#moira o'deorain reader insert

[pochipop]

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

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

#. characters! — moira .

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

#. word count! — 4.4k .

#. others! — navigation & masterlist .

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Long time no see, luch beag.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Oh, and you do?” You retort.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Like a six,” you shrug.

You’ve definitely been through worse.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Small intestine would be more likely.”

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

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

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

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

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

You grimace, then find your voice again.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“We all make choices,” you mumble bitterly.

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

You don’t answer.

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

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

She looks unimpressed by the reply.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Moira shakes her head.

“Let’s get you up.”

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

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

“You could.”

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

“To where?”

“My laboratory,” she replies.

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

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

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

Well then.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You swallow their corpses like bile and try again.

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

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

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

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

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

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

There just has to be something more beneath the surface.

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

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

“And now?”

“Now what?” She inquires.

“What’s our relationship now?”

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

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

“And that’s all?”

“That’s all.”

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

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

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

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

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

“Us. What we had. How it felt.”

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

She’s diplomatic, even in her evasivness.

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

She busies her hands with something on a table nearby.

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

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

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

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

“Adapt and forget?” You challenge.

“Adapt and survive,” she corrects.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You swallow, steeling yourself to finish.

“What I want is you.”

Moira’s lips twitch into a small smile.

“You always were stubborn,” she notes.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Granted.”

[jailbird-junkrat-writes]

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.

[peaxhxhair]

Raising Kids with them - Overwatch Heroes

Featuring: Cassidy, Mercy, Moira, Roadhog, Junker Queen Warnings: Moira. A/n: this isn't exactly the official setting for each character - but this is fanfiction so we're gonna ignore it lol Navigation Overwatch - MASTERLIST Consider becoming a member! <3

Odessa Stone (Junker Queen)

She wouldn't be into having kids at first - thinking that something so small would make her weak.

It does - but she refuses to admit it.

You both decided adoption was probably the best option - adopting a sweet baby girl.

I think Dez would be all about teaching her kids to fight.

Even before they've learnt to walk.

"C'mon kiddo! I was fighting at your age!"

Sometimes you would find her playing with your baby - making it look as if they were both boxing.

It was quite a funny sight.

You'll come home from work and find them watching wrestling or something.

Probably swears around your kid.

Your babies first word is probably 'cunt' or 'fuck'

You're usually the one to take your daughter to school, but on the off chance Dez does - the rest of the parents are scared of her.

The kids adore her though.

She'll struggle doing stuff like diaper changes at first - as anyone would

~~~

As your daughter gets older - she grows into a mini version of Dez.

She wont call her 'mom' - instead calling her something silly like 'cunt' or 'fuckwit'

Dez gets a real kick out of it - and does the same.

Dez would be a little disappointed if your kid didn't want to fight, though she'd still be supportive - even if she didn't really understand.

Cries on your daughters wedding day - but tries to hide it.

"I'm not crying cunt, you're crying"

Mako Rutledge (Roadhog)

I think Mako would be really good with kids-

Big brooding dad & cute tiny daughter combo type vibe

Maybe she's really talkative, and he just listens.

He'd let her put clips in his hair and paint his nails.

It's giving Gru when his girls are doing ballet.

He's always the one to hold the kids when needed - since he barely has any issue.

His hands are just so big.

Even if you had like - 4 kids he would have no trouble carrying them all.

You were grateful that you could have some time alone sometimes, as Mako is a very competent father.

'crane's hand back while driving when kid opens snack' dad

Your kid might pretend to wear his shoes - and they can barely even stand properly in them, let alone walk.

Moira O'Deorain 

Does not want kids.

Only agreed because you would make a face at her whenever you saw a baby.

test-tube baby fr

Literally will not go to another doctor about her kids health.

Does she know anything about kids? No.

Does she think she knows more than the QUALIFIED children's doctors? Absolutely she does.

MIGHT agree to taking your kid to see Angela - if you're not too keen on her doing science on your kid.

HATES being called mom.

She's fine with your kid just calling her by her name.

This was weird on the first day of school - most parents thinking your kids other parent wasn't in the picture.

She was fine with that idea - meaning that you 'left' your old partner for her. Narcissist.

~~~

Your babies first word was definitely her name.

but in the cute baby way.

'Moiwa'

When your kid gets a little older, maybe they'll ask about Moira's arm.

"This is what happens when you smoke"

Your kid will never even THINK about smoking ever again.

It isn't until they're 30 that they realise that wasn't true.

Prefers to keep her kids away from science - as much as it was important to her.

She'll barely talk to you about it either - which may be hard if you're also a part of Talon.

Having to bring your kids to work with you is definitely SOMETHING.

You'd prefer for them to be with you rather than with Moira, though.

Your kids are NOSY, so you have to bend the truth a little bit.

Just to make sure they don't view their mom as the ruthless geneticist that she ACTUALLY is.

"Why is miss Amelie blue?"

"She didn't eat her vegetables"

Angela Ziegler (Mercy)

BIG on consistent check-ups.

Sometimes she'll do them herself, but she prefers the professionals.

She doesn't specialise in child care, but she does make sure that your child is going to the best doctor in the field.

Definitely enjoys shopping for baby clothes.

Works with baby on lap - letting the little guy play with her fingers.

Aeroplane noises while getting the baby to eat.

does NOT let the kid eat candy until they're like 10.

This was hard for you - because it meant you couldn't have candy in the house.

Secret stash of sweets hidden somewhere in your car.

One in Overwatch HQ too.

ALWAYS prepared.

Baby needs a snack? She's got cut up grapes in her bag.

Always has wipes and diapers.

"Hey babe? Where's their bottle?" She's already retrieved it from the drying rack.

Tiny first-aid kid in her bag at ALL times.

~~~

If your kid wants their ears pierced at Claire's. ABSOLUTELY NOT.

Angela is panicked at any idea of infections - especially when it comes to your kid.

Your kiddo is made to wear clip on earrings until they qualify to be pierced by a professional.

Will always make sure places are baby safe before you take your kid there.

~~~

She's calm 90% of the time - she just cares about general safety and health.

Matching onesies with your kid.

Chilli and Bingo core :)

Angela would LOVE doing Halloween costumes for your kiddo.

They're always so CUTE.

If she has the time, she'll put together matching family ones.

Cole Cassidy

Baby carrier dad.

Like he'll just carry your baby everywhere.

Gets upset when he has to put the little guy down.

"We're just fine over here. No need to pull us apart"

Your child definitely prefers him to you - which you're fine with.

It's just so cute seeing them play together.

I'd say he's a girl dad - the type to teach her how to shoot, or play football with.

9 times out of ten, he'll fall asleep while reading her a bedtime story, so he always just ends up sleeping in your daughters bed with her.

The two of them cuddled up on the tiny mattress - he's holding your little girl so protectively.

~~~

The moms at the nursery you take your daughter to all think Cole is hot.

Too right.

They just need to learn to keep their hands to themselves.

Your kid is very protective of him - and your relationship.

If you're married, she'll be like;

"Daddy, show her your wedding ring!! Isn't it nice?"

It makes Cole chuckle every time.

Cole didn't even need to shut the women down - your kid was doing all the work for him.

~~~

Definitely the dad that all of your kids friends like

"Your dad is so cool!"

He's always invited to their little tea parties and stuff.

Yes, he will put on the crown and princess dress.

[ya-zz]

I have a quick question if you don't mind me asking. Can you please do one where a gender neutral reader is a secret singer? Like they walk on stage and their partner recognizes them even with a costume and makeup. Can I please request Hanzo, Genji, Moira, Lucio, Ramattra, Zenyatta Junker Queen, Junkrat, and Roadhog to be the ones who are the partner who figures out that they're dating a popular singer.

There was a lot to this, but I hope it's okay! (I also haven't slept when I upload this, so I apologise for any mistakes or errors.)

I'll add everything under the cut, but here is a main scenario you can use or make your own up;;;

You had been dating your partner for a few months now and things were healthy. Everything was as it should be, though, you had a secret you couldn’t exactly tell them. Fear was holding you back - you did not know how they would act, whether they would use you or leave you.

HANZO

He was three drinks into the night when the act started.

At first, he didn’t care until the voice resonated within his ears. 

Looking up, his eyes adjusted to the spotlights shining down amongst the crowd before they dimmed and the main stage lit up. 

Their voice was something ethereal. Something that Hanzo recognised instantly. 

Despite the outfit they were wearing, behind all of that make-up, Hanzo recognised the person instantly. 

Shock was present on the archers face, but that was quickly overcome with astonishment.

He couldn’t believe it. His partner was the most popular singer in Hanamura. 

Hanzo couldn’t stop staring, watching the way they performed so effortlessly.

Their hips swaying in time with the song, lips wet and shining in the spotlight, voice angelic as the day he first hear them. 

His heart flutters, flush appearing on his cheeks and not from the alcohol he had already consumed. 

When his eyes met theirs, a smile forms on their face, a wink directed to the man seated within the booth. 

Hanzo could feel the heat rise in his body as he smiled back, tipping his glass towards his partner. 

There were several emotions running through him, from love to lust, Hanzo couldn’t quite wrap his head around why you kept it a secret. 

Nevermind though, he was already planning on making you sing for him privately.

GENJI

Genji had made plans that night with a few friends he had made during his playtime in Hanamura all those years ago. Some form of a “catch up over drinks” he called it. 

