Prompt: Moira's Medical Journal

Tags: Health issues (kind of serious in this one), XWG , Overwatch, light slob

Second prompt of the month! good to return to the Overwatch series. I forgot how much I loved doing these. Would love to do more with Moira in other fics too.

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“And how will you treat me? Delicately, I hope.” Moira O'Deorain held a vial of ghoulish looking liquid between her long and witch-like fingernails. She was deep in the basement of a Talon base, ready to unleash the next concoction she had created. However, this was to be used upon herself. “I hope there’s an answer within you and that you can bestow it upon me.” She spoke, dragging out the time before injection. She had inserted an IV tube deep within her thing and withered hand, the point of entry for the hateful little toxin she had created. It really was the kind of thing that should be tested upon others, but the press of time made self-testing a necessity. All around Moira’s desk were spreadsheets, reports, and pictures of key members of Overwatch. They were parodies of their former selves, transformed into bloated and unhealthy blobs. Moira glanced at the photos, reacquainting herself with the little dramas of each studied member. D.Va rolling in a broken down mobility scooter, her chest slathered in cheese dust and soda, Pharah having her chest massaged with defibrillators by Ana, and Mercy and Brigitte being funnel fed whilst their blood sugar alarms blared in the background. Each was a profound example of mobid obesity and hedonism. Sex, gluttony, and morbidity melded with each other in the photos. The common thread between the photos eluded Moira.

“I shall have to plump their depths myself.” Moira sighed, knowing that the time had finally come. Talon needed answers, Overwatch could not be allowed to gain a superiority over them. Though it seemed contradictory to destroy their bodies, Moira had no doubts that there was some benefit or edge to be gained. Otherwise, why would they have jumped in so eagerly? “One buys the ticket and then rides the ride.” Moira’s smooth Irish drawl came from her thin lips. She twisted the top of the vial, opening the chamber. It slotted into the IV with no trouble. The thick liquid drained with agonizing slowness into Moira’s arm. She was almost surprised to find it painless. Knowing what it would do to her body, Moira had built the experience up in her mind. She was willingly exposing herself to something that would rewrite and destroy her genetics, metabolism, and even her mind. She would be different after this, utterly changed. The only question was if she would find an answer in the process. The liquid finished draining, the last drop sucked away to become one with Moira’s bloodstream. She removed the vial from the IV. “To all of our health!” She raised the empty glass to the pictures spread around her desk.

--- Sourced from Moira’s Medical Journals ---

I have begun my trials and have found them to be bearing fruit quicker than expected. I’m writing this with a swollen, distended gut filling my lap. I have always been thin and rather flat. I believe many would label me as “sickly” even without the use of this drug. Now, however, I find my body filling with fat. Eating even a small amount of calories adds to my waistline. I could eat 10 or 20 percent under my daily intake, but wake up with pounds gained. I would like to make it clear that I am NOT eating under the recommended amount of calories. My new body will not allow that. Rather, it demands that I gorge myself at every opportunity. Hunger pangs wrack my body hours before I would normally eat and I feel decidedly ill if my stomach goes with out food. When I do eat, my inhibitions drop rapidly. I struggle to keep myself away from food, seeking it at every free opportunity. My stomach has changed its preferences as well. Clean and lovingly prepared food has become an anathema to me. I hesitate to say, lest it be seen as personal preference and not necessity, but I find fast food more comforting to my stomach.

---

My trials continue. I write this in a haze after dinner, struggling to put pen to paper. The blood sugar in my body is waxing full as I write, trying to digest the culinary toxins I have pumped in. My portion size has increased dramatically. I now eat for two people, if not two and a half. My caloric intake has doubled and my body now bears the predictable results. I am fatter and decidedly bloated. My gut had continued to grow, now filling my lap. It has lost the playful roundness it had in the beginning, instead possessing a teenager's sulk. It is becoming an adolescent, seeking its goals at the cost of everything around it. I am slave to its demands, needing to eat around the clock in one form or another. Even now, stuffed as I am, I have to sip on a nutrient shake or else it bullies me. Below it rests a butt that finally has curves. It was hard for me to write that without some amount of girlish glee springing in my heart. As a young maid, I had a boy’s ass and no breasts to speak of. Now, after fifty years of life I finally developed a figure befitting my gender. Ignoring the pains it has taken to get here, I do enjoy my breasts making it harder for me to write. Though, I know things will not stop here. I shall continue to expand, each day growing larger and more out of control. This is but a honeymoon period, with the real challenges yet to come. Whilst I enjoy things now, it remains to be seen if I will enjoy them as much in another month.

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Ignore the spots on this journal, I must write but refuse to put down my burrito. I am hungry and require sustenance. Those of you that would judge me should be reminded that it is not YOUR body that is changing, growing, fattening. Rather. . . [The words here are too blotted out with food stains to be seen]. . .for the benefit of myself and others. With that out of the way, I would like to say that my body has continued to grow. Part of my stomach is heaped over the thin desk that I sit at. Sweat and grease now pool under it, staining the papers around it. This might be the serum affecting my thought patterns, but it is funny to think about the valuable data I have gathered being ruined by my own body. I have a true BODY of work now, one that needs constant attention. My breasts have exploded in growth. The are large, but fairly doused in sweat. My internal body temperature has risen drastically, perhaps as a result of tampering with my metabolism. I sweat rather profusely now, even beyond what a normal woman my size might. It is a welcome change from the coldness I felt before. I am marinating in my own juices, but there is some delight to be taken in that. My fingers scratch this journal out, thicker than they were before. It is strange to see digits so plump, with my particularly witchy nails curling at the end. It is yet another reminder that no part of me will remain as it was. At the end of this, I shall be a wholly new Moira. More to come.

----

I feel as though I must explain some other aspects to my body. It is easy to read these journals and see the accompanying pictures and get only a portion of the truth. I am now so fat that proper cleaning has become hard. Further, the serum pumping through me has changed my habits again. I am incapable of sticking to any schedule that does not include eating or sleeping. Showers become sparse as my energy levels drop. I am covered at all times in sweat, grease, and remnants of my previous meals. My pale, sheet like skin is stained with half a hundred different entrees. People hear or smell me before they see me. I should be embarrassed to say, but I am quite proud of the musk I now give off. Some mixture of body odor, fast food, and hospital pervades my pores. This is to say ntohing of the wheezing and belches. I waddled down hallways, announcing my approach with guttural explosions. The heaps of fast food in my gut ferment quickly, needing to be belched up. If not bleching, I am wheezing. My endurance is at a minimum. Even standing up from my computer chair is taxing. I walk down the halls of the compound with an open mouth and hot breath pouring out. Staff turn and see me approaching, both a doctor and a patient. I have given up on clothing, instