#moira odeorain 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.”

[cooliofango]

Could you do a male y/n x moira please? A mix of fluffy and nsfw headcannons would be nice.

Fluff and NSFW HC

Moria O’Deorain x M! Reader

—————

I’ll get to work on this asap! Ofc, you’ll know when it’s done when it’s posted so enjoy the headcanons! I apologize if there isn’t a lot of them since it will be my first time writing out anything for NSFW. Though headcanons are a good start- so thanks!

—————

Fluff

Moira is generally a more reserved person when you first meet her. Obviously, not out of shyness. She simply puts her work above everything, including herself- which is made obvious thanks to her abilities caused by using herself as a test subject.

Having feelings for you was probably the last thing she had expected to happen. She actually tried to mask these feelings to herself by working around it. She proposed to herself that she could just use you as a test subject and to use these feelings for you to gain your trust to make the experimenting process easier.

However, when she went to construct this plan, her love for you over powered her desire- something that came as a surprise to her. 

Never in her life has she desired something above her precious experiments, so she became curious. When she had came into terms with her emotions, she immediately confesses to you the soonest chance she gets. And when you reciprocate these emotions, she’s ecstatic. No, not all giddy or overly emotional about it, but she’s content.

Through this relationship, you get to see a side of Moira she never has shown before. Not because she was insecure about it or embarrassed about this side of her in any way. She just didn’t have a reason to be caring or compassionate to someone until you came into her life. 

Now she isn’t all overly romantic and dramatic with how she shows her love. In her eyes, she prefers to keep things private. The most she’ll do PDA wise will be a quick kiss on the lips as she passes by before continuing on her way to wherever she was heading.

While on the topic of PDA, if you initiate it, she will not complain. Hell- you may even surprise her enough to fluster her if you pull the right cards- though that alone isn’t the easiest task since she isn’t one for surprises.

However, when she isn’t working and she has free time, she likes to be at your side whenever she can. This especially applies if you’re both off work.

Her favorite way to spend time with you is to just relax at home. She’ll make the two of you dinner and you two can eat as you watch movies and cuddle on the couch.

With some research- I’ve come to find out that this woman is 6′5″. So you know that you’ll most likely get a teasing yet affectionate nickname based on the fact that you’re shorter than her- unless you’re miraculously taller than her (As a short person, you terrify me if this is the case).

If you work in Talon with her, she’s always subtly looking out for you while around base and on the field. It’s notable that she always takes better care of you when taking care of your wounds than she does with most of the other Talon agents.

If you are in Overwatch, then she plays it extra careful when it comes to PDA- if she ever does any PDA at all. With Overwatch being a main target against Talon, it makes a relationship a tad difficult. However, she makes it work to the best of her ability.

NSFW

I personally believe that Moira would be a top as one who likes things to go the way she wants them to. She enjoys being the one on control more often then not. There might be a few times where she’ll let you be in control, but- usually- it won’t be for too long. 

She loves to tease you with a slightly smug look on her face. Watching you’re expressions and reactions are part of what she adores about it.

Moira is more than open to experimenting and trying new things. All you have to do is ask and she’ll provide. She’ll study your reaction to whatever you two decide to try to see if you enjoy it or not, while also deciding whether or not she enjoys it as well.

Moira isn’t one to be too vocal. She prefers to keep her own sounds on the quieter side of things.

I hope you have a bit of a high pain tolerance, because with those nails, there is no way in hell that you aren’t going to get scratched up in some kind of way. This can range from your back and shoulders when she’s riding you to your thighs when she holds them open when giving oral and/or teasing you.

Moira doesn’t mind being marked, nor does she mind marking you. She’ll place a hickey on a place that isn’t easy to hide just to mess with you if she’s in the mood for showing you off. She doesn’t bother to hide her own bruises if you were to put them in a place where there is a chance that they would be visible. Moira may actually show a small bit of pride in them, gladly answering truthfully if asked what they were (or more so confirming that they are, indeed, hickeys as the other may suspect).

—————

Aaand done! I hope you enjoy these! I actually had a bit of fun writings these~ ^^

[starlightocelot]

Chapters: 1/1 Fandom: Overwatch (Video Game) Rating: General Audiences Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings Relationships: Moira O'Deorain/Reader Characters: Moira O'Deorain, Reader Additional Tags: Gender-neutral Reader, Autistic Reader, Domestic Fluff, Bed Making, Sleepy Kisses, Sleepy Cuddles, Spooning, routines Summary:

It's a simple routine to others, but for you it feels extremely important. It just needs to be done, no matter what.

Luckily, Moira understands completely.

[imagined-tales]

I'm back with another request! Feels good to finally write again~

Reaper

Black. The only thing you saw upon looking at him was the pitch black aura - pitch black with the slight tint of crimson red. He didn't look at you, too busy telling some recruits who recently fucked up about how Talon has a habit of making nuisances in their own midst disappear, but you couldn't stop staring. Had you ever seen such an aura before? How could someone like him even live on?

Needless to say, you never found answers to your questions.

The more you got to know him the more he confused you. There was a certain kind of sadness all around him. But Reaper wouldn't let anyone get close to him, not even his own shadow. Still, you tried talking to him, desperate attempts to get even a few words out of him... All of which failed. Time passed on and you grew more persistent. Reaper did seem to have gotten used to having you around a lot, and sometimes he talked a bit more than he normally would. Maybe it was your imagination, maybe it wasn't, but it did seem that your superior had a hidden need of talking about whatever cause his aura to seemingly eat all light.

All you could do was not give up and perhaps someday he would actually talk to you.

Moira

Moira seemed like a genius. Or just plain crazy. Probably both. No wonder no one liked spendig time with the geneticist; her ever so slightly arrogant and smug behaviour was enough to keep other away from her, whispering behind her back.

Now you had seen many, many auras in your life, but Moiras still managed to put you off guard. Had you ever seen such a deep mixture of black and... yellow? It surrounded her like mist swallowing the sun, drowining its golden light which occansionally found its way through cracks.

Unlike Reapers aura hers wasn't red with blood of enemies slain, it was dulling, eating away on something that could have been, though the darkness never quite managed to put out the yellow light.

This unique mysteriousness repulsed and at the same time strangely drew you to her.

Who was this woman everyone feared and despised?

When you first came to her she knew you approached her with different intentions than the others, albeit she never quite knew what exactly you thought of her. How... Brave, one might say, to try and spend more time with Moira in hopes of figuring her out.

Or maybe you were just plain foolish...

Widowmaker

Blue and black, such sadness it almost consumed you when you looked at her. Or maybe it was her cold eyes piercing through your core whenever she noticed you looking at her. It didn't feel right. She didn't feel right.

Widowmakers aura showd such a deep rooted sadness, your heart hurt upon looking at her. One moment you saw her, the next she was gone, never being seen for more than a few minutes.

It didn't take you long to learn that her real name was Ameliè and having found thd courage to go up and talk to her, your approach was met with the same ice cold eyes as before - without any emotion. Or so it would seem. There was something even her eyes couldn't hide, but of course you'd never tell her about it. Everyone knew the story of how she killed her beloved husband in his sleep.

A haunting memory. Always present. Never to be forgotten.

Whatever bit of Ameliè was left within Widowmaker, you were determined to find out. But be careful, little one, not to hurt yourself in the process.

Don't let her sadness consume you too.

[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. 

[pochipop]

＃OVERWATCH !! ♡ — VIOLET AND SANDALWOOD (MOIRA X READER).

#. synopsis! — the four times you didn't ask moira to stay, and the one time you did .

#. characters! — moira .

#. warnings! — light angst, mentions of alcohol consumption, implied/referenced sexual activity, slightly suggestive material .

#. word count! — 6.3k .

#. alt accounts! — @ddollipop (nsfw) @yyolkchi (reblog/spam) .

#. others! — navigation & masterlist .

#. a/n! — happy new year, i'm in love with moira so pls have this <3

The first time you ever found yourself alone with Moira was fleeting, —but it’s a moment you’ll never forget. You were a new addition to her research team, still a newbie barely able to navigate the twisting halls of the lab’s building, a rather sudden replacement for a worker you’d heard had gone missing amongst the turmoil of the outside world. It wasn’t unusual given the chaos that waged on endlessly; but it was unnerving to fill their shoes.

Moira wasn't particularly sensitive to that, but she provided you with a sense of comfort, though she likely didn't know it. She was formidable in spite of her slender build, —a woman made of sharp angles with a stare that could turn enemies to ash. She moved with the kind of grace and precision you'd expect from a noble, always with an air of elegance about her that positioned her a cut above the rest. Her staggering height made her a sight to behold, with fiery locks to match her often scorching personality. Either you got along with her, or you found somewhere else to work. . . The laboratory was her castle, and it was in the best interest of everyone else to stay far out of her way.