Sitting in a circular booth close to the stage, the ninja looks up at the presenter talking about the opening act, a name he recognizes but had no face to put it to. 

When you come out on stage in all that make-up and wearing an outfit that catches everyone's eyes, Genji can’t help but stare either.

It took him a moment between blinks for it to register that the person on stage was his partner he had been dating. 

His jaw practically drops, hand clasp tightly around his drink.

Eyes were blown wide, either from lust or from pure adoration at your singing ability. 

Genji felt his entire body flare up in heat, something so secretive only turned him on more. 

His friends that surrounded him made their remarks but he didn’t pay them no mind.

His entire focus was on you. 

Genji could only sit there and stare. 

The moment you lock eyes with him and give a playful wink accompanied with a smirk, the dragon inside stirs. 

Oh you don’t get to play this game.

The night was still young and the ninja had so many ideas in mind.

MOIRA

The Irishwoman would have rather been anywhere else tonight, but after a week of failed experiments, what other choice did she have?

The bar sat across from the stage was where she was situated, and her phone lay on the countertop in silence. 

You hadn’t even bothered to check in on her today which only fueled her rage more.

She needed time to herself, however. Perhaps the night will go in her favour of some peace. 

Just when she finished her second drink, the ice rattling in her glass, she turns to face the stage. 

The act had already started, singer atop the stage in sparkles and glitter. 

Moira felt something familiar but couldn’t quite place her fingers on it. 

Then there was that turn you did, one that the scientist recognised instantly. 

It was you singing your heart out. Not only that, but in such an establishment? She couldn’t quite believe it. 

No wonder you had been distant today, you were here preparing for this. 

He anger at you dies out instantly as she watches on, admiring the way your voice sounded along with the music. 

She knew you could sing but this was an entire new level. 

Moira clapped when the song was over, smile as wide as her face met yours to which you bashfully hid away.

Questions have answers and she was going to get them, one way or another.

LUCIO

It wasn’t his first time in the venue and it sure wasn’t going to be his last.

He always had a seat at the VIP table just in front of the main stage, and tonight you were suppose to join him.

When his calls went unanswered, a sinking feeling grew in his stomach. There were many faces already staring at him on his own.

He tried to drown his sorrows with a few drinks, hopelessly texting you, wondering where you are. 

Then the announcer calls out a famous singers name and Lucio can’t help but feel somewhat hurt that you’re leaving him like this. 

He stands to leave and when a voice starts singing, a perfect harmony that his ears twitch and listen to, he spins around. 

Immediately he recognises you, he knows the frequency of your voice, they perfect, sweet noises that come from your throat. 

It was you. 

You hadn’t stood the artist up, no, you were here with him. 

He takes his seat and watches you sway in time with the music. 

Eyes meet and he can’t help but grin. No wonder you were so secretive. 

When the song was finally over, you didn’t waste anytime in jumping from the stage and sitting beside Lucio. 

His hand holds yours as he compliments you, placing a kiss to your temple. 

He didn’t mind, it’ll be all over the papers tomorrow regardless.

RAMATTRA

What was an omnic like him doing in such a place like this?

The only time he had a need to being here was to strike deals that suited his arrangements. 

A questioning invite made him wander into the place, suit hugging his body as he unbuttoned the blazer to sit down. 

He crossed his arms, leaning back in the chair as he watched the stage, an opening act that did not pique his interest at all. 

When a familiar voice rang through several minutes later, his receptors picked up the frequencies, instantly looking up to the figure on stage. 

His optics adjusted to the light, a smirk coursing through his wires as he watches his partner, their hips moving to the rhythm. 

He couldn’t help but stare, system flaring up as he records the show for later.

When his partner finally stops singing, their vocals now a slow murmur against the next act, Ramattra watches them make their way to his booth. 

“You finally came through.” He spoke, matter of factly.

“What is that supposed to mean?”

“I knew.” 

Of course he knew. He had everything about you saved within his systems. 

“Plus your secret wasn’t exactly secret with me.” He muses. 

ZENYATTA

The omnic had planned this little date with you months prior, an exquisite date fit for someone like you.

Little did he know, that the place you were currently seated in had regulars there that recognise you instantly. 

At first you passed them off, Zenyatta staying beside you throughout it all. 

He was confused until some older looking person came and pulled you away from your partner.

You laughed, brushing him off before eventually being pulled onto the stage, microphone in your hand. 

It all came naturally and the tilt of Zenyatta’s head made you smirk. 

Your voice hit his receptors just right and the monk could feel his wires warm up as he watches you perform for everyone else. 

When the show was over, applause ringing loud throughout the venue, you make your way back to him. 

“You put on quite a show.” He admits with a chuckle. 

His optics met your eyes, looking at how they glistened under the warm light. 

“How long have you kept this secret?” 

“Too long.”

Zenyatta brushed his thumb over your knuckles as he held your hand before bringing it up to his faceplate, planting a makeshift kiss against it. 

“Perhaps you could tell me more as the night goes on.”

JUNKERQUEEN

It was a normal night for the queen.

Junkertown bars held karaoke nights each weekend, the establishments packed with drunks and Aussies alike. 

Some nights, upon the queens request, does she have private shows before her on her throne. 

Several acts lay before her, the music was loud but when her eyes set upon an almost familiar figure, everything heightened. 

Their voice was angelic, something she recognised instantly as they sang their hearts out. 

Odessa thought hard about where she recognised their voice, it was just there…

The moment their eyes lock, it hit her, the one singer she had adored for years, the one partner she had loved for months. 

It was the same person. 

Her smile became something feral as she stood, practically marching her way over there.

Upon reaching her partner, hands laced together as her lips brushed against your ear. 

“Who knew you had such a voice.” 

She felt your cheeks flush against hers, a devilish smile caressing her face. 

Odessa now had several ideas whirling inside of her head.

“Your queen would enjoy a more… private ensemble.”

JUNKRAT

The Aussie was head over heels for you, that much was plainly obvious by the way he would talk about you and show you off. 

There was something about you though that rose suspicions.

The way you would sneak off and come back late at night. While he knew you weren’t screwing around, something unfamiliar settled in his stomach. 

One night, he followed you, the nighttime heat on the back of his neck. 

Upon entering a small, unmonitored establishment, Jamison could feel the hairs on his arms stand up. 

He peered around the back, eyes searching for you and when your voice echoed through the dimly lit room, tones changing quickly as you sang, did the junker find his heart fluttering. 

His partner, the love of his life, the one he trusted everything with… 

You were singing for others, but never for him. 

He wondered why, but when he realised that you were the most sought singer in the entirety of Junkertown, he understood. 

Time passed before you eventually came home, seeing Jamison sleeping on the bed. 

Lazily, he cuddled up with you, hand stroking your stomach as he mumbles out sleepily; 

“You have the voice of an angel.” 

ROADHOG

Nothing could’ve prepared him for such a relationship between him and you. 

Never had he thought someone would love him the way you do, so when you invited him out on a date several weeks into the relationship, he was almost startled. 

For once, the man dressed up nice, smart suit and tie and he made his way over to one of the more prestigious places in Junkertown. 

By almost begging the queen, you managed to get him in unharmed, guards escorting him into the building and standing around to keep a watchful eye on you. 

At first he was confused as to where you were, but when a familiar voice sang out, stage lit up beautifully despite half of the bulbs flickering, his ears perk up. 

He looked up, eyes widening as he witnessed his partner, the one singer he had on repeat for the last few months, was there on the stage. 

He couldn’t believe it at first, but the subtle smiles and winks you passed to him was all the confirmation he needed that it was indeed you. 

He was dating one of the well known and renowned singers in all of Junkertown. 

It makes his head spin, the excitement taking over as he can’t help but stand and applaud when the act is over. 

Mako grasps you firmly, pulling your body flush to his as he wipes the bead of sweat from your cheek. 

“You have kept this from me?” His voice was low, gruff as he watched you. 

“I had no choice.” 

He huffs, shaking his head. 

“You sound wonderful.” He admits. 

His hand squeezes your side. 

“I’d like to hear you again.”

[gl0v3s]

The Sacred Pen

Pairing: Moira O'Deorain x Reader

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You fix your clothing and dust off imaginary dust.

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

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

---

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

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

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

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

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

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

[starlightocelot]

Chapters: 1/1 Fandom: Overwatch (Video Game) Rating: General Audiences Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply Relationships: Moira O'Deorain/Reader Characters: Moira O'Deorain, Reader, Angela “Mercy” Ziegler (mentioned) Additional Tags: Gender-neutral Reader, Autistic Reader, Autism Spectrum, Autism, Domestic Fluff, Kissing, Awkward Conversations, Toothbrushing, sensory issues, Mentions of Blood, Fluff and Humor, No use of y/n Series: Part 2 of Moira and her Autistic!SO Summary:

In which, Moira discovers one of your bad habits and does everything she can to (reasonably) alleviate you of it

(First fic back after nearly 2 year hiatus, les go)

[astarlow]

hi! may i request moira x fem reader with these protective prompts? maybe moira and reader got separated and reader's been hurt? ty!

“ i’m on my way. ”

“it’s alright… it’s okay… i’m here now. i’ve got you.”

