod dumbly.

nobody knows you like her. she knows what you need. she will always take care of you. you just need to listen to her, or pay the price of disobedience.

#aorry this has been in my inbox for weeks )):#overwatch fic #overwatch x reader #overwatch x you #moira o'deorain #moira x reader #moira smut #moira o'deorian smut #overwatch smut #nsfw.mp3 🫧

286 notes · View notes

tonberry-yoda · 2 years ago

Note

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

232 notes · View notes

forestfan69 · 1 year ago

Text

Doomed medieval yuri

#my art #moira o'deorain #overwatch #moira overwatch #overwatch 2 #ow2 #moicy #angela ziegler #mercy overwatch #moira x mercy #if u couldnt tell which im sure you cant this is plague doctor moira (my version) and a like villaige healer angela #i changed moiras design bcus i didnt like it LOL

103 notes · View notes

cezgez · 2 years ago

Text

Maturing is realizing how hot Moira is. Her new voiceline?? Degrade me some more why dontcha Dr.O’Deorain

𖥔 𓄼 ࣪⠀ ִ ۫ ּ ֗ ִ ۪ ⊹ ˑ ִ ֗ ִ ۫ ˑ ᳝ ࣪ 𓄹 ⊹ ᳝ ࣪⠀. ִ ་ ּ

#moira o'deorain #overwatch #moira ow #moira x reader #overwatch x reader #whats wrong with power you don’t find power sexy

164 notes · View notes

jailbird-junkrat-writes · 4 months ago

Text

Overwatch Characters Love Languages P2

Genji Words of affirmation make him feel valid and whole again. He never asks for anything, but that doesn’t mean he doesn’t crave anything. Just tell him how you feel, give him the reassurance he needs but will never ask for.

Hanzo Acts of service. You love him? Prove it to him. He’s too tired and done with people just messing around. He doesn’t want money, dinners, gifts. Just simple acts that can mean the world. Maybe he’s not eaten today and you make him sit and have food. Things that let him know he’s cared for.

Junkrat Gifts and Pshycal touch. The boy is attention and touched starved. He’s like a needy puppy that demands attention every few seconds. Wants to hold your hand or literally try crawl all over you. Just wants to be close, wants to prove to people he can get someone to love him. He sadly doesn’t understand personal space. And, of course he loves to give his partner little trinkets.

Lucio Quailty time is his big one. You could be having a day thats packed with a thousand things or a day that's just led on the couch together listening to music. Both are just as good and mean the world to him. Just be there with him and he’ll have a smile on his face.

Moira Acts of service Moira is a complicated but also simple in her needs. Words with no weight mean nothing, gifts are worthless. She’s so self sufficient she doesn’t need much. But if a coffee showed up on her desk unprompted or a stack of paperwork gets tidied up to make her life a little easier? She won’t voice how much it means to her, but you’ll start to notice the same level of sneaky kindness in return.

238 notes · View notes

anothersoulless · 2 years ago

Text

Egoist {Moira X Reader}

You knew who she was, what she was. Even in the black suit with the purple tie and under those gloves, the long nails of her hand were always visible, the way her right hand was thinner, veiny while her other one looked healthy, her face plate always adorning her left eye, even when not working. When she left to work, you knew where she was going, what she was doing. But when she looked at you, the way she held you, you just couldn't let her go. You loved her. But maybe, she did not.

It was unusual for her to have enough time to accompany you to one of your outings with co-workers, like on holidays, bit you were glad that today, this random Friday evening she did have time. Usually she worked from early to evening, always looking to find the key to life. And yet, she would always come home to you, she would lay down in your bed and talk with you if you were awake or tucking herself into your side when you weren't. You were lucky if you saw her everyday in a week, but you didn't mind too much, what she was doing was important, no matter how you disliked her cruel ways of researching.

It was a fromal event in a restaurant, a celebration of one of your co-workers birthday. Moira hadn't stalled around much to get read, she simply opened the closet and pulled out her neatly stored black suit and a purple tie. You watched as she got dressed, her nails digging into the expensive, sensitive fabric, somewhow avoiding it getting ripped. She looked stunning, like an absolute professional - as if she was a chef of a very high ranking firm. She wasn't, she was a researcher, a fighter, a member of Blackwatch, but no one else needed to know. Today, Moira was simply a scientist - and your wife. She had tried to cover her damaged hand with gloves, even tried cutting her nails, but they didn't want to be cut, so she ended up with broken gloves, nails raking out. Hopefully no one would mind her weird appearances.