You were particularly good at that. Matching her strides was an impossible feat, both physically and within a work setting, so you learned how to tiptoe around all of her imaginary boundaries. Though she didn't seem keen on acknowledging it, a part of you really liked to think she took note of it. . . Took note of you, like you were special. 

She frightened you, but all the same, she intrigued you, —pulling you deeper into her waters with nowhere to seek refuge but in her arms. Maybe that's the way she wanted it.

Dancing around her proved to be the easy part. It wasn't until you were alone with her that you truly recognized how masterful a force she really was.

Moira often stayed late, even for days at a time, sneaking away to the break room for a few hours rest before others made their way to work. No one else on the team was quite so dedicated, —yourself included. You weren't opposed to working overtime, and you often stayed an hour or so past your typical shift to wrap up notes or finalize projects. But it boiled down to very little in comparison to Moira’s never-ending cycle of work and repetition. That night, overtime would have been an understatement. It was edging on midnight as you scribbled away, comparing a week's worth of well-taken notes, weighing formulated hypotheses against the true results at hand.

The lab had been empty for quite a while, even Moira nowhere to be found. You chalked it up to luck. When she arrived, however, you're not sure you would have ventured to call it unlucky. She stood in the entryway, her lithe frame outlined in the contrasting light from the hall just outside.

"I thought I might find someone else here," she said, —no discontent noticeable in her tone.

It was an observational statement more than anything else, but you couldn't help feeling that you were intruding on time never meant for you to take up. 

"Sorry," you apologized, "I'll wrap up quickly."

Keeping yourself together was none too easy a task that night. Moira seemed indifferent to your presence on the surface, but you feared overstaying your welcome. Your heart thundered away in your chest, loud enough to make you think it was trying to escape your body. Loud enough to fear that Moira might hear it from several feet away.

"No need for apologies," she assured you, brushing your concerns away like they were nothing. "It's just not often I find someone else lingering in the lab so late."

You swallowed down another apology as it crept up the back of your throat, scared that repeating yourself would only prove to annoy her. If nothing else, you knew Moira was the type of person you'd much prefer to stay on good terms with; so the prospect of upsetting her was something akin to horrifying.

She continued as she made her way across the room in long strides, shoes tapping against the pristine floor in rhythmic clicks. Even the way she walked was entrancing, as if every step she took was perfectly planned. As much as she intimidated you, Moira captivated you all the same.

“Between you and I, I’d much rather you be here than any of them,” she said unabashedly, busying her hands with a half-filled beaker not far away.

This was likely the closest Moira would ever get to engaging in idle workplace chatter or gossip, though you struggled to call it the latter given her pointed delivery. She spoke like she was plainly uttering another lowly fact of the universe, not throwing subtle shade toward her fellow colleagues (you excluded, apparently.)

You said nothing in reply, but she didn’t seem to mind. Where others might have been uncomfortable with your silence, she simply moved along, plucking another test tube off the desk before her to examine it in her hands. Even the way she held objects was done with such an air of refinement. Her long, slender fingers wrapped around the glass with a surprising amount of care, those long, ever-purple nails jutting past the tips. 

A prolonged period of silence followed, your eyes often drifting to the place she stood. It wasn’t the first time you’d ever noted her appearance, but there was something about her tonight that really stole your breath away. With her typical lab coat draped over the back of her chair, she was left in an ill-fitting white button up and a pair of tightly fitted black pants. Shirt loosely tucked in and the two top buttons undone, paired with hair slightly messy and much less styled than you were used to seeing her with, —you couldn’t help but gawk a bit. She was so effortlessly attractive that it made your heart throb.

Moira caught sight of your gaze, but didn’t seem perturbed by it. She made no mention of it, instead asking: “Do you mind if I light a candle?”

“No,” you quickly shook your head in reply, “not at all.”

Even if you did mind, it’s not like you would have said it. Still, she seemed pleased enough by your response and took you at your word.

“I prefer to work under the right ambiance,” she explained. “Scents that stimulate the brain and an atmosphere adequate for concentration.”

There was even something special about the way she lit the wick of the candle that sent shivers across your body.

“Violet and sandalwood,” she pointed.

The little flame seemed to move in time with her, as if even nature had no choice but to subjugate itself to her will.

You didn't say it, of course, but the idea that Moira would care about something as simple as the scents surrounding her came as a surprise. Such a mundane thing crossing the mind of someone so ingenious seemed. . . Jarring, almost.

Still, it was demystifying in its own right. Moira often came across as so robotic that you tended to forget she was even human, and subsequently, it often slipped your mind that she might pay just as much attention to the smaller novelties of life as anyone else. Her grand ideas often outweighed her sense of humanity, but in the moment, it was all too easy to catch a glimpse of her gentler, more everyday nature.

“It’s nice,” you said softly when the wafting scent began to properly fill the room.

For such a small candle, it was particularly potent. Hints of musk from the sandalwood were accented by the lighter scent of floral violet, creating a lovely harmony. It crossed your mind, if only briefly, that it was a nice allegory for you and her. . . Moira, perhaps a bit cruel at times; certainly the deeper of the two. Someone difficult to understand, but all too easy to be intrigued by. And then there was you, —not necessarily passive, but much more adaptable than the former. Softer and likely kinder, but a standout in your own right.

“I’m glad you think so.”

Really, Moira just seemed glad to be in like minded company. All too often she had been subjected to the harsh criticism of others, —criticism of her personality, of her methods, of her appearance, even. But you looked at her like she was something to behold, and not in the monstrous way that she’d become far too accustomed to. She got the sense that you saw her for what she truly was: a woman of science. Nothing more, nothing less.

Working in silence with her was surprisingly pleasant. If she caught sight of the peeks you stole at her in between notes, she didn’t make any mention of it. It really couldn’t be helped though, —especially when she ran those long, slender fingers through her hair, pushing loose strands away from her forehead. God, she was so pretty when she moved like that, when she leaned over her desk and her back arched ever so slightly.

You stayed much later than you ever planned, gaze flickering between the work at hand and her. It was teetering on two in the morning when Moira finally stood herself upright again, announcing that she needed to tend to the live test subjects a few rooms over. She didn’t explicitly invite you to come along, but the implication was certainly there. . . Still, you didn’t have the nerve to follow, nor did you have the guts to ask her to stay with you in the main lab, as if sitting with you in majorative silence for another hour would really prove to be useful in the slightest.

You went home that night with a lot on your mind.

Moira invited you to drink with her a few weeks later, hoping to vent some of her frustrations over glasses of whiskey. The past few days had been none to kind to her, leaving her exhausted and a thread away from snapping. It was clear by the subtle bags under her eyes that sleep had been all but eluding her, and her brows seemed permanently creased that night as you sat across from her, listening to every word that spilled past her lips.

“It’s infuriating,” she practically growled, tipping her head back to swallow some more of the amber liquid down with startling ease. “I couldn’t care less if they like me or not, —but halting my work like this is making me think they’re all more trouble than they’re worth.”

It wasn’t hard to see why she was so upset. Conflicts were common in the lab, especially when it came to Moira’s methods, (which were admittedly unethical on a number of occasions) but nothing had ever gotten this bad. At least, not since you’d been working under her, anyway.

One argument had led to another, and before Moira knew it, she was being pulled aside by a number of the high-ranking personalities, all of which seemed to agree that she was the one in the wrong. And maybe she was, but you still couldn’t respect the underhandedness of your colleagues. In fact, you struggled to even refer to them as such in the aftermath, and your loyalty to Moira made you the target of hapless gossip amongst them rather quickly. For such well-educated individuals, they hadn’t a clue how to whisper, and it was frankly embarrassing beyond words.

“They’re certainly making a show of it all,” you quipped, taking a cautious sip of alcohol just to see what the flavor was like.

“You’ve noticed it too then?” Moira questioned, reaching out to place one of her steady hands on your thigh.

The touch was nothing more than a casual gesture, but it set your heart aflame. She was so painfully unaware of what she did to you, —how she made your pulse stutter, how she invaded your thoughts at the most inopportune times. Her heterochromatic eyes glistened under the pale laboratory lighting, her fine, white coat slipping off her angular shoulders.

“It’d have been more shocking if I hadn’t, honestly,” you answered. “The things I’ve overheard the past two days have been completely ridiculous, and I’m almost convinced they’ve wanted at least one of us to catch wind of it. Either that or they’re so completely incompetent that they probably shouldn’t be working here in the lab to begin with.”

Moira chuckled at your bold reply. It was the first time she’d ever heard you speak your mind in such an unfiltered way, —and she liked it. There was a certain zest to your annoyance, one that she sort of wanted to sink her teeth into just to see how far they’d go; like the fangs of some supernatural creature of the night.