“ don’t worry. everything’s going to be alright… ”

Character: Moira Word Count: 1202 Form: Writing Prompt Warning: Mentions of wounds and blood Synopsis: You got hurt and Moira is nowhere to be seen A/n: I changed a little bit the prompt but in their context, it's relatively the same. I'm also going to make an announcement post in a few hours so if you're curious about where this blog is heading, please give it a read. Thank you for requesting and I hope you enjoy reading it!

Moira doesn’t go on the field often. She is used to staying in her lab. There are more efficient people to go out there than her, she could name more than a few. Though, from time to time, she could be picked to go on a mission. It is a rare occasion she and you are paired together. This is one of these times. 

You are going through the details of the mission one last time, files in your hands. You weren’t told who would be accompanying you but you trust your superiors. Your face lits up when you see Moira approaching you, all geared up. She has her hands behind her back, staring at her surroundings. Once she notices you, one of her brows raises. 

“You’re part of the mission?” 

“I am! So are you it seems! We’re going to kill it then.” You’re glad to know she is accompanying you. At least, there’s a more than familiar face.

“If you stay focused, we will be.” 

“Ah, so the two lovebirds are here?” Sombra places her head on your shoulder, smirking from ears to ears. You glance at her with a smirk matching hers. 

“And our great hacker is joining us, hm?”

“A swift victory it will be.” Moira joins the ship while you discuss with Sombra a bit about your approach toward the mission. 

The journey is going according to plan. Moira and Sombra get out of the ship first, to get a better sight of the land. You’re landing last with the remaining of your comrades. You stay focus on the mission once you’re landed. You go out with your team to get the package, Moira and Sombra are not part of the front team, meaning they’re not here with you. You know they’re nearby so you don’t worry.

“Looks like trouble is nearby.” You hear Sombra talks in the comms.

“What does that mean?” You ask as you grab your weapon tightly in your grip.

“Who else other than Overwatch? They sent some agents to the package already, there’s going to be some confrontation.” You inform your teammates about the pieces of information Sombra just gave you. You make a formation with your teammates, you aren’t in the frontlines of your formation but you’re near it. You hide behind an obstacle, taking cover from the incoming fires.

“How many are there?” 

“I see at least 5 of them!” One of them answers between shots. You peek and fire at will when you see one of your enemies. 

“Hey there love!” You turn around and meet eyes with one of your nemesis. Tracer empties her rounds of bullets on you and you barely manage to escape some of them. You know you’ve been touched more than once but you endure the pain. You aim at her and return the bullets. She blinks away with her abilities, avoiding your attacks. 

“Dammit.” She disappears from your sight quite easily and you notice you’re far from retrieving the package. “This is not looking good.” You mutter as you feel the blood starting to pour out of your wounds. They are quite small but they are numerous. 

“Sombra, hack their comms while we attempt to retrieve the package. You can do that, can’t you?” You hear her chuckle.

“Of course, you’re talking to the best hacker in the world amigo.” Your captain discusses with her and you’re only focusing on your own for the moment.

“Moira, think you can get to my position?” 

“Wounded?” 

“Yeah, unfortunately, yes.” There’s silence until she responds.

“I’m on my way.” 

“(Y/n) hold the position while we retrieve the package, understood?” You grit your teeth as you reload your weapon. This is going to be painful but you had worse. 

“Aye, aye captain.” You change position so Tracer wouldn’t know where you are. 

“Easy in, easy out. You got yourself 10 minutes to get that package while their comms are dead.” You cover your teammates as they rush in to get the package. Although Overwatch cannot communicate with each other, they still defend their position. Shouting over the crossfire to warn their comrades. You shoot at the man holding a giant shield to break it. From the corner of your eyes, you notice a shadow coming straight at you. Someone dashes at you and you use your weapon to block their attack. 

Moira described her former comrades to you. So you instantly recognize who is that cyborg in front of you. He left a cut on your arm, deep enough to make the blood gushes immediately. You almost let go of your weapon but you know better than to do that. You shoot at him but he deflects the first round of shots with his blade. You’re too close to him and you know if one of his shurikens lands, you’d be in big trouble.

“I need some help here-” you’re cut off when he throws a row of three shurikens at you. You duck and backed down to create some distance. He rushes at you, weapons in his hands. He dashes once again and this time he hits you behind your head. The last thing you hear is the sound of bullets.

You know you’re in pain. That’s not something you can ignore. Your whole body is throbbing, you’re exhausted and your ears are ringing. You painfully open your eyes and notice you’re laying against the wall. And the spot under you is red. You soon notice it’s your blood. 

“Shit-”

“(Y/n)? Are you there?! You scared the hell out of me amiga! What’s your situation?” 

“I’m hurt… Badly. I don’t know, I’m so confused…” You take breaks between your sentences.

“Moira is coming your way-”

“Wait- someone’s approaching-”

“Fuck, I don’t know if she’s going to be on time.” The Overwatch agent approaches you, gun pointing at you.

“Don’t worry. Everything’s going to be alright.” Strangely, you feel like this hasn’t been transmitted with the comms. You don’t see her anywhere though. The agent falls and behind, you see the silhouette of Moira. You smile but it turns into a grimace because of the pain. 

“H-hey Moira. Couldn’t be m-more happy to see you.” She throws her healing orb at you, kneeling to see your wounds. “How am I looking?”

“It’s alright. You’re alright. It’s okay.” She attempts to lift you and Sombra appears just beside you, helping Moira to get you to the ship. “I’m here now. I’ve got you.” You eye the body of the agent and you see they weren’t spared. 

Another agent steps in, firing at you. They drag you out of the way, hiding behind a wall. Sombra tilts her head, waiting for Moira to say something and she does. Her face is grim. 

“I’ll take care of that. Hopefully, it’ll be the last bits of trouble for the day.” You can sense the annoyance in her voice. She throws her other orb at them, stealing their life away. She glances around her, satisfied when she sees no more enemies. You head back to the rendezvous point while she heals you. Once you’re back to the base, Moira takes swiftly care of you, forbidding you to go on a mission for the incoming weeks. Something you understand.

[unholyplumpprincess]

Hello! Could I ask for your hcs on how Moira would treat her shy s/o? Also, how would she react to finding out her partner REALLY likes it when she speaks Irish? (I recently got back into OW and remembered I'm in L-word with Miss O'Deorain) Tysm <3

HMMMMMMM. Let's see!

Warnings: Sfw but a liiitttle suggestive at parts, Reader is gn

__________

Shy little things normally aren't her speed. Moira doesn't have time for people who squeak and guffaw at the littlest of things. Thankfully, the shy that you are is fairly simply of that you just get flustered if she touches you or says something specifically to you in a tone. And of course, for some reason, when she speaks Gaelic. At least, you seem to listen more intently to her when she does.

Moira treats you much like a bunny at first. You seem skittish and shy. But eventually she learns she likes you and well. One thing at a party leads to a hand around your mouth and your eyes rolling back and now here you are. Able to enter her office whenever you please and make yourself at home.

Moira is a woman of science. She tests her theory on you listening to her when she slips into her mother tongue. Sometimes when telling a story she'll drift off into it, watching you quietly out of the corner of her eye as you rest your chin in your hands. Pink hearts practically floating around you. It's...interesting to say the least.

She'd keep testing in new places. Simple conversation, goodnights and good mornings, and then finally the bedroom. With a clawed hand over your mouth and crooning, "Mo choinín beag," to make you squirm and whimper.

Like everything Moira does, it would be used against you. But, because she LIKES you, it's used in Good ways against you.

[andimpink-on-ao3]

Chapter 21 of As You Wish is up!

Chapter 21

Guess who isn’t dead? Finally got around to being motivated enough to finish up this chapter. I’m aiming to finish this story before the summer is out. So keep an eye out for updates if you’re following the story. I’ll drop the link for chapter one here as well, for anyone who might be interested in this Princess Bride AU. Enjoy.

Chapter 1 - As You Wish by Andimpink (Overwatch, Gabriel Reyes x Reader)

Summary: Everyone was always saying that true love was truly the greatest force in the world, but you could not believe a single word of it. How could you when the only man you’d ever loved was gone from this world? Five years ago, you might have been able to agree. That was the last time you’d ever seen, held, kissed him-- your farm boy, your Gabriel. Princess Bride AU

[sp00kworm]

Dressed to Kill (Reaper/Female Reader)

ARCHIVE OF OUR OWN LINK

Word Count: 6787

Rating: E

Summary:  Reaper finds himself somewhat repulsive, and struggles often to see the good in himself. The only good thing left in his life is his lover, hidden away from Talon and his ventures, the only piece of normal left in his life. Stealing some new electric field technology goes wrong and Reaper spends time listening to the rumours spouted outside of his containment field. With his spinal nodes upgraded and fixed, he goes to make sure his lover is happy with him and his 'condition'. 

Please read on Ao3 as the story is too long to properly format here. See link above.

[tacticalvisor76]

a/n: wanted to write some soulmate au headcanon's with some Talon ladies, so here we are. i think that this is also my first post where i’m giving Widowmaker and Sombra some love. 

shame on me. i love soulmate au’s i might do more of them whenever i can sit down and focus. 

Sombra: 

Uses the safety of other’s Soulmates against, them after all not a single person wants to return to a world of black and white. It’s the perfect leverage against several people with less than stellar human beings. 