They did.

Of course they did.

They were confused and you let Moira explain - some sort of terminal generic illness she got by being exposed to too many Experiments and fumes. A lie, of course. But they believed it. That was all that mattered. After you came home that night, she unbuttoned her blouse and opened her tie, letter Ng them dangle aroung her ill frame and falling into one of the chairs, exhausted from this day full of work and the meeting. You had smiled at her, tried to help you relax, but with a quick flick of her now ungloved hand and a curt "No" you retreated to bed, leaving her alone.

You don't think she joined you that night. Maybe she did, but you were definitely not in your arms. She was just tired, nothing else. It was fine, after all, she was a hard working woman.

You stood up early next morning, making her breakfast in bed and even making her lunch to bring to work with her, one that she'd probably forget to eat again. Her mood was better when she woke up, coffee and food ready, she thanked you, gave you kiss and left no food on her plate and no coffee to cool.

You didn't register when she started to change up a bit, when she would watch you closely, not with love, like she had before, but with curiosity. Maybe it was after you had been diagnosed, doomed to live only a few months. Maybe it was when she made you the proposal.

"I can fix you. I can fix you, like I fixed myself, like I fixed all of them"

Maybe it was after you had said yes, or when she started to expirment on you. You were unsure. But the experiments hurt, even though she held your hand, held you close in her arms when you cried, nestled safe on her lap or even when she kissed your tears away, her low voice in your ear.

"You are doing so well, Love. Just a it more, okay? Stay strong for me"

Maybe you should have declined, died with her love still intact for you, before you switched from lover to experiment in her eyes. Maybe it would have avoided this outcome. You were cured, yes. But the pain was unbearable. No matter what you did, there was a surge of huge pain following your movements. After a while you got better at hiding it, accepting it. And yet, no matter what you did, even after it felt like simply thinking was painful, nothing could describe the empty hole in your chest, when you saw her pack her things.

"Where are you going, Honey? Is everything alright?" She had looked at you, her red eye piercing your soul

"Of course, Love. Everything is just fine. Blackwatch just needs me to leave for a mission, that's why I'm packing a few things"

"Why?"

"They need me, that's all. I am the only one able to tend to my fallen comrades, after all-"

"No. Why are you lying?"

She looked at you then, turning around to face you and her cold expression made you shiver. That wasn't your Moira. This was Blackwatchs' Moira. Talon Moira. Crazy-Scientist-Moira. Where did she leave to, you wondered.

"I wanted to safe you from the truth. You are awfully sensitive recently. An unexpected result of the Experiments, I believe. But it seems you have unfortunately kept your attention to detail."

You looked at her, confused. "Sensitive? I mean, you have barely talked with me, these past few weeks, you and I, we're married! We should talk a lot, sleep in the same bed! You loved me before all this and that has changed! I just want us to be like back then again. Wher eyou go to work, come home and we sleep, Where we talk in bed and I get to enjoy your company, your arms. You have been distancing yourself from me, and I don't know what to do, I'm devastated! Clueless! Not sensitive!"

Her expression fell for a moment, just a glimpse pat's that cold exterior revealing pity. "It's your fault you believed you were worth anything to me, actually. You were simply entertainment for me, nothing more." Moira turned around, grabbing her suitcase. You tried to stop her, tears falling onto the floor. "No, you don't get to leave me like this! You don't get to walk away from me with all the damage you just caused! I love you! How can you say you never loved me, when you married me?!"

"Like I said. It's your fault. I never wanted to make that impression" She pries your hand away from her arm with her long nails and opened the door while you followed her close behind, words falling out of your mouth to stop her, none of them sinking into either of you. She turned around one last time, before opening the door. "I suppose I should apologize. But you have no use for me anymore. The experiments conducted on you have brought no new revelations and your body is already at it's limit. So impossibly weak, no wonder you wouldn't be able to make it into any of our Organisations."

She handed you the key to the house.

"I never told you I was a good person. You convinced yourself I was. I told you from the very beginning what I was. I've always been an Egoist.'

The door slammed shut as you fell to the floor, crumbling.

#overwatch #overwatch oneshot #overwatch x reader #overwatch x you #moira overwatch #moira o'deorain #moira x reader #angst #overwatch angst

73 notes · View notes

pochipop · 1 year ago

Text

＃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

139 notes · View notes