You love it when she laughs like that, but it’s a sound you’re not often privy to. It’s low and leathery, if a little cruel from time to time, and it’s nothing short of music to your ears.

“It’s one thing to disagree with my methods,” she noted. “I’m not naive to the morals of most people, nor do I deny that I don’t tend to stick to the unspoken roles they set for us as people of science. But really, they’re grasping for straws at this point. Questioning what I do in my personal life is a bridge we need not cross.”

Your eyes widened. Of all the things you’d overhead, nothing had been speculation into Moira’s personal affairs. That was a dangerous line to toe, —even for you, and you’d venture to say you were on quite pleasant terms with her.

“I hadn’t realized they’d gone that far,” you noted. “Talk about inappropriate. . .”

Moira liked the way you don’t pry into the details of what they were saying, and swiftly rewarded you with the information she assumed you were itching for. It involved you anyhow, so she reasoned it as killing two birds with one stone.

“A curious rumor, certainly,” she said, “that you and I are secret lovers rendezvousing in the lab when everyone else has gone home.”

You couldn’t help the way your face dropped. Unlike Moira, you often wore your emotions on your sleeve, and if not for her being so out-of-tune with her own, you’ve long feared she just might have picked up on your little crush. She snickered a little at your reaction, taking another drink before she spoke again.

“You look like you’ve seen a ghost,” she remarked. “Is the idea of it really so sinister?”

She was joking with you, and you knew that. No matter what way this ended, —you were winning. But you found yourself looking away in shame, as if Moira could see right through you and into the deepest recesses of your mind where you’d agreed to bury your feelings for her the minute they began to sprout. Searching for a way to prolong the inevitable reply you’d have to muster up eventually, you tipped your head back and let the glass of whiskey she’d poured you slide down your throat.

“I was just surprised,” you said finally. “I hadn’t expected anything like that to come up in their conversations.”

Ever one for being cruel in subtle ways, Moira had to admit that she liked the way you squirmed around the question. She leaned in just a little closer, as if tempting you to make a move. You could have sworn you saw her gaze dip down to your lips for a moment before returning to your eyes.

“I was quite flattered, really,” she admitted. “It was nice to know they thought I could have managed wrapping someone like you around my finger.”

God, if you didn’t know any better, you’d have thought she was flirting. Your heart was left a throbbing mess, and in a moment of complete and utter weakness, —you kissed her.

It was quick and Moira had little time to return the gesture before you forced yourself away, realization washing over you like a tidal wave. You wished you’d had a bit more to drink, maybe to drown out the hurt from the rejection that followed, or maybe just to have given you the nerve to pull her back in for more.

“I-I’m sorry,” you stuttered, “I’m really sorry, Moira, I didn’t—”

You cut yourself off, uncertain of what to say. She didn’t seem angry and she hadn’t pushed you away, but you could feel tears pricking at the corners of your eyes, threatening to spill over your lashes.

She cleared her throat, tugging her lab coat up and pulling herself to her feet.

“There’s some tasks I should be attending to,” she explained, although you didn’t really buy that completely. “I’ve got another bottle, so feel free to drink as much as you like.”

Watching her walk away was hurtful, but you couldn’t muster up the courage to ask her to stay. Even if you had, you’re sure the right words wouldn’t have come out anyway. You downed some more whiskey at Moira’s approval before making your way home, —fighting tears back the entire way.

Nothing much changed after you kissed her. If the taste of whiskey on her sweet lips hadn’t seared itself into your memory, you just might have convinced yourself it was a dream. Moira never broached the topic, and you were scared that doing so yourself might upset whatever semblance of balance you’d been able to find within your tattered relationship with her, —so you simply left it alone. Maybe that wasn’t the right way to go about things, but all you were really certain of at the time was that you didn’t want to lose her. And if that meant you could only love her from a distance and keep yourself at arms length from her as a colleague, then you were going to have to learn to be okay with that.

That was a lot easier said than done, though. . .

She invited herself over to your quaint little apartment about two weeks later, insisting that comparing notes would make for a smoother transition onto the next stage of your largest project yet. You didn’t really understand why that couldn’t be done in the lab after hours, —but you didn’t feel you were in the position to be questioning her after all that had happened. 

“Would you like some tea?” You inquired, “—Or coffee, maybe?”

You didn’t have much to offer in terms of snacks, unless she was keen on eating some (likely stale) saltine crackers or a (likely freezer burnt) frozen waffle. It wasn’t often that you had guests over, so your hospitality game was sorely lacking, but Moira didn’t seem to care much one way or the other. She declined your offers for a drink, instead making herself at home on your worn-down sofa, placing a binder full of notes on the cheap coffee table you’d purchased not too long ago.

As she waited for you to join her, she rested her back against the faux leather, crossing one long, slender leg over the other. Even doing something as mundane as sitting, she looked so refined and elegant, —like she was posing for a magazine photoshoot. Maybe you were giving her too much credit, but looking at her in that position made you yearn for her all the more, though you knew very well you couldn’t have her. Not then.

The best you could offer her was to light a candle, —so that’s what you did. It was the only thing you could do to make the impromptu meeting in your home feel less stuffy. 

“That scent,” she said not long after, breathing in deeply to catch the rich undertones of the aroma, “is that violet and sandalwood?”

You were almost hoping she wouldn’t notice. Candles weren’t something you ever felt the need to keep a stock of back at home, but after she had lit that one of the same scent all those nights ago, you found yourself seeking out the feelings she evoked back then on that fateful night. Eventually, you invested in a few violet-sandalwood candles, and you’d burned up one within a span of three weeks, so they clearly weren’t going to waste.

“Uh, yeah, it is,” you nodded in confirmation. “If you don’t like it, I can always just blow it out.”

You reached for it preemptively, only for Moira to catch your wrist in her grip. It was a bit rough at first, but she quickly loosened it as if suddenly recognizing her own strength.

“I like it,” she assured you firmly, her eyes practically shouting out you remembered.

Moira wasn’t really one for sentiments, but that touched her. It made her already confusing feelings for you all the more complicated.

Her thumb glided gently over the skin of your wrist, —a silent apology for having grabbed at you so crudely just before. You practically gulped as she moved closer, thinking there was no way you weren’t misunderstanding something. But all your worries were put to bed the moment her lips captured yours, —so fervent and tender. It was so sudden that it left you delirious, but you didn’t dare to pull away. That first kiss with her had haunted you in a number of ways, but you could never forget the comfortable slide of her mouth as it fitted itself against yours.

In that way, Moira wasn’t much unlike everyone else. She had a gentler side that you didn’t often get to see, but when it briefly came out to play you liked to bask in every moment of the glory it waged.

When she finally pulled away, clearing her throat as if doing so would restart the moment entirely, she was back to her usual self. And you, as you so often did, found yourself being swept along by her ocean, letting her pull you out into the middle of her sea.

The sun had long since set by the time she felt you’d gone over enough for the time being. It was late, and you thought so sincerely about asking her to stay for the night, but the fear of pushing things too far and shattering the illusion left you clammed up, offering her little more than a small wave and a tiny smile at the door. 

She was back in your apartment the next night, her hands all over you, exploring wherever they pleased. Moira regarded you like some kind of porcelain doll, —as if squeezing too hard might leave you in pieces. That was the gentlest you’d ever known her to be. Her lips trailed like fallen petals across your open skin, so warm and thoughtful. You’d been putty in her hands the moment you stepped inside.

And then you laid alone, Moira sat on the side of your bed. Her bare back bore the remnants of your excitement, and a part of you thought it might be best to apologize for marking her up like that, —but another couldn’t bring yourself to feel bad about it. If nothing else, it was proof that she’d been here, like this, with you. . . 

You watched her slide her slim, lengthy arms inside her white dress shirt, fiddling carefully with the buttons before rising to her feet. Under any other circumstances, you’d have been sure to look away, but you couldn’t imagine she’d care much about what all you’d see of her then after what had just happened on your mattress. For the millionth time, reaching out crossed your mind. You considered the possibility that reaching out, pulling her in, kissing all the apprehension away, might ease her enough to let her sleep next to you (if only for the night.) 

Yet again though, you couldn’t find the courage to go through with it. Despite what had just happened, you feared that the gap between you and her was gaping all the same, —maybe even more so now than it was before.

Resigning yourself to silence, your gaze traced along every curve of her body, memorizing every detail you could get your sights on. As you watched her fully redress, you thought about the sharpness of her, —in both body and personality. You thought about the softer nooks and crannies she had to offer, about how she’d managed to swallow all your anxieties whole only to regurgitate them right back into the festering pit of your stomach.