Know’s who her soulmate is, she’s well aware of what you are and what your profession is that of a police officer, but sometimes she will catch herself tracing your name on her wrist. 

But like some cliche romance novel, she runs into you after finishing a mission. You are an officer, and she is the hacker you’ve been asked to track down. Sombra is quick to ‘vanish’ and bolt away from you. 

She could feel your confusion, questions and hurt through your bond, and you could probably feel her’s. Feel how she knows who you are and what you are to her even though you just met. 

While she avoids encountering you in the field, Sombra will use her skills as a hacker to make sure that you are kept out of harm's way. 

And maybe a few years down the line, she’d send you a message to go out for some coffee. 

To her surprise, you accept with the simple reply of ‘okay’ and ‘the cuffs and uniform are at home, can’t arrest you when i’m not an officer now can i?’’

She knows that you can arrest her, but your attempt at a joke did make her laugh. 

Moira: 

Moira is unsure of what her particular ‘soulmate’ identifier is. She can see colors, there is no name written anywhere on her body, that red string isn’t tied around her ring finger, she lacks any sort of markings on her skin to have a soulmate tattoo.She didn’t see anything noticeable that screamed ‘soulmate’. 

She decides that she just doesn’t have one, that she’s one of that lucky 0.0001% who was spared to have someone they were tied to. 

Immediately sets about experimenting on herself. 

It’s only when she meets a new lab assistant, bearing similar scars to her own does she realize that oh no it was the transferring of wounds. 

When she experimented on herself you were wounded, taking her pain and scars onto your own body. 

Will probably never tell you what you are to her and what she is to you. 

Just having you near her is enough, but she will be somewhat possessive of you. Expect for her to chase off any Talon member who show’s interest in you. 

Widowmaker: 

Amelie had found hers, Gerard, but the moment she killed him everything in her world was black and white, but his blood a bright and haunting red to the colors slowly draining away. Leaving the red to be the last thing she saw. 

Even sounds seem to fade away into the background along with her ability to see colors or feel emotions. To feel anything. 

But her world never truly becomes entirely black and white, but some sort of muted colors with a grey tint. 

She believes it to be the brainwashing that Talon did to her, after all, you can never fully expect what a soulmate could do when brainwashing someone. 

During a mission, she was blended into the crowd. Sent to assassinate a high ranking member of a church whom no longer supported Talon. 

That’s where she bumped into you, a civilian wearing a robe for those who live at the church. 

Her world exploded into color once more, her first instincts were to shoot you, to make sure that you would not compromise her mission, but the moment she heard the words ‘beautiful’ fall from your lips, she ran away. 

Cares, but it is so far buried in her memory that all she can do is watch you from afar, and avoid ever going near that church again. 

[pochipop]

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

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

#. characters! — moira .

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

#. word count! — 11.7k .

#. others! — navigation & masterlist .

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“No, not quite,” you reply.

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

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

“Moira.”

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

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

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

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

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

She hums in acknowledgement.

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

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

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

“It could be better,” she replies bitterly.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Moira hums in acknowledgement.

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

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

You qualify: “Unique. Very visually striking.”

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

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

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

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

Will it ever. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

Looking forward to it.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Obviously, you were getting miles ahead of yourself.

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

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

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

Until it wasn’t.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

She lets an amused tuft of air escape her nostrils.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Moira snags the both of you some wine.

“Can’t help but think this is a bit nostalgic,” she comments as you put the rim of the glass to your lips to take a small sip.

The dark red liquid almost matches her outfit.

“I guess so,” you smile sheepishly. “It’s been a bit since we first met, and that’s the last time we drank together.”

“Indeed.”

She takes her own sip now, her lipstick clinging to the glass. You let yourself stare for a moment, gaze caught on her mouth. . . You let yourself wonder what it’d be like to pull her in, match your hand to the curve of her neck, —kiss her, taste the wine on her lips. It’s a bad idea, of course, but. . .

You just can’t help it.

“I suppose I should give you a proper thanks,” Moira notes after a few moments of silence. “I’m sure this kind of event isn’t much like anything you’d be used to.” 

“Not in the slightest,” you shake your head.

She appreciates the candid way you answer, not trying to soften the blow for the sake of saving face. Your honesty is part of your charm.

“Lucky you,” she notes. “These things are practically the bane of my existence. They’re just glorified circle-jerks, —everyone squanders their time meeting here to drink alcohol and grit their teeth while they speak with colleagues they haven’t seen since the last one, even though they promise to keep in touch every single time.”

You get the feeling she’s quite pleased they never actually go through with that. The very prospect seems more like a threat than a broken promise.

“Sounds. . . Fake,” you answer lightly.

“Utterly synthetic,” Moira says, venom lacing her words.

She really isn’t holding back tonight, and there’s a certain luster that comes with it, —the kind that makes your insides twist into pretzels. Though she’s seldom the type to be vulgar for the sake of it, her gloves seem to be off tonight. Metaphorically, anyway. The actual gloves on her pretty hands are still there, tightly fitted to her elegant fingers. You’d be a tad more bitter about the view they steal away from you if not for how nice they look on her.

“Worse off, you may think idle workplace gossip would be less common in a career such as mine, —but you’d be wrong,” she tells you. “The amount of nonsense they spew never ceases to amaze me.” 

And here you thought it was an impossible task to impress her. Imagine your shock when you found that a tried and true way of doing so was just to spout off pointless grains from the rumor mill. . .

“Seems hellish,” you remark.

You shiver at the mere thought of it, your eyes surveying the loose crowd now, looking for anyone who seems to be questioning your presence at Moira’s side or making assumptions about whether you really belong here. You don’t, and that just makes the anxiety worse. Another sip of wine down the hatchet, but your worries don’t go down with it the way you’d hoped they would.

“Hellish may be a bit of an understatement,” Moira mumbles sourly.

“Really though, a proper thank you for coming along is in order,” she sighs. “If you have anything you’d like in return, do tell. Money isn’t much of an obstacle, —within reason, of course.”

Unsure of how to say that all you really want is for her to pull you in and let her body meld into your own, you give her a little nod and a polite smile instead.

“I’ll let you know if anything comes to mind.”

She seems pleased enough by your confirmation, swallowing down the rest of her wine in a few ungraceful gulps. The way her throat contracts as she tips the glass back sends a shiver down your spine. Everything she does is so mesmerizing, and at this point, it’s just unfair. No one person should be able to captivate you; mind, body, and soul the way she always has, even from the very start. Sitting at a rundown bar, standing tall before a painting of tea and cookies, —drinking down blood red alcohol under dazzling chandeliers and crystalline lights that dance off her eyes like fireflies in mid-July. 

You stand by as the night drags on, going much too slow for Moira, and far too quickly for you. It’s clear she’s not content to just be by your side here, and that hurts a little more than it should. She has another two glasses of wine and leaves a lipstick stain on each of them. . . And she doesn’t know just how much you’d risk for her to leave that same mark anywhere on you. 

For the briefest of seconds, you consider asking that of her in return, but you banish that thought to the shadow realm just as quickly.

A few fresh faces greet Moira with varying levels of that synthetic politeness she’d mentioned not long ago. Seeing it in real time is like looking through a kaleidoscope of disgust, and you have to force a scowl off your face. You try your best to zone out when they come around, figuring that you’re not supposed to be privy to whatever information they’re sharing, —and that you wouldn’t understand much of it anyway. Unless they were suddenly struck with the urge to discuss color theory or artistic interpretation, you were pretty certain you wouldn’t be of much help. Moira’s field of expertise was worlds different than your own. 

“Doctor O’Deorain,” a pretty blonde woman greets, her hair pulled back into a sleek ponytail and a little black dress clinging to her body in all the right places.

Moira regards her with less hostility than the others, her expression softening a bit.

“I wasn’t expecting you to actually show up,” she continues with a familiar giggle, losing the formal nature of her address. “I’m almost afraid to ask what you were offered in exchange for your attendance.”

If she’s comfortable enough to joke with Moira, you assume she’s known her for long enough to have built that kind of comradery. Maybe it was just a hunch of yours, but you’d have been willing to bet that Moira didn’t ease up to people very quickly. You like to think you were a slight exception to the rule.

“More like what they threatened to take away if I didn’t,” Moira answers, that characteristic bluntness still present in her tone, —but it’s softer with this woman, for one reason or another. 

The blonde laughs again, seeming content in the redhead’s presence. Jealousy prickles at your heart, making you feel utterly ridiculous. Her blue eyes finally travel to where you’re standing, as if she’s just now realizing that you’d been standing there the entire time.

“You brought a friend along?” She inquires, her kind smile never fading. “It’s nice to meet you.”

You open your mouth to speak, but Moira beats you to the punch.

“Lover, actually,” she corrects, one of her gloved hands sneaking around your waist, pulling you closer and nearly knocking you off-balance in the process.

Your throat goes dry, face falling into an expression of panic, but you gather yourself before the blonde woman can take notice. Though you have no idea why she’d lie about such a thing, you can only assume that Moira has her reasons, and the last thing you’d want to do is correct her in front of a colleague, —even about something like this. You’ll probably never see this woman again anyway, so no harm, no foul. (Well, maybe some harm to your heart, but what else is new.) 

The woman seems shocked by even the idea of it. 

“It’s nice to meet you as well,” you say with a forced smile.

It’s not that she isn’t kind or easy to talk to. She’s both of those things, actually, and you can admire that (and you do.) But you’re still reeling from Moira’s sudden concession, and making small talk is the last thing on your mind. 

The rest of the conversation is a blur. You do your best to fall into the background, hoping that each of them might just forget you even exist. Your heart hammers wildly in your chest, beating something dangerously close to out of control.

The feeling of her hand on your waist all but burns itself into your flesh. 

By the time they’ve said their goodbyes, she’s taken it away. But it’s far too late to fix the damage she’s done.

Moira never does explain herself that night, and you don’t have the nerve to ask. Questions are ripe on the tip of your tongue the entire ride back to your apartment, but you sit in silence just as you did before, —albeit much less comfortably.

It’s then that you’re forced to acknowledge the crueler parts of her. . . And yet, you fear, you’re still falling for her anyway.

Communication is brief and inconsistent over the rough week and a half following the event. You send a few messages out of nicety, hoping she might choose to spark up a conversation. . . But she doesn’t, and you chalk it up to her being busy with work. At least, that’s the story your rational mind would like you to believe. The part of you that you’d like to shut out completely warns you only of the possibility that you’re being overbearing, and it’s pushing her further away.

You begin to worry that it’s now or never. If things continue as they are, Moira might as well just be another person who only contacts you when it’s convenient or they’re feeling a little nostalgic and want to hear a whisper from a ghost of their past.

As a means to counteract that possibility, you decide that it’s time to put that favor from Moira to good use. Best of all, —it’s utterly free of charge.

She agrees to meet you at your little painting studio to provide some assistance. Upon arriving, she walks around and gazes long and hard at each of your pieces, —finished and unfinished alike, sparing you the flurry of compliments she’s sure you’ve heard a million times over. If she were anyone else, her silence might have been a bad omen, but you know her well enough to understand that she means well.

“I’m not certain I can really be of any help,” she says, giving you a sidelong glance over her angular shoulder. “I enjoy art, but I haven’t the slightest clue how to create it. I leave that to the lot of you who’ve crafted your skills and put in the time.”

“For many of us, —myself included— inspiration is just as important as skill,” you reply. “These days, it’s been running a bit dry. But I was hoping you could get the wheels turning, if you know what I mean.”

Moira thinks she has a good idea of it.

“And how, pray tell, should I go about that?” She asks. “Do I just need to sit here and pose?”

“Actually,” you say, hoping to rip this off like a bandaid, —because you know it’s bizarre and that she might well say no, but you’re sick of wondering about it.

As it goes, you’ve prepared for the worst, but you’re hoping for the best.

“I’d like to paint on you.”

She looks at you evenly, as if she’s not shocked by the request at all. You’re more surprised by her lack of a visceral reaction than she is by your requisition.

“Interesting,” she notes, though it doesn’t sound like this is particularly intriguing to her, “—where, exactly?”

“Just like that?” You laugh. “No hesitation? You’re just gonna let me do it?”

“That’s dependent on the where,” she replies, an amused smile thinning her lips out. “If I’m right to assume you’re keen on keeping this within a certain boundary, I see no real reason to object. I do owe you, after all.”

Above most things, Moira is practical. She sees this as repayment, not only for your attendance at her working banquet, but also for the many afternoons, evenings, and nights she’s talked your ear off, sharing her own disgruntled feelings over coffee, steak, and whiskey neat respectively.

You offer her an appreciative smile, as if she’s done something so loving for you out of the kindness of her beating heart.

It’s more out of obligation, you fear, but you’re fine to ignore that for now.

“Will an arm suffice?” She asks.

“Maybe two,” you answer cheekily, and she doesn’t object.

You grab her a wooden stool to sit on, one much less rinky-dink than the barstool she’d sat on the night you first met as you go about procuring your materials; paints, brushes, —the necessities for this kind of ordeal.

“Can you roll your sleeves up a bit more for me?” You request.

“Would it be easier to just discard the shirt?” She asks.

Your breath catches in your throat. Yes, she’s probably right in some sense. . . That likely would make this process increasingly easier in a pragmatic sense, —but you’re certain seeing her in such a state would do numbers on your heart that you’re not sure you’re really equipped to handle.

“I. . . I suppose so,” you nod.

You try not to stare as her elegant fingers undo the buttons of her shirt with ease, like she’s a master of the craft. Her back arches ever so slightly as she slips her arms out, long and limber as they fall to her sides and she keeps the mess of white fabric balled in her hands now. Her bra is a stark black, the kind of deep shade that really contrasts with every inch of her pale, porcelain skin. You swallow nervously at the sight of her, taking the shirt from her hands to drape it over an unused easel.

She seems to have no reservations about this. Maybe it’s because she’s simply confident in every aspect of herself, —or maybe it’s because she trusts you enough to remain stoic in the face of it. You don’t ask, and Moira doesn’t tell.

“Any ideas?” She says instead, “—For the artwork.”

“I was considering something floral and nature-themed,” you answer, focusing in on that aspect of the ordeal so as to forget that she’s sitting in front of you like this, so much of her on display for your eyes only.

“Butterflies with carnations,” you add, “—or daisies, perhaps.”

“I’m impartial to hyacinth myself,” she notes.

It’s not so much a suggestion for your art piece as it is something Moira simply wants to share with you. Still, you think it best to run with it, and you give her a slightly lopsided smile.

“Hyacinth it is.”

She watches with curiosity as you go through the motions, —mixing colors, cleaning your brushes between them, dabbing them dry. It’s not often that Moira has the luxury of watching something like this in person. . . In fact, now that she’s thinking of it, she’s not sure she’s ever witnessed an artist work firsthand at all. In her lifetime, she’s seen innumerous things she would personally describe as incredible, —and unbeknownst to you, this is one of them.

“This is actually quite relaxing,” she says. “Like a massage. I don’t fancy those much, I loathe the thought of a stranger touching me so extensively, —but this is nice.”

You offer her a small smile.

“I’m glad,” you reply. “I knew it was a bit of a strange request, and I wouldn’t have blamed you for turning me away, but I’m happy you felt comfortable enough to allow it.”

“Perish the thought,” Moira shakes her head slightly. “If anyone knows about unconventional methods, it would be me. I know better than most that in order to reach one’s full potential, sometimes it’s necessary to step outside the proverbial box.”

That wasn’t quite your mindset going into it, but if she was ready and willing to place a perfectly good excuse for this in your lap, then so be it. Truth be told, you were simply a conduit of passion to your very core, and in a perhaps distorted sense of the word, this was romantic to you.

You hum in acknowledgement.

“While you’re here. . . Can I ask you something?” You inquire.

Though it feels like your heart is in your throat now, you manage to keep your hand steady enough to continue your work with little disruption.

“You can ask,” she says, “though my ability to answer might waver depending on what the question is.”

“At that event. . . You told that blonde woman we were lovers. Why?”

It’s been eating at you since it happened, in more ways than one, and now seems like as good a time as any to get it off your chest. You steal a peak at Moira’s face, noting the way she remains completely composed, even in the face of such an off-color inquiry.

“So I did,” she says plainly, certainly not the type to deny responsibility or deflect accountability for her own actions. “It’s an unfortunate fact for me that my colleagues can be quite. . . Eccentric. And by that, I mean they often poke their noses in the affairs of others with something similar to reckless abandon.”

Her brows furrow now as she thinks about it, clearly agitated.

“It’s not uncommon for them to pry into my personal matters, and I was hoping to quench their overbearing interest in my romantic life by giving them a glimpse into it, —if only a false one. Like I said before, everyone there is in it for themselves. It’s all synthetic. . . An act they put on to please one another a few times a year. That night, it was my turn to do the pleasing.”

“That makes sense,” you acknowledge.

Of course it did. You weren’t expecting anything less from her of all people.

“Did it work?”

A low rumble of brief laughter resounds from her chest, —husky and divine.

“Like a charm,” she tells you. “I’m sure they’ve found another staff member to harass with their incessant yammerings about intimacy and partnership.”

“You’re not a fan of those?” You ask, and the question is punctuated by the quiet ripples of your paintbrush through water as you clean it.

Moira is silent for a few moments, as if pondering on your inquiry.

“I don’t. . . Dislike intimacy,” she replies, —though she doesn’t sound as sure of that response as she normally would have had the two of you been discussing anything else.

“Rather, I don’t dislike the idea of it,” she corrects quickly. “In practice, I suppose that’s a different story. I don’t offer my trust like candy, and for me, intimacy only follows trust.”

“I’d argue this is quite intimate,” you note softly, blending two shades of deeper purples together on her bare skin. “Does that mean I’ve won your trust?”

You fear you’re pushing your luck here, but can’t stop yourself from asking. Eventually, Moira lowers her chin a bit, seeming amused by your line of questioning.

“I suppose so.” 

Bingo. 

If nothing else, that was your win for the day. If nothing else, —Moira trusted you. . . And that was more than enough for the time being.

You thrive off the high of that evening for the next several days. You don’t even worry when things go silent on Moira’s end. It’s all too easy to simmer yourself down now that you know for certain she trusts you, —and it’s almost elating to hold that information so near and dear to your heart. She invites you for a drink that Saturday night, in the cooling heat of summer, and you jump at the first opportunity to see her in person again.

