Multi-Fandom One Shots

Vengeance. Justice. (Moira O'Hara x Witch!Reader)

The house was a cesspool of darkness and violence and sex. Moira was the major idol of sex in the house. If a man was needed dealing with, he would be helpless to her. But she was helpless to them as well. Perhaps it was a comfort thing. Maybe it was her curse to relive how she'd spent her last months. Moira truly hadn't slept around, and only with her boss once. Still unforgivable, she knew, but she couldn't help reflecting on that time, on how the man tried to continue it. Perhaps she was a slut who led him on. 

But she never led you on. Since moving into the house, alone (not a good choice), the maid and a few benevolent residents had taken to protecting you. The house had a way of attracting darkness, but you'd handled it with compassion and kindness every time. Yes, you were clever and defended yourself when the ghosts or intruders tried to harm you, but you never added to the ghost count. You were beautiful, inside and out. And she wanted you to stay that way without dying. So she guarded you when she didn't have an excuse to be seen and she was never influential on your idle mind. 

You thought about her, though. More than you should and certainly more affectionately than would be normal for staff. You had such a hard time thinking of her as staff, not that she wasn't always professional, but you'd never had anyone working for you personally. It would take an adjustment and you weren't sure you ever did. So you were left with feelings you certainly shouldn't and a busy mind full of her. You weren't sure why but when lost in thought on the maid, your eyes usually drifted to that god-awful gazebo in the backyard, or to a wall in your way of looking at it. It was strange and it took you months of living there to find it. 

You didn't even think Moira was one of the few passing people you'd encountered since moving in. She stuck to her schedule and you shared very peaceful interactions until she started putting her nose in the telephone. You worked from home, an author who only went out to get groceries or for the occasional drink, so you cooked for yourself often. 

As a Tuesday, Moira entered almost as if psychically. "Oh, I could have prepared that," she tried to interject, setting the duster down. 

"Not on the table, please, Moira," you corrected, hardly looking over your shoulder at her. 

She picked up the full featherduster and, as predicted, loosed a cloud of vengeful dirt and your dead skin. 

You wrinkled your nose as you watched it all fall back onto the table, then you softened into a laugh, facing the stove once more. The redhead went to dust the table. You burst into laughter once more. "Shake it off in the garbage, first, love," you requested. Your eyes twinkled as you looked over at her, setting the old young woman at ease. She was worried you'd take note of her odd absentmindedness as an old boss had. 

"Jesus, Moira, it's a wonder she keeps you on at all," came the awaited jab from Constance Langdon. 

You looked over your shoulder at her, amusement fading. You turned the eye down. She was a rude bitch to the help and that was a true show of her character. "What are you doing here, Constance?" you asked, wiping off your hands. You hadn't washed them, not done cooking yet, and Moira took the mildly dirty rag. "Thank you," you muttered. 

"Oh, well, I just came to check on you, that's all. Spending so much time in this house isn't good for the soul, or the complexion," Constance attempted to be kind. Unfortunately, the last bite left the same feeling as it did when she pointed it at Moira. Especially considering she just did. 

You nodded, not amused by her games. "Well, I'm fine. Completely capable of civilized and conveniently chorused in a close cacophony of conversation."

The blonde smirked at your wit and raised her eyebrows, recognizing a dismissal of the strangest sort. She left with a laugh.