Words itched at the tip of your tongue, begging to be spoken into the air. If you could just talk to her, everything would be okay. . . Right? 

Somehow, you doubted it. Falling for her was one thing, but her loving you in return was another. And being in an actual, committed relationship with her was yet another. But fuck you wanted it, —wanted her late nights and her early mornings, every drowsy afternoon and hyperactive midnight. You wanted to catch all the murmurings just under her breath, wanted to be the only one at the lab who could slink up behind her and press kisses to her temple without getting ousted in a second.

You just wanted her to think you were special.

And she did. If she didn’t she wouldn’t have been there at all. . . But one night cut completely short just wasn’t enough, and you began to worry that nothing would ever be enough when it came to Moira. It’s not as if you could crawl inside her skin and be with her at all times, —but the thought of it was nice somehow. The idea that she wanted it just as badly as you was exhilarating. 

Still, you remained silent as she ran her fingers through her hair. You sat up as if to get a better view of her in all that she was, holding your blanket up to your bare chest. Moira glanced back then, knowing all too well what you wanted to say. A part of her even yearned for you to do it, even if she hadn’t figured out how to answer it. She didn’t want to hurt you, —someone younger, smaller, and much less scorned. Roping you in would have consequences, and they were the sort of repercussions she wasn’t sure she’d be willing to let you face for her sake.

Even if you begged for it.

You were in her hands then, like one of her trembling lab rats.

“Moira. . .” you uttered softly, in a voice just barely loud enough for her to hear.

Please don’t go.

She looked your way, but avoided your eyes, as if she was scared of what she’d find there. She seemed nervous.

Please. . . Please don’t go.

In the end, you couldn’t find the strength to continue, and she didn’t press for a finish. Moira left without saying a word, the door closing softly behind her. Her kisses scorched your skin, invisible marks burning all across you in the wake of her absence. Maybe it was foolish to have assumed that she’d stay. . . Maybe it was foolish to have tried. But you suppose it couldn’t be helped. 

It’s not that she’s been avoiding you since that night. No, she fills the same space she always has in the lab, —she speaks to you when it’s necessary, and you answer, because before anything else, you and she are scientists, and you know much too well that nothing matters to Moira more than her work. Not even you.

And you don’t expect her to care more about you than that. It’s her life’s work, —the craft she’s dedicated practically her entire existence to. She’s known you for three months tops, and just because you’ve come to feel so strongly for her in such little time doesn’t mean she’s in any way obligated to return it.

You’re a little hurt by the distance that’s plagued your relationship with her in recent days, but your feelings aren’t her responsibility. . . You know that. Still, you’d like the chance to just talk with her. Outside the lab, after hours, in a way that doesn't feel so forced and robotic.

When the rest of your colleagues have filtered themselves out of the office, you approach her. It’s clear you’re nervous by the way your hands shake, and while Moira would have found that increasingly amusing less than a week ago, it stings now in a way she doesn’t quite understand.

“Hey,” you say to her, voice low in spite of being alone with her, “can we talk?”

She knows what it’s about, but seeks to avoid it.

“No need,” she tells you, “your handwriting is neat, —leave your notes on the table and I’ll use them for further reference.”

“Moira—”

“I’m quite busy, actually,” she interjects, “and I work best alone.”

It’s a rare occurrence that Moira feels guilty, but her heart wanes at the sight of your dejected expression. She feels horrible for being the cause of this, but she’s just not ready. It’s only natural that you’d want to talk about it, but for once in her life, Moira’s at a complete and utter standstill. There are no alternatives, no ways of getting around this other than pretending it doesn’t exist, and for right now, that’ll have to do. She can only hope you understand her well enough to manage your expectations accordingly.

“Alright,” you mutter softly.

You’re gone before she has the chance to change her mind, like you’re running from the possibility itself. Holding back tears doesn’t quite go as planned, and you find yourself crying on the walk home. Evening winds nip at your skin, and when you reach your final destination, you decide you’re done trying to hold yourself together. Days of pent-up frustration, sadness, —even anger— burst forth, and you let it all wash over you. There’s almost something cathartic about it.

It’s your fault, really. . . Workplace relationships are a dangerous line to toe to begin with, and your silly little heart just had to go and choose her, didn’t it? The woman so devoted to her career that any relationship she’ll ever have will only prove to be an illicit affair. . . The woman who seems so intimidating, but is capable of caressing you in the way one might tread their fingers along novel pages in evening light. The woman who kissed you so deeply that it spurred your heart to new heights.

She’s horrible. And you’re in love with her.

Moira doesn’t find the sense of peace she’d been hoping for in your absence. The lab feels much too big now, —large enough to swallow her whole. It’s true that when it comes to love, Moira has often been indifferent to the ideal. Humans are curious, and she’s no exception. But you were so good at pressing all of her buttons, good and bad alike. You, with your innocent stare and that pleading look on your face, —the one she’s sure you didn’t even know you were wearing.

You, with the uncanny ability to slip under her skin and make her think about all the what ifs of her late night brooding sessions.

Burying herself in work doesn’t work quite go the way she’d hoped. Nothing stuck, and she avoided your notebook like a plague, worried that even seeing something of yours would throw her even harder off track. It was hours before she caved in, whipping herself around in spite of her better judgment. Edging on midnight, she sat herself down in your seat, —the one perfectly positioned for optimal Moira viewing throughout the workday. Ever the observant woman, she took note of such right away.

If you’d been there, she could only imagine the bashful look you’d take on, eyes flickering about, refusing to meet her own.

Your notes sit neatly on the table, but she disregards them for the moment, one arm covering the edge of the desk before resting her forehead against it. Moira was the type to keep her questionable decisions to a minimum, —but you were testing her patience.

“Grand,” she mumbles to herself, sarcasm dripping from her tongue.

With a heavy sigh, her keen eyes catch sight of something barely jutting out of your desk drawer. A candle, —violet and sandalwood— with a thin piece of twine wrapped around the top cover. A little gift tag hangs off of it, your handwriting scrawled along the off-white surface.

Saw yours was burning a little low. —Y/n 

She didn’t have to ask nor wonder who it was meant for. Pulling it from the drawer, she twisted the covering off and breathed in deeply, nose barely nudging the wick. The exhale that followed was long, and all too sobering.

It’s late, but Moira has a sneaking suspicion you haven’t gone to bed just yet. Leaving her unfinished work for tomorrow, she places the candle’s lid back on, repositioning the twine and the tag before slipping it back into your desk, —closing the drawer fully this time. She thinks about what to say on the walk to your apartment, but by the time she stands in front of your door, all of the preparation has gone out the window and she resigns herself to the fate of winging it. 

As she wraps her knuckles against the door, doing her best to keep it down, you perk up from inside. As expected, you’d yet to turn in for the night and were instead sitting on that worn-down sofa, nursing a pair of puffy eyes with a wet rag and sipping on some poorly brewed tea in between sniffles. The sudden knock left you flinching a bit, but you sat your tea on the coffee table nonetheless and made your way over to answer it. 

Stealing a glimpse through the peephole, you knew that neckline like the back of your hand. In a way, you’d been expecting it to be her, but your eyes widened at the sight of her anyway.

“Moira. . .” you utter her name like a prayer when you slide the door open.

“Can I come inside?” She asks, and you all but stumble over yourself to make way for her.

It’s clear you’ve been crying, and she wants to apologize for being the cause of it, but the right way to do so eludes her. Now that she’s here, she’s not sure what to say.

“I hope I didn’t wake you,” she says instead.

“No, I. . . Wasn’t really able to sleep,” you reply.

“I see.”

Silence falls, and you yearn for her to break it. You consider reaching out to touch her, maybe crumple in her arms like you always seem to, hoping that loving her alone might be enough to bring her walls down all the way.

“You mentioned before that you wanted to talk,” she finally notes, “—I thought I’d stop by to give you the opportunity.”

It feels like everything is coming down on your shoulders again and you hate it. It isn’t fair, —but nothing is ever truly fair with Moira, you suppose. Still, all the emotions you’d been fostering in the hours prior burn like hot coals in your chest, spurring you on just enough to speak freely.

“This distance is killing me,” you say. “I don’t understand it, and I don’t understand you. It feels like you pull me close just to push me further away than the last time, and it’s driving me insane, Moira. I can’t tell what you’re thinking, can’t tell how you feel, and I just wish you’d turn me away and let me heal from this. Or at the very least, —I wish you’d just let me know that you don’t really want me so I can figure out how to cope with that.”

The way she stares at you makes you slightly regret your choice of words, but you make no move to take anything back.

“Who said I didn’t want you?” She questions in reply. “You made that assumption all on your own.”

Well. . . Yeah. You did make that assumption by yourself, didn’t you. . .