This time, the bar isn’t quite so run down. It might just be the fanciest one you’ve ever set foot in, and the outfit you wore that you were worried would come off as overdressed now feels like the opposite. Things like this remind you of just how different you live in comparison to Moira. . . It’s easy to forget that she’s quite wealthy, and though you’re well past your struggling artist phase, you’re far from living the way you imagine she does day in and day out.

She’s not keen on discussing work tonight, so you sit around nursing lemon drop martinis with sugar-lined rims, hanging off her every word like the admitted lovesick fool that you are.

It’s nothing profound, nothing inherently important in the grand scheme of it all. . . But it’s nice to know that her favorite season is autumn, and it’s nice to know that she can play a bit of piano. It’s then that you really understand just how much little things really do matter, even within the finite days we’re given. Especially within them.

Just like your drink, it’s slightly bittersweet.

You talk with her well into the night, eventually forgoing the bar to simply walk around under the stars and the city lights. And maybe it’s alcohol or that aforementioned trust she’s placed in you, —but she tells you that she misses her home on nights like these, and when she sees you shiver, she drapes her jacket over your shoulders and walks a little closer to you now. So close that the back of her hand brushes against yours, —once, twice, thrice— but the fourth time never comes.

Instead, she reaches out in between the hum of passing cars and the hollow breeze that swishes by, and takes your hand in her own. You don’t bother to bite back the smile that graces your lips.

That night, you consider telling her all the things you’ve been keeping bottled up inside, —all the time you’ve spent groveling over her and her unfair ability to captivate you like no other. But, a part of you is almost certain she already knows now, as if the poetry written in your heart has all but flowed right into her own from the lines in your palm.

As summer moves both far too slow and much too fast all in a single breath, Moira becomes a semi-frequent guest in your studio. Sometimes she simply watches as you work on canvas, and at others, she becomes the canvas herself. You have a little collection of photographs of her now, —posed according to your will, displaying her painted arms in the process. It must be hours upon hours now that you've spent gracing her skin with your brushes, listening to her tell you about her day; the good and bad parts.

She leaves out the finer details, not wanting to bore you with the intricacies of a job one could only understand through years of training and experience. Still, you know more than you probably should about her research, and you're there when the scientific community at large decides that she's a perfect fit for their next public enemy.

For how harsh the punishment is, you'd think she would have been more upset, —but she remained indifferent to it all, as if taking it in stride was the only way she knew how to cope with it. Moira asked that if you stumbled across any articles of her, you pay them no mind. . . And you didn't. Maybe that was a naive choice, but her work was only your concern to a certain extent, and you were already well aware that she was prone to bending ethical guidelines. At the end of the day, you knew her as a woman rather than a scientist, and that was that.

You have to admit, it’s a little tortuous seeing her so often, being constantly reminded of just how hard you’ve fallen, and yet never having the courage to act on it. You often hype yourself up, readying yourself to shoot your shot, —but as soon as Moira is actually in front of you, all the confidence you’d spent the prior day and night building up all but crumbles to your feet in pathetic little pieces.

You sit with her at that cafe again, sipping on lattes together in the early afternoon. She seems more relaxed today than she is most of the time, —like something amazing has happened, though she hasn’t told you what. If anything even happened at all. For a moment, you let yourself believe that she’s just happy to be here with you.

The new employee of the quaint shop slips you a napkin with some scribbled numbers on it, and you feel a sense of deja vu. It wasn’t too long ago that Moira gave you her phone number in much the same way.

“His number, I presume?” Moira inquires. 

You nod.

“I was wondering when he’d decide to make a move,” she laughs. “He’s had his eyes on you since you sat down.”

“O-Oh?” You utter, heat rising to your cheeks, “—Has he? I didn’t notice.”

You were a little distracted by the way she held the handle of her cup, though you’re keen on keeping that particular detail to yourself.

“Indeed,” she confirms. “So, any plans to take him up on it?”

“Ah. . . No, I don’t think so,” you shake your head. “Don’t get me wrong, I’m flattered and all, I just. . .”

“He isn’t to your liking?” Moira guesses.

She’s so nonchalant about this that it’s close to driving you wild.

“I don’t know that I’d say it like that,” you mumble.

“He’s not your type, then?” She revises.

“I don’t think I have any specific type,” you answer.

“Perhaps there’s someone else?”

Your face falls and it doesn’t go unnoticed no matter how quickly you right yourself. There’s no hiding that it’s the case now, —but you have a feeling she already knows as much. She’d known it for days, weeks, —maybe months. Maybe she knew you were falling for her before you yourself had the wherewithal to pick up on it.  

“Something like that,” you mutter, taking a long, drawn out sip of your drink.

Something like that. 

She doesn’t press it any further, letting it drop completely for the time being. You part ways as you exit the cafe, and while she spends the rest of her day in her lab, you meddle about your studio, unable to keep your focus steady enough to get much done.

Perhaps there’s someone else. . .

You sigh deeply, frustrated and overwhelmed. If there was ever a time when you wished she’d be as blunt as she always seems to be, —it’s now. A part of you is certain even rejection would hurt less than this; less than the unknown. You’re sick of sitting in this pit of misty grey indifference, stuck in limbo, always waiting for the right time (that never actually comes.)

“Fuck,” you curse under your breath. “Fuck.”

You feel pathetically underproductive, sitting against the wall in your studio as the sun begins to set. You’ve done so little, but your mind has been racing for hours, and there’s still no sure-fire way you’ve found to reason yourself out of this mess. Telling her how you feel is always an option, but there’s a risk there that you’re just not comfortable with as things stand now. Moira pushes and pulls, and you don’t know what to make of it.

She makes that choice for you, as expected of her.

When your phone buzzes, lighting up with her name on the screen, you’re close to jumping out of your skin. It says so little, but it makes you feel so much.

Dinner? 

Though you’re not particularly hungry despite having eaten very little all day, you quickly agree, if for no other reason than to bask in her presence and soak her in for everything she’s worth (which is more than any simple number could ever do justice, no matter how large.) For the sake of having an idea of how to dress, you ask where.

My place. 

And so it goes. You get her address and she tells you to swing around by 7:30. You’re there by 7:28, spending the last two minutes outside her door, preparing yourself for whatever is to happen next. This building is incredible, —clearly high-class and unsuitable for the average working person based on price alone. You’d expect nothing less of Moira. 

The outside pales in comparison to the inside, however. Her bookshelves are filled to the brim with titles, —some academically inclined, and others more for pleasure (though you’re not certain Moira would see much of a difference between the two.) She greets you in her typical attire, dress pants and a white button-up, although the top two buttons are undone tonight and her hair lacks any form of styling. You’re staring as she sits you down at a table overlooking the city, but you can’t help it, and you can’t bring yourself to look away. There’s something about her tonight that has your heart shivering in your chest.

“Dinner will be ready in just a few minutes,” she tells you. “Feel free to look around. I don’t mind what you touch as long as it isn’t broken.”

There’s a twinge of a smile on her lips and eyeliner slightly smudged beside her eyes. This is probably the closest you’ve come to seeing Moira in her rawest state, topping even the version of her you saw that night at the bar. It seems like that was so long ago now, but also feels like it was just yesterday somehow.

“You’re cooking?” You inquire.

“I dabble,” she replies. “It’s a necessary skill. I’m no Michelin star chef, mind you, but I can manage a proper meal.”

She hasn’t even set the food before you yet, and you already know she’s being far too humble. In the meantime, she pours you a glass of champagne, apologizing for the fact that it’s all she has on hand besides whiskey. You think nothing of it. If you didn’t know better, you’d consider this a date. . . And maybe you will, if only to yourself.

While she’s off in the kitchen, you run your fingers along the many book spines of her collection, imagining what she’d look like just sitting near a window in this place, a cup of tea resting near her, those elegant fingers flipping through pages. 

Dinner is mostly quiet, but delicious. As you’d guessed, she was certainly being humble about her own culinary skills. She takes your compliments with lilted smirks. Moira seems more comfortable here, which makes sense. . . This is where she lives, after all, where she sleeps and spends a fair amount of time (you’re assuming) when she’s not in the lab or off doing something with you. She keeps her space impeccably neat.

You ask about the things strewn about her place, —about some of the awards she displays on a shelf all to themselves. It’s pressed into a corner, like she isn’t much proud they’re even there. She doesn’t seem to mind telling the tales, but doesn’t jump at the opportunity; like she’s doing it to quench your curiosity rather than stroke her own ego. She gives you a few book recommendations after gauging your tastes, —offers to let you borrow her copies, and you tell her you might just take her up on the offer, even if you won’t.

“It’s a bit late,” she says at a quarter past ten, “I hadn’t meant to keep you so long.”

But she doesn’t apologize for it, and Moira doesn’t seem sorry at all. 

“I can drive you home,” she continues, “—or I could walk with you.”

She leans in a bit closer now, and you swallow nervously. You’re convinced you’re misconstruing something, but her lips are so near to your ear that you can almost feel them ghost against your skin.

“Or you’re welcome to stay,” she says softly, “if you’d like.”

You’re scared she can feel your heart hammering away in your chest. A part of you wants to just do as she’s offering, —stay the night with her, let her crawl under your skin, let her wrap you up in her arms and melt into her. But you’re not certain you’re ready for that yet. It’s a leap, and the both of you know what happens between adults when the lights dim and you stay over.