In your defense, though, it was a fairly reasonable thing to assume. When one thing leads to another and in the wake of it you’re seemingly pushed to the wayside, there’s only so many conclusions you can draw.

“You do then?” You question. “Want me?”

“I’d prefer it if you didn’t go anywhere,” she responds evenly.

You sigh in obvious frustration. Moira doesn’t really understand why you’re so worried about this, but makes no move to leave.

“I’m just gonna. . .”

The words die in your throat, but you take in a quick, sharp breath, steeling yourself for whatever is to come after. 

“I think I’m in love with you, Moira.”

Her expression doesn’t change much. She’d likely worked that out long before now, but you’re too high off adrenaline to feel embarrassed about it now.

“I don’t feel dissimilarly.” 

That wasn’t exactly the love confession you’d been hoping for, but somehow, it felt better. You had to stifle a laugh, though whether at her roundabout speech or your own expense was another question entirely. Looking up into her eyes, a smile pulling at the corners of your lips, you reached out to tug at her dress shirt.

“Kiss me.”

It wasn’t often that Moira chose to follow the orders of others, but that was a request she could live with. Her hand finds its way to your cheek as she lowers her face to your height, pressing her lips against yours. You grip a little tighter at her clothing, like you’re scared she’ll disappear if you let go. Time seems to suspend itself for the two of you as you stand with her, holding your breath.

When she finally pulls away, you rest your head against her chest. Her hand smoothes over your hair. 

“Stay,” you say, finally finding the courage to request it.

She does.

[pochipop]

＃OVERWATCH !! ♡ — MISERY BUSINESS (MOIRA X READER).

#. synopsis! — moira is many things, and your lover. . . is almost one of them .

#. characters! — moira .

#. warnings! — angst, canon-typical unhealthy relationship dynamics .

#. word count! — 2.6k .

#. others! — navigation & masterlist .

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

#. a/n! — come join my discord server? title/description subject to change, wrote this on a whim lolol

Moira likes you in the way a cat likes a mouse. There’s layers to the fun, and you’ve been in the “playing with your food” stage for a while longer than you’d have been willing to admit to anyone on the outside. In here though, where she’s free to run about and experiment to her heart’s content, well. . . You don’t have anyone to explain yourself to anyway. Talon wasn’t your first choice, to be clear on the matter. In fact, before the fall of Overwatch and the subsequent destruction that waged on your city in the wake of it, it probably wouldn’t have been an option at all.

But you know better than most that sometimes things just don’t work out the way you’d hope. This was one of them, though there’s plenty of times when you’ve been able to swallow that fact a lot easier than you can right now. It’s not always so drab or hopeless, and the feelings come and go as they would if you were being holed up anywhere else. You try to soothe yourself by insisting that this place isn’t any worse than those well-protected shelters out there that monitor your food intake and your whereabouts at all times. In that sense, you’re sure you might even have more freedom than those subjected to those so-called havens spread across the world’s face.

You’re less stifled here than you probably would be at any of those safe spots, even if danger is more liable to lurk around the corners here. It’s give and take, —unlike this twisted thing you’ve got going on with Talon’s most notorious geneticist. That’s just give. Give, give, give until you’ve spread yourself so thin that there’s nothing left to offer, and then give some more, because she asks it of you. But she still cares in her own way. . . At least, you think she does. Or, maybe you’d just really like to.

It’s been a few days since you last heard from her, which isn’t particuarly unusual. She’s a grown woman, after all, with her own endeavors that she often gets so lost in that time becomes a meaningless construct only serving to interfere with her work. Beyond that, she’s a top choice for field combat at Talon, despite much preferring to stay in the labs where the both of you have long agreed she belongs. Her, because it’s a preference, and you because it’s easier to ensure that she hasn’t gotten herself killed on the battlefield when you know exactly where to find her.

She didn’t tell you she was leaving this time. You chalked it up to a midnight ushering of her out of bed and off to some other place in need of defending for now, stifling worries that she’d just chosen to up and leave without telling you beforehand. Every other time, she’s mentioned it in advance, even if it always seemed more like a casual slip into a conversation than a true heads up for the sake of your sanity.

It’s not like you’re naive to what’s going on between you. As cold as many assume her to be, she’s not some repitlian creature posing as a woman in human flesh. She’s just as much a person as you, albeit quite a different one, —and sometimes she gets a little lonely. So when those cravings seep out and she’s in need of a fix, you’re the one she reaches for. But all the same, you’re replaceable.

“Doctor O’Deorain isn’t in.”

You pause in the hall, looking over at the man who’d spoken to you, —mid thirties, by the look of him, scraggly facial scruff and tired eyes. If he hadn’t said what he did, you’d have deduced as much by the exhaustion written all over his face. When Moira’s away, someone has to be there to pick up the slack.

“I don’t know when she’ll be back,” he explains, as if having read your mind.

Though you don’t recognize him, you’re sure he’s seen you come and go from her personal office every now and again. Nobody has ever dared to question it, granted, but you’re certain they must be curious about what happens behind that closed door. It’s none of their business, but human curiosity is seldom concerned with what it needs and needs not be piqued by.

“Okay, thank you,” you answer simply.

He seems confused when you keep walking down the hall toward the labs, but doesn’t bother to question it actively. Being part of Moira’s “in-crowd” must give you some kind of special privileges down here that you hadn’t been previously aware of.

The button on the outside of the door takes a lot more force than one might expect to press it inward, but you’re used to it by now. The two iron slates pull apart and give you access to the main lab, —one that branches into several other rooms, all of which have identical doors to the main entrance. These, however, are all guarded by fingerprint recognition software, and your hand only offers you access to a single one. . . That aforementioned personal office of Moira’s that, as far as you're aware, has only ever seen your face and hers since she took over its residency.

The main lab is empty, save for a few test rodents in their various containers. You pay them the same kind of attention you would if they were on display at a pet store and not sitting in wait to be experimented on. All white fur and red eyes, you whisper little greetings to them in the same way Moira has poked fun at you for in the past; only this time, she’s not around to snicker at you just under her breath. You kind of wish she was, though. It’s a dull ache, but not one that you can completely ignore in this nearly silent lab.

Hand against the sensor now, you wait for it to recognize and authorize your identity. When it does, the second set of iron slates come apart, granting you access to the small room behind. It’s nothing grand, in spite of Moira’s well-known status amongst the rest of the staff. As far as you know, she’s the only one who even has an office at all though, so its size isn’t much indicative of its importance.

It’s just as neat as it always is, —papers mostly filed away, and the few left on her desk neatly aligned and set off to the side. To be honest, you’re not completely sure why you even came down here in the first place. You could just as easily have gone to her apartment just a few blocks from Talon’s base of operations. She gave you a key a few months back after deciding that you could probably make more use of it than she did most days. That’s probably why you’ve found yourself here rather than there. . . The sheets of her bed smell more like you than her, but the lab coat draped across the back of her chair is rich with her fragrance; a little musky, a little citrusy, but still so feminine and divine.

You might often chase after Moira like a feline on the prowl, but make no mistake, —you will always be the mouse. No matter how many times you all but purr beneath her fingers, no matter how many times she has you mewling at her touch, you are and always will be the shivering little rodent to her devilish lioness.

“Am I really this foolish?” You mumble softly, a bitter laugh catching in the back of your throat.

You are. It's a rhetorical question, —you already know the answer, and you've known it perhaps since that very first kiss. No matter how often or in what manner, it's always nice to be wanted by her. . . To be desired by the kind of woman that lives and breathes on what often feels like a completely different plane of existence. Sometimes she speaks and it's like the world has caved in at her will, and you feel yourself crumble into pieces at her feet. She can look your way and leave you stuck with thoughts of her for hours, even days, to come; until she decides you're once again important enough to spare another glance at.

So yes. Yes you are really that foolish.

You stand around in her office for a while, fiddling with things you know she wouldn’t mind you touching, like her excessive collection of ballpoint pens and the fake succulent she keeps on her edge of her desk to “liven the place up.” Even if she isn't there right now, a part of you feels more connected to her here than anywhere else. It's where she beckons you to whenever she has an itch to scratch, —where she pushes you against the off-beige wall and kisses you until you're not sure what it really feels like to breathe anymore. It's where she sits in a variety of odd positions very befitting to her long legs and talks with you about the progress of her work, about the grievances she has in her day-to-day life, and sometimes, even about her past as a part of Overwatch.

It doesn't hurt that your opinion of the organization is about as positive as her's, which is to say it's rather low, all things considered. You found them to be undeniably underhanded and the fall of the organization was simply all too convenient, leaving people like Moira to pay the final resting price. . . Leaving people like you dispersed from the only real home you'd ever known.

So you made a new one amongst the rubble and destruction, and it's fucking beautiful. All smooth skin and ginger hair, —dual-colored eyes with lips like fire that set your heart ablaze.

You're thinking too much, you've concluded by the end of it, so you snag her lab coat and make your way through the winding halls of Talon's base. You're just another civilian they've taken in, convinced that because you survived the wreckage, you must be useful for something. . . That you were strong enough to make it out, and wise enough to accept their help. You're not sure how true you really believe that to be, but at least you're not alone sometimes. The quenching of your lonely ache might even make up for the various acts of horror you’ve been instructed to perform that you’d much rather forget about and pretend like they never happened at all.

When you’re with Moira, it’s a lot easier to pretend that you’re still an innocent. She wears the remnants of her perhaps more nefarious misdeeds on her own augmented arm, —always an angry shade of purple with protruding veins, and she never holds you with it. You still hold out hope that she might one day, when you’ve both grown much too used to one another and she doesn’t swallow “I love you”’s down like bile. You’re holding onto hope that one day she’ll call this what it is.

You flash Moira’s key at a Talon operaterive who asks where you’re going on your way out the door. Question answered, and she doesn’t even ask why you’ve got the good doctor’s lab coat clutched in your grip like a vice. Nobody has to say their worries out loud for you to know they’re festering just under the surface. They choke back warnings to be careful, to be mindful, to not let yourself get swept up in Moira’s game of life.

But the truth is, this is all you’re getting, and you don’t even feel like you’re settling. It could always be worse, and for whatever it’s worth, you feel pretty damn good when she’s around.

And when she’s not, you manage. Some times are better than others, though. This time, you’re somewhere in between lost and peaceful, okay with the quiet, but disconcerned with the lapse of warmth in her absence. So you’ve found yourself here again, that spare key in the lock of her door, letting it swing open to this all too familiar place of near nothingness. Moira spends more nights in the lab than she does here, but there’s little traces of her splayed around, —like the bottle of red wine on the counter, or the few books she has on an otherwise barren shelf.

Past the wine and the books and the coffee table littered with syringes, you enter her bedroom and find yourself pausing, just looking around at everything (though you’ve likely seen it a couple dozen times before by now.) Her lipstick sits on the vanity shoved over in the corner, a reddish-orange color that you’ve watched her apply through half-lidded eyes in the early hours of the morning. That same color has stained your whitest shirt collars, and you’ve chosen not to wash those marks off just yet.

Pencil eyeliner, likely once sat right beside the other cosmetic, has rolled nearly to the edge now. She’s just as precise when she adds it to her eyes as she is when she measures chemicals in her lab. A little collection of nail polishes sit off to the side, —black, red, white, and the half-empty shade of deep violet that you see her don most often.

Her closet door is half open, slid away from the wall just enough that you can see a sliver of her collection of white button-ups hanging down from the rod inside. You wonder if they all smell as much like her as the lab coat in your hands, but you doubt it.

There you are again.

Foolish little you, wrapped in her sheets that hardly have a scent at all beyond the detergent she uses to clean them, her lab coat positioned just so that you catch hints of her with every breath you take in. You close your eyes and let lethargy win. It’s hours before you stir again, awakened by the rustling of Moira stealing her coat away from your grip. You don’t bother to open your eyes, letting her take it away and slip it on her lithe but surprisingly muscular frame. It’s hers, after all. . .

You imagine she must look tired, —but you know it’s not enough to make her stay. That’s never been enough of a reason. So you don’t ask for it. She’ll go from this apartment to her lab, and she’ll stay there for hours upon hours, from the early hours of the morning to egregious hours of the night, and somewhere in between, she might call upon you to stop by so she can tease you for taking the coat from her office, for sleeping in her bed while she was away, for stopping to wave to the test rodents, —and then she’ll press your back to that beige office wall, slit her knee between your legs, and take your breath away again.

Like she always does.

And you might even ask why she didn’t tell you where or when she was going when she left this time. She might even reward you for your nerve by cooking up some half-baked reply about responsibilities and authority and blah blah blah, all those things she’s told you a million times before in lieu of just being straightforward. You’ll take her explanation with a grain of salt as you always do, and she’ll sense your apprehension just in time to nip it in the bud, —hand under your chin, forcing you to look up at her, asking if you trust her.

You’ll say: “Yeah, of course I do. . . You know that,” even when that’s flimsy at best.

She’ll give you a smile that’s more reminiscent of a smirk before leaning in to hold you captive in her kiss. You’ll give, give, give, and give some more. . . Because she asks it of you.

Your thoughts still when she rests a hand against your head, smoothing it over your hair, petting you like a kitten.

But you’re still the mouse.

“Sleep well, darling.”

[pochipop]

＃OVERWATCH !! ♡ — A COLLECTION OF MOIRA DRABBLES (VOL. 1).

#. synopsis! — a small collection of x reader drabbles with moira featuring a different plot/instance in each .

#. characters! — moira .

#. warnings! — very brief mentions of alcohol consumption .

#. word count! — 3.2k (roughly 700 words each) .

#. alt accounts! — @ddollipop (nsfw) @yyolkchi (reblog/spam) .

#. others! — navigation & masterlist .

#1. Easing her down when she's stressed in the lab.

Moira isn't the type to let stressors get the better of her, but on the rare occasions that they do, she's accustomed to riding it out alone. You're not keen on that, however, and when you find her sitting at her desk with a bottle of whiskey, shot glass forlorn in lieu of taking swigs straight from the bottle, you're quick to step in and offer her a safe haven to vent her frustrations.

With her hair unstyled, falling over her forehead in clumsy tufts pulled loose from the continuous rakings of her lithe fingers through the strands, her lab coat has been discarded on the floor at her feet. The white dress shirt she wears underneath is crinkled and the first two buttons are undone, offering you the slimmest of viewings to her collarbones and the tippy top of her cleavage. It's nothing you haven't seen before as her lover, —but you recognize her allure in a new light in that moment nonetheless. 

"Stressed?" You ask, voice nearly a purr as you lean down to rest the bottom of your chin against her warm shoulder. 

"Utterly,” she answers, a frustrated edge clinging to her tone as she leans back farther, —leans into you as if searching for comfort that she’s too proud to ask for.

“Another one of my projects has been delayed due to ‘ethical concerns,’” Moira continues mockingly, “—it’s doing my head in.”

You hum in acknowledgement, craning your neck to press a few peppered kisses to hers, nearly cracking a smile against her skin the moment she bares it further, silently begging for more. She’s a clear and concise woman in every sense, —even when words fail her.

“Is there anything I can do for you?” You inquire, mumbling just below her ear.

On a practical level, you know there isn’t. You're far from being a figure with enough persuasive power to bend the will of the higher-ups in one direction or another. If Moira hasn’t been able to shift them to her side on this, your attempts would be nothing more than fruitless, and maybe even annoying, putting an even worse damper on your lover’s already sour mood.

“It’s nothing for you to concern yourself with,” she answers bluntly, —but you’re used to it.

She didn’t phrase it that way to hurt you, it’s just who she is. Beating around the bush isn’t her style, and it may seem abrasive at times, but at the end of the day it’s good to know you have someone in your corner who wouldn’t mince words even if it meant protecting your feelings from bitter truths.

You let your lips travel to her jaw, and she makes no move to stop you. Moira closes her eyes, lets you tend to her, —lets you kiss away all the frustration and anger until she’s all but subdued under your affection. She normally prefers things like this in smaller doses, or at the very least in proper privacy, but the lab has been quiet for some time now and it’s edging on two in the morning, so it’s a low risk situation all things considered.

“I think you’ve had enough,” you tell her, reaching out to take the whiskey from her desk.

Moira doesn’t argue. You’re likely the only person on the face of the planet that could get away with something like that, and you’re clearly keen on abusing that power. She’s not sure she’d argue much about that either, though.

“No good’ll come from you sitting around the lab like this,” you add. “It’s late. Let’s turn in for the night, yeah?”

You put the whiskey up with the other bottles she has stored away, glancing back at her to gauge her reaction. She closes her eyes for a moment, looking so ethereal in the dim light that pours in from the hallway. It makes your heart shiver.

“I suppose you’re right,” she finally decides.

#2. (Blackwatch) Moira returning from a mission and subtly showing how much she missed you.

It’s not a matter of capability or prowess. You know Moira can survive just about anything, —she’s intelligent, has a solid grasp on her surroundings at all times, and her skills in battle have only improved the longer she’s been called to go on missions. Still. . . There’s always a period of anxiety that comes with her absence. Her typical appearance in the hidden labs does not go unaccounted for, and while others do their best to struggle along without her there to guide them, you often find yourself stuck, worrying far too much about her for your own good.