When you say nothing, she places one of those beautiful, elegant hands on the side of your face, cupping your cheek. You never really knew Moira could be that gentle. She waits, watching as your eyes flicker about for a moment, then leans closer; almost touching, but not. Like she’s waiting for permission or rejection. You meet her gaze, then let it flicker off nervously, and a smirk grows on her face.

Moira’s lips fall just to the side of your own, pressing a light kiss to the corner of your mouth. She leans back, standing to her full height, letting her hand linger on your face before pulling away. You were hesitant, and she could feel it.

“Goodnight,” she says, —as if she already knew how this night was going to end.

She’s not upset, and you let yourself smile up at her.

“Goodnight, Moira.”

This thing with her is intoxicating. It’s like a drug, and it’s getting in the way of everything. You’re finding it difficult to even be in her presence now without your eyes wandering or thoughts sneaking off somewhere they need not be. You fantasize about her more than you’d like to admit.

And now, you know that she must like you to, —at least to a certain extent. There’s plenty you aren’t certain of, plenty you’ll likely overthink in the future, but. . . You want this. You want her. You’ve known that for weeks, and now the only question left is what the hell you’re going to do about it.

You tell yourself the next time she comes onto you, you’ll accept her advances more readily. You’ll ask for the kiss she silently offers, tell her you want to stay the night. . . Maybe you’ll take the initiative, grab her by the ivory button-up and stand on the tips of your toes to press your lips against her mouth, even if it’s somewhat out of your character.

But then what?

What happens after, when the heat has cooled down, when the water’s stopped boiling, —when her dry luster has dimmed and you’re tired of being tossed to the wayside everytime she’s set her mind to something else? What happens when you’ve fallen down the list of her priorities and she has a million and one things to think about before she ever gets to you?

What happens when you run out of excuses to make for her. . . ?

And why doesn’t that seem to matter to you as much as you know it should?

You wonder if that’s what it means to love someone. . . To know that there are parts of her you’ll likely wretch at the sight of, to know that there are facets of her that you’ll find absolutely fucking repulsive, —and you’ll love her in spite of it, just as you do now.

Or maybe you’re just a lovesick fool.

She kissed you a few nights later in your shabby little studio. Your eyes had flickered from the roses you were painting on her arm to the glimmering red and blue of her irises that still shone even in the yellow lighting of the dying bulb above your heads, and then to the bow of her lips. Moira reached out, tucking a few strands of hair behind your ear, as if this was how she’d chosen to test the waters. Your stare was so tender, and even she, in all of her romantic ineptness, could see that you were practically begging for her to make the first move so you wouldn’t have to be the one to break the ice.

You felt one of her fingernails trace your jawline from chin to lobe, then back down again. She cupped your cheek that time around, her surprisingly smooth palm sitting warmly against your skin.

You’ll never forget the way she paused just then, or the way she met your gaze just to lean in closer, a smirk tugging at the corners of her lips before she asked simply: “May I?”

And even when you were still uncertain of what that really meant, —uncertain of what she’d do in the moments that followed your approval, if only naively, you gave her a nod, because you trusted her.

Her lips were soft and imperfect, and her lipstick wasn’t the type she could kiss with and leave nothing of the remnants behind. The reddish-orange color left an imprint on your mouth, faintly, of course, but it was there. It served as proof that what happened wasn’t just in your imagination anymore. You felt your heart stutter when she pulled away, and your head was swimming.

Since then, you’ve gotten that same feeling more times than you can count. Sometimes, it seems to live in the marrow of your bones. You had it for hours on end the first night you spent with her, all but glistening in afterglow under your worn-out covers. She never complained about the quainter life you lived, even though it often paled in comparison to her own. Moira held you just the same whether on your creaky frame and dreary mattress or on the king-sized bed in her luxury apartment that overlooked the cityscape.

You get that feeling when she takes your hand in her own, —when she traces shapes and cursive letters against your flesh under humble moonlight. You get it when she peels you apart, when she looks inside your chest with a single glance, when she soothes your deepest flaws simply because she can.

And it’s not always perfect. Sometimes she’s snippy, sometimes you’re sensitive, and sometimes you sleep in the spare room of her apartment just to make room for your thoughts. Sometimes she doesn’t call when she knows she’ll be working late, and sometimes you don’t see her for a few days when her workload piles up too high and she shacks up in her laboratory. Sometimes she forgets to make the most of every moment, and sometimes you shut her out when you know deep down that you shouldn’t.

But there’s always love to be found, —no matter where you are. She attends company banquets with you on her arm, just to show you off like a prize. You sit and watch her with stars in your eyes when she cooks, when she reads, when she paints the press-on nails she wears like claws for protection. She makes your coffee for you in the mornings, memorizes the way you like it, and keeps the additives on hand (even when she drinks hers straight from the pot.) You make her your greatest source of inspiration, filling in page after page of her likeness, never tiring of a single thing.

It’s not always easy. Love never really is, —not even in most of the movies these days. But as Moira crawls into her bed, —your bed—, the bed you share now more nights than not, her hair ever so slightly longer now than on the night you first met, she drapes a thin arm over your waist and welcomes your warmth, pulling you closer, smelling faintly of the perfume you gave her for her birthday, —you’re certain some things are not just meant to be, but are meant to be maintained: and this love is one of them. 

[jailbird-junkrat-writes]

Overwatch Handholding Headcanons Part 2

Part 2 of 4

Ana

It’s been years since she did something as simple as holding someones hand. Her hands are deceptively soft despite her age. Warm to the touch, firm when she takes your hand. She can sense your hesitation and is more than happy to take your hand in hers first. Firm, commanding but in a comforting way.

Cassidy

Oh, he’s a smooth son of a bitch. He takes your hand gently, bringing it to his face to kiss the back of it. You feel the tickle of his beard and the shadow of a cocky smirk on his lips as he does so. He intertwined your fingers with his and winks. His hand is rough, but his lips soft. You melt at the contact paired with his southern drawl.

Moira

She takes you by the wrist, firm and commanding as her eyes meet yours, reading your reaction as sharp nails skim along your skin. You shudder at the sensation, a smirk on her face as she continues to run them over your palm, claiming your hand, long slender fingers winding with yours as she tugs you towards her. One hand is smooth, and the other has such a defined texture of her scaring decay. You don’t shy away from either.

Mauga

The man is charming and confident as he offers you his hand with an eyebrow raised, wind blowing his hair as he gives you a sly grin. He waggles an eyebrow when you place your hand in his and he pulls you against him. Believe it or not he’s big into hand-holding, likes to see the size difference between you both, loves to see how you fluster at the look on his face. Booming laugh as he leads you by the hand. Probably into trouble.

Zenyatta

He likes to hold hands. He uses it as a form of affection towards his brothers, his friends, those close to him as well as the person he loves. A simple holding of the hand when talking or greeting. How he holds someone's hand and his relation to the person varies. With you he likes to hold your hand. He liked to rub his thumb over yours when connected. He gently runs his fingers over your knuckles, committing everything about the moment and how your hand feels to memory.

[peaxhxhair]

Love/Hate Relationship || Moira O'Deorain 

Pairing: Moira O'Deorain x Gn! Reader Warnings: Moira, Experiments. ONE mention of M*uga. (probably incorrent scientific terms and processes) Word Count: A/n: Moira ur so hot plz don't die :)) Navigation Overwatch - MASTERLIST Consider becoming a member! <3

"What exactly do you think you're looking at?" You hear moira call from across the room. Your eyes lock with hers as she turns around - and you can't help but grin at her. She rolls her eyes at you, returning to her work - though still being able to feel your eyes on the back of her head.

"You look good in that lab coat~" She gives no response to your words, though you had an idea of what her reaction was. You were aware that she wasn't into you - but oh were you into her.

Ever since you had joined Talon, you had only had eyes for the geneticist. She was aware of it - as were everyone else in Talon. The rest of them didn't find it half as annoying as she did though.

Moira O'deorain was not interested in anything other than science, there was no doubting that. In fact, the only reason you were even allowed into her lab was because you had agreed to her doing her science stuff on you.

Well, now Moira was probably wishing someone would whisk you away to do the work she knew you had yet to complete.

"Do you ever cut your nails?" She hears your voice again, slightly muffled as you rest your chin in the palm of your hand.

Even if she was turned away, you could still see the nails on her decaying hand were a lot longer than those on the other. It had to be uncomfortable. Then again, Moira wasn't exactly the type to favour being comfortable.

"Do you ever close your mouth?" Moira grumbles back, moving to take a look at the screen that was positioned beside your chair - the wires connected to it were attached to your temples in the form of sensors - monitoring you.

"I just like talkin' to you" Moira can't help but roll her eyes at your words, but she does notice something on the screen. Obviously, she had to test the theory.

"At me" She responds, noting down the spike that happens on the screen. Moira seemed to be right about her hypothesis here - whether or not that was good was another question.

You laugh at her words, but nod in agreement. "I enjoy talking at you" You concede. It was rare for the scientist to respond with more than a few words, but you were happy with whatever you could get out of her. She wasn't the most talkative person - though honestly most Talon members were like that. And.. You'd really rather not talk to Mauga...

"Look at this" Moira spins the screen around to show you after a moment, pointing to the high points in the wavelength. Another one shows up on the screen after a second, though how science-y the screen looked made you very confused.