It always ends the same. She comes home after all is said and done, and when she does, she leaves whatever happened in the past. Her wounds heal swiftly enough, and you do your best to ignore the way they mar her skin until they finally go away.

You heard whispers of the team’s return soon after they arrived. With such a small base in comparison to others, word always travels fast. You’re the first one at the door, fiddling anxiously with your fingers as the few Blackwatch soldiers spill in with tiredness practically eating away at their bones. It’s been twelve days, seven hours, and some change since you last saw Moira. . . And now that clock can reset itself to zero.

She stands tall and beautiful amongst her comrades, her bright hair and formidable height placing her a cut above the rest. You stare at her with relief written all over your face, and she finally lets herself glance about the room. Only a select few have gathered to see the Blackwatch unit’s return, with you clearly being one of them.

Your colleagues have stopped questioning it. Some have likely caught on that you and Moira are more than simple friends, while others don’t care enough to look deeper. Really, you’re thankful for the sense of freedom it allows you to care for her so openly, —even if she isn’t always fond of the way you look at her as if you were sure you were going to lose her eventually.

When everyone else has gone on their way, you scamper over to her.

“I’m so glad you’re safe,” you say, heart thundering so loud you’re scared she can hear it as she stands before you.

Her eyes are softer when they gaze at you.

“I told you I would be,” she replies simply.

God. . . You hate that uniform because when she puts it on, you know she’s going away for awhile, —but she looks so dignified in it that it’s hard not to like it. 

“I’ve told you before, stop worrying so much when I’m gone,” she reminds you. “I can take care of myself, if that isn’t obvious.”

“I know you can,” you answer, “—but it’s hard not to worry when it comes to you. I don’t know what happens out there, and it. . .”

You find yourself trailing off, but Moira understands the concern. Obviously, she isn’t fond of going out on missions herself, but they fill her less with dread that she may get injured and more with frustration that she’s being pulled away from her work (and from you.) 

“In any case, I’m here now,” she says. “So let’s not dwell on things that are already said and done.”

It’s impossible to deny her that when she reaches out, cupping your plush cheek in her hand. You can feel that her palm is callused from the mission, and you’ll be keen on looking her over in just a little while, —but for now you allow yourself the simple pleasure of leaning into her warmth for the first time in just shy of two weeks. The sweet slide of her lips against yours is quick and subtle, but you welcome it as well, pouring everything you can muster into a single action.

#3. Spending a late night with Moira in the lab doing more than just working.

Nights like this are few and far between, but you savor them like a sweet, decadent confectionary when they swing around. The lab is eerily silent aside from the sounds of Moira shuffling about, rifling through papers she’s seen no less than thirty times in the last twenty-five minutes. She tosses them to the side with a bored sigh, her eyes scanning her surroundings for something to keep her entertained whilst the waiting game of science runs its course.

She finds herself staring at you, —her cute little assistant that asks “how high?” when she demands you jump. You’re diligent and loyal, always on time, always keen on staying late even when it isn’t necessary. She likes that you do things without being prompted, like bringing her coffee in the mornings and leaving snacks on her desk when you think she isn’t looking but you know she hasn’t taken a break to eat all day. You’re thoughtful and quite good at your job, which makes you far too easy to like in her book.

“Y/n,” she says, watching as your head turns her way so quickly, —like you’d been waiting for her to call your name all night.

“Come here for a moment,” she beckons.

You do as you’re told, scuttling across the lab to make her acquaintance. Moira finds herself amused by the space you leave between yourself and her, reaching out with a single hand to tug you closer. She can read you like a book as you stare up at her, —eyes so innocent and naive. Like a little rabbit festering under the heavy paw of some big, bad wolf.

“You’re quite pretty,” she says, moving her hand up to tuck some of your hair behind your ear.

Though your eyes widen in surprise at the compliment, you quickly thank her, forcing your gaze down to her knees to avoid looking at her face.

You’re just so easy to fluster, —so easy to ruffle the feathers of. It’s hard not to do so at times like this, so Moira has decidedly stopped trying to hold herself back. And really, you don’t want her to. Whatever is going on between the two of you, you actually quite like it. She’s different with you than she is with others, giving you more leeway to speak your mind and be honest with her. She gives you leeway in other manners as well. . .

Like this way.

She pins you to the large filing cabinet, caging you in with her long, slender limbs. You struggle to hold her intense gaze as she peers down at you, as if assessing you for something. When you’re in the lab together, —she’s not your lover, she’s not your friend. In the lab, Moira is your superior, the one who commands you about with sharp precision and high expectations. But sometimes, she lets that dynamic falter ever so slightly, and she indulges herself in the little sounds of surprise you utter when she kisses you, lips capturing yours as you let your head tilt up to meet her.

It doesn’t last long. It never does. Still, the way her lips linger just above yours, almost kissing you but not quite, leaves your head spinning. You feel the soft tuft of amused breath she lets out ghost against your cheek before she stands herself upright and lets her arms fall to her sides again.

“Thank you,” she says, much too casual sounding for what just happened, “—that’ll be all.”

#4. Spending an early morning with Moira after a pleasant night together.

Moira has always preferred her coffee dark, bitter, and piping hot. Since mornings with you have become more common these days, however, she’s gone out of her way to stock up on various additives. Vanilla creamer that she’s never personally touched and hasn’t the slightest interest in, —but you use it nearly every time you’re around for morning coffee, so she’s sure to keep it on hand, along with some heart-shaped sugar cubes that you’ve never questioned, but always grin at when you slip them into your drink. You’re sure she’d brush it off, —telling you they were on sale, or maybe that they had higher quality ingredients compared to the simple squares.

Really, she just thought you’d like them. And she was right, for the record!

She’s always up before you and seldom lingers around in bed until you rise. Moira likes early starts, likes to get her brain going the moment her eyes slit open in order to maximize her workflow throughout the course of the day. Her internal clock might as well be as reliable as any other, and you’re often in awe of her propensity to will herself from under the covers the moment she stirs from sleep.

Although, you must admit it gets a bit cold without her.

Still, even when Moira chooses to get herself up and ready for the day while you lay in bed for a bit of extra slumber, —she thinks of you. She sets your mug on the counter and fills it just past the middle mark, knowing that filling it too high wouldn’t leave appropriate space for all the extra stuff you just love to toss in, minimizing the bitterness. She can’t say she really understands it, but it’s your preference, and she’s simply learned to accept that without wondering too much about it.

When you stumble in from the bedroom, she follows you with her gaze as it peers over the rim of her coffee mug. She always looks so attractive in the mornings, —her hair a bit messy from lack of styling, her shirts half done-up. . . You love her in any form she takes on, but this is definitely one to behold. Best of all, she doesn’t mind if you stare (and you tend to take full advantage of that.)

“Good morning,” she greets you with the slightest hint of amusement lacing through her tone.

Afterglow looks good on you, but mornings aren’t really your thing.

“Morning,” you mumble, eyes still half-lidded as you go through the motions, —adding to your coffee until the deep brown turns to a lighter beige.

All the while, Moira watches you with a curious gaze until you find yourself slipping in next to her, searching for the warmth she’d taken from you not long ago when she’d stowed herself away from the bed. Her bed, technically, but you sleep in it so often that it might as well be yours too.

She sits her coffee down now, half-gone but still quite scalding (impossible to drink for anyone but her, really.) Her long arms encircle your middle as you let yourself sink into her. Moira isn’t really the romantic nor domestic type, but little moments like this are enough for you. In her brief stints of softness, you often find a sense of fleeting solitude that only feels good in the small doses she offers every now and again.

“You should drink up,” she notes, glancing down at the coffee mug you’re holding in your hands and close to your chest just to feel the warmth of the liquid inside seep into your palms. “We’ve got a long day at the lab ahead of us.” Don’t remind me, you think to yourself, —but you don’t say it. That’s just the drowsiness talking. You like being in the lab, albeit nowhere near as much as Moira, and in the end, once you find your rhythm, everything will be fine. For the time being, however, you simply hum in acknowledgment and lean your head against your lover, resting your eyes for a bit. She lets herself smile, pressing her lips to your temple.

#5. Attending a banquet with Moira as her plus one.

Moira isn’t much fond of events like this. She thinks they’re much more hassle than they’re worth, and exchanging pleasantries with others has never been her strong suit. Even so, after being strongly advised to not skimp out this go around, she finally decided to give in and show up, though she doubted it would offer he anything useful. At the very least, she was hoping to get her hands on some wine to leg around with her for the night.

Her extended invitation for you to accompany her was less of a request and more of an assumption that you’d simply be attending as her lover. Because she was known to be very private in regard to her life outside the laboratory, that came as a surprise to you. Moira, on the other hand, was more shocked that you hadn’t been expecting it.

Nevertheless, you swiftly took her up on it. Debuting yourself as her partner was certain to cause a stir about the lab, but the thought of it was almost exciting. You’d never had the opportunity to show Moira off before since she wasn’t keen on public displays of affection or even revealing the details of your relationship to others. And that was fine, for the most part. . . But you had to admit, there were points where it would have been nice to tell the world about your feelings. More than that, you were quite proud to have captured the heart of someone like her. It was no easy task, after all.

“It seems you’re quite popular,” Moira notes, taking a sip of her drink.

The red lipstick she’s wearing stains the rim of the pristine glass as her grip around your waist tightens a bit, pulling you closer to her.

“I don’t think anyone here is looking at me,” you snicker. “You’re the one everyone is scouting for. I’m sure almost anyone in the room would give an arm and a leg to work with you.”

It’s not as if she’s hard on the eyes, either. For what it’s worth, Moira in a suit is an exquisite sight, —the way her long, slender body is accentuated by her black jacket and tight-fitting dress pants. . . Ah, you’ve been trying not to stare too much in public, but it’s hard not to when she looks like that.

She goes through the motions, becoming less passive as the minutes go by. You can tell by the way her tone evens out to a blunt, jagged edge that she’s already sick of this and would rather be anywhere else. She’s on her third glass of wine by the time word of her presence has spread like wildfire throughout the banquet, and with it, your attendance by her side. Moira’s tuned herself out, refusing to let her mind be riddled by the voices of those that pass her by, —but you catch wind of curious murmurings, ones that question ‘When did Doctor O’Deorain get a lover?’ 

A part of you finds it exciting, even though it’s quite embarrassing to be the topic of conversation. Strangers throw glances your way, as if assessing you for signs of having been bribed or persuaded. . . You acknowledge it is still a bit jarring to know you’re with Moira like this, but these people are definitely taking this to another (unnecessary) level. 

“They’re staring because you’re beautiful,” Moira whispers suddenly, having picked up on your apprehension a bit ago and finally deciding to say something in hopes of whittling it down. 

That’s not the reason. At least, that’s not all it is. But you can’t find the will to argue against her when she’s being so kind. Instead, you offer her a gentle smile and take a sip of the wine you’ve been nursing for a while now. This definitely isn’t the environment for either of you, —but being here with Moira makes it all a lot less intimidating. 

[cooliofango]

Submissive male reader with moira NSFW alphabet?

NSFW Alphabet

Moira x Sub! M! Reader

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Ahhh okay okay! This is my first alphabet set up so ima do my best with this! Thank you for requesting again! ^^💕

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A = Aftercare (what they’re like after sex) 

 I feel like Moira would be a generally neat person, so it wouldn’t be often that there would be a mess to take care off when it comes to aftercare. As the one in control during these intimate moments with you, she is usually the one taking care of you. Now she isn’t an overly romantic person about it, but she will make sure you’re comfortable and loved before the two of you go about your day or sleep the night away.

B = Body part (their favorite body part of theirs and also their partner’s) 

Moira’s favorite body part on herself would have to be her hands. When it comes to sex, she uses her touch more than her words to express her emotions during these moments. This ranges from gentle touches to sooth you to tight grabs to keep you still when you squirm a little too much to her liking. 

Moira’s favorite body part on you has to be your face. She always adores the reactions she can pull from you whenever she does a specific action to pleasure you in just the right ways. It helps her know whether or not she’s doing her job right, after all.

C = Cum (anything to do with cum, basically)

She isn’t someone who cums too easily or quickly with a specific action. Its the prolonged feeling of pleasure that edges her closer to the edge, whether its self induced or its something she guides you to do. It’s a bit of the opposite with you. She knows just the right thing to do to get you to cum. This ranges from touch, words, or anything the two of you decide to experiment with.

D = Dirty secret (pretty self explanatory, a dirty secret of theirs)

I feel like Moira wouldn’t necessarily have a dirty secret. She’s just simply not someone to keep secrets- though the ‘dirty ones’ are shared with you and you alone. If there is something she has done, then  at least one other person would know of it.

E = Experience (how experienced are they? do they know what they’re doing?)

Though Moira doesn’t have personal experience before meeting you, she does learn rather quickly. It’ll seem like she has a ton of experience under her belt by the third or fourth time the two of you do the deed.

F = Favorite position (this goes without saying)

She loves to have you in her lap, arms wrapped gently around your frame as she has her way with you. Like this, its mainly to tease you. If you behave enough, she’ll set you on the nearest surface to help you finish.

G = Goofy (are they more serious in the moment? are they humorous? etc.)

I believe this goes without saying, but Moira is a very serious person- especially when it comes to being intimate with the person she loves. You won’t ever catch her cracking a joke during sex.

H = Hair (how well groomed are they? does the carpet match the drapes? etc.)

As said before, she’s a neat person. Though she usually doesn’t bother to shave, she does keep herself perfectly trimmed to her liking. Yes, the carpet matches the drapes- though it may be a tad bit darker in color than the bright orange her hair is.

I = Intimacy (how are they during the moment? the romantic aspect)

Again, as stated before, any intimacy will be shown through mostly actions and maybe a rare word or two of affection. Its’s mostly shown during aftercare as she soothes your heated body and helps you to calm down.

J = Jack off (masturbation headcanon)

This is also rare- though its not something you’d never see. If she ever feels the need to masturbate, it’ll be alone whenever you’re away. That or it’ll be a part of her teasing you to try and get a bit of a rise out of you

K = Kink (one or more of their kinks)

I feel like Moira would have a but of a bondage kink. Nothing too creative, I know, though it does kinda stem from her love of experimentation. Seeing a beautiful subject such as yourself tied down and exposed gets her a bit excited.

L = Location (favorite places to do the do)

This will 9/10 be in the bedroom, no ifs or ands about it. However, that 1/10 percent would be caught in her lab/office. If things had already gone too far to move locations or she just doesn’t care to switch rooms, she’ move her things around to make room for you.

M = Motivation (what turns them on, gets them going)

As stated before, seeing you tied up is one way to get her riled up. Even if if its as simple as you coming up to her with tied up wrists, she’ll get a few ideas.

N = No (something they wouldn’t do, turn offs)

As sadistic as this woman is, she would never put a weapon to you during sex. Knife play or gun play is a big no no to her. You’re too precious to her to risk something happening by accident.

O = Oral (preference in giving or receiving, skill, etc.)

Moira doesn’t mind either or, but she is really entertained when she gives to you. Her skill grows rapidly within a short amount of time, making it easy to please you the way she wants.

P = Pace (are they fast and rough? slow and sensual? etc.)

This totally depends on both her own mood and how she’s deciding to pleasure you that time. If she’s in a good mood, expect a mood swing of paces. If she’s in a bad mood, expect something either rough and quick pace or something painfully, teasingly slow.

Q = Quickie (their opinions on quickies, how often, etc.)

Moira isn’t a big fan of quickies. If she’s going to give you a good time, she’s going to do it right with plenty of time to do so.

R = Risk (are they game to experiment? do they take risks? etc.)

I’ve said this before, but she is not afraid to experiment whatsoever. She usually doesn’t mind risks if they come naturally- but she wouldn’t go looking to take risks on purpose. Not when it comes to showing you love.

S = Stamina (how many rounds can they go for? how long do they last?)

This depends on if she’s going to be teasing you most of the night or if she’s going to get the pleasure done and over with. Generally, she can last up to 2-3 rounds.

T = Toys (do they own toys? do they use them? on a partner or themselves?)

Any toys she owns are mostly used on you. This ranges from vibes, strap ons, and anything that binds you down.

U = Unfair (how much they like to tease)

Moira LOVES to tease you. It’s part of the sadistic mad scientist thing she has going on to enjoy watching you squirm under her touch.

V = Volume (how loud they are, what sounds they make, etc.)

Moira isn’t loud, but she isn’t totally silent either. She’ll give small quieter moans along with a few gasps depending on how good it feels.

W = Wild card (a random headcanon for the character)

Leaving scratch marks on your body from her nails are 90% of the time intentional after a night with her

X = X-ray (let’s see what’s going on under those clothes)

She has a pear like figure, being flatter up top and rounder on the bottom. Her hips and thighs carry the most curve with her tall, slender figure.

Y = Yearning (how high is their sex drive?)

Moira matches her drive with her partners as close as she can get it (unless its medium-high, then its lower than that)

Z = Zzz (how quickly they fall asleep afterwards)

Moira doesn’t fall asleep till after you do (if either of you are tired enough to really sleep after sex, that is). It’s kind of a way for her to make sure you’re truly okay- especially if she wasn’t too merciful with her teasing or pace..

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Aaand done! ^^