"This-" She sighs, annoyed that you didn't seem to understand something you weren't even qualified for. Her finger moves to the newest wave, and you notice how she grimaces before continuing. "Is your Gamma waves - or your concentration" The idea of having to dumb it down seemed pretty inconvenient for her, but she powered through. "It seems as though you're more attentive when I am talking" It was clear that the whole idea was almost unbelievable to her - if the evidence hadn't been in front of her.

Though, you can't help but chuckle - maybe not at her, but at the idea. "I could've told you that, doc"

The ginger scowls slightly as she turns the screen around again. "Maybe you should listen when I'm telling you to be quiet, then" Her words always had a way of making you laugh, even if you knew that she was being deadly serious. You have to lean a little to your left for her to rid your head of the sensors. She does it rather harshly, but who are you to complain?

"Admit it, Moira. You like me a little~"

"Get out"

[imagine-this-overwatch-blog]

Hello! Can I have Moira having to explain to her SO how an experiment went wrong and gave her fox ears and a tail?

She doesn’t even talk about it until you bring it up. She just tries to ignore it and hopes you either don’t notice or don’t have the courage to ask about it.

Moira is rather blunt and tells you the fox bits are due to a malfunction in the lab, but she assures you it is temporary and you do not need to worry about it.

She takes a few quick glances at you throughout the day to catch you staring.

If she catches you staring she gives you the DEATH GLARE.

Actually, she probably tries to drive you away and lock herself up in the lab so no one will have to see her like that. She’s definitely meaner than usual at this time.

Once the effects are done, she urges you not to tell anyone about it. The tone in her voice was very threatening so you think it’s best to keep it a secret.

[ivymarquis]

Hello! If you're uncomfortable with any part of this prompt, feel free to ignore it. Anyway, I would like to request Moira and a fem!reader. Reader realizes Moira is more stressed out than usual and decides they'll be the dom this time--wanting to both please Moira but also help her let go and relax. Thank you in advance!

First time I’ve actually written wlw I’m so proud of myself. Also I went with the troll ending I regret nothing.

Pairing; Moira x Reader

Porn to Plot Ratio; Bare minimum plot

Word count; 1535

Tags; Oral, hair pulling

Summary; You take control when Moira gets too stressed out.

Moirawas without question the most brilliant person you’d ever laid eyeson. It still baffled you at times that she’d give you the time ofday, convinced someone like her would never look at you twice.

Thatbrilliance, you learned, was balanced on a knife’s edge betweenitself and insanity. It was also paired with a tenacity befitting arat terrier, instead wrapped up in the incredibly elegant packagethat  comprised of your girlfriend.

Shewas stuck. On what, you didn’t really understand. Moira would happilyprattle on about her latest experiments and you’d try to listenbecause you were tryingto be a good, engaged, attentive girlfriend- But fuck if she didn’tuse a lot of big words. Especially when she was pleased with herlatest discovery or lead to a hunch, she’d often forget that youneeded things explained in laymans terms. Not everyone could be abrilliant geneticist.

WhenMoira was not pleasedwith how her work was going? There wasn’t a peep from her. Radiosilence. Didn’t want to talk about it, instead stewing over whateverwent on in that brain of hers. Her thought process must be along thelines of ‘if she poked and prodded at a problem long enough,eventually it would unravel itself’. Whatever it was had been eatingat her days and everyone was at their wits end with it. You were theonly one willing to even be in the same room with her at this point.

Barely,if you were being honest with yourself. She really could beinsufferable at times, wrapped up in her own world and oblivious tohow she was presenting herself to others.

Sheneeded to take a break. Unfortunately coaxing Moira out of her labwas a bit of a trick at times, especially when she was hyper fixatedon something.

Still,part of your self-appointed job was to make sure she took care ofherself even when she was content to ignore her own needs in favor ofpursuing a breakthrough.

Shewas completely oblivious to your presence as you entered the lab andlocked the door. She didn’t notice as you walked across the front ofthe lab and ensured all the windows were covered. For all the kinksshared between the two of you, voyeurism wasn’t one. You were far tooshy and Moira far too possessive to entertain an audience.

Not tomention the simple fact that any interruptions would have her clam upand be even more stressed out than she already was- which was theexact opposite of what was the goal.

No,Moira didn’t notice anything until you were standing behind herchair, bending over slightly to wrap your arms around her neck andrest your head against hers.

Youknew you startled her from how she stiffened underneath you, themotion slight and undetectable to the eye. Those beautiful eyes slidto the side you were on, watching you for a moment before flickeringback to the screen.

“Iknow I haven’t been paying as much attention to you the past fewdays,” That made it sound like this had been going on for 2 or 3days, rather than the week it had actually spanned. And yes, you werefeeling a bit neglected, but knew better than to take it personal.

Thiswasn’t about you.

Shecontinued, fingers clicking softly against her keyboard, “but I amthis close to abreakthrough.”

“It’salmost 11, love, you’ve been at it for hours. A quick break won’thurt anything.”

Youheard Moira sigh, one hand reaching to clasp at your arm. “Howabout you come back at 2 and we’ll go get lunch. Deal?”

It wasyour turn to be thrown for a loop- did she think it was 11am?

“Babe.No, it’s almost 11 pm.Jesus, you do need a break.” Moira stiffened again as you frownedgently at her, glancing around the lab and apparently noticing forthe first time that she was completely alone in the lab, and thedrawn blinds.

Shestood up, stretching her arms above her head- you were quick to moveout of the way, watching to see what Moira would do next.

“Goback home, agra, I’llwrap up here and come to bed.”

Thatwas code for “I’ll spend a few more hours working on this, come tobed after you’ve been asleep for hours and be gone before you’re up”and you both knew it.

Sheturned towards you, no doubt awaiting for your acquiescence. Ingeneral, Moira was the one who made the majority of the decisions(both in and out of the bedroom) and that suited you and yourpersonal relationship dynamic just fine.

Overcomewith a sudden bout of boldness, you reached out and pressed at Moira.Crowding her space, making her back up until she bumped into her desk(thankfully nothing spilled onto the floor or was knocked over- it’dof been your ass in that case). You both had stunned looks on yourfaces, clearly neither of you expecting the sudden flurry ofassertiveness on your end.

Decidingto ride it out you reach for her face and pull her down to you for akiss. She yielded to your sudden demands, bending down so you couldreach her. Hands sliding down from her face to her shoulders,trailing down her sides until eventually you pried her button downfrom where it was tucked in her pants. Kissing your way down herneck, your hands were quick to undo her tie and the first few buttonsof her shirt until you could get to her collar bones, teeth teasingthe skin there. Satisfied with that, you undid her belt and pantsbefore sliding the fabric down past her hips. “You’ve been workingso hard lately,” you mutter in between nibbles, teasing until youfind that sweet spot further up on her neck, “Let me take care ofyou, Moira.”

Youknew you had her when she dropped her head back and moaned. Christthe things this woman’s voice did to you. She hadn’t even touched youand you were already embarrassingly wet, shifting your thighs indesperate need of friction.

Butthis wasn’t about you.

Droppingto your knees, your teasing continued along her hip bones. One of herhands entwined in your hair and you sighed happily- while not at alla fan of letting those nails between your legs, they felt divineagainst your scalp and she knew it too.

Youcould practically feel the tension drop from her body when you movedyour mouth to the juncture between her thighs, tonguing at her slit.A pleased thrill shot through you, knowing you were making Moira feelgood after the week she’d had.

Thehand in your hair guided your motions, less from Moira intentionallytrying to lead you and more from simply knowing how to read hergestures. The more she tugged and lightly scratched at your scalp,the better you were doing. Taking that knowledge and paired with whatyou knew she liked, soon you had the woman freely voicing herpleasure.

Therewas definitely a kick of adrenaline to knowing that you were thereason someone as powerful as Moira was moaning from what youwere doing to her.

Whimperingin need, one hand slid under the hem of her mostly-still-buttonedshirt to grasp at her breast as you shifted your thighs again. Yourother hand dropped down to where your mouth was, teasing her with afinger before sliding it inside of her (unlike someone,you preferred to keep your nails short), thrusting a few times beforeadding another and focusing your stroking on her g spot. A short,excited giggle escaped you as she bucked her hips in response, quickto put your mouth back on her when she leveled a look at you.

Yourubbed your thighs together again, the sound of Moira’s voice gettingyou increasingly hot under the collar.

Thecadence to her moans changed, telling you she was close to herrelease. Her thighs were shaking on either side of you, hand pullinginsistently at your hair as your tongue lapped and circled at herclit and-

Allthat tension intensified for a few moments before dropping out of herbody entirely as she came, her hand leaving your hair in favor ofgripping the table behind her. You happily lapped at her a few moretimes, savoring the taste of her release on your tongue.

For afew moments there was nothing but the sounds of your panting as thepair of you attempted to catch your breath. Moira reached for herpants, beginning to right her clothing when she froze before suddenlyexclaiming “That’s it!”

Ittook a moment for you to catch up with what was happening, beforegiving an exasperated but good nature sigh as she bolted back to hercomputer. “Oh for fuck’s sake, Moira. Write it down so you don’tforget it and then let’s go.”

Ohwell, at least you’d helped solve two of her problems today- that hadto be something, didn’t it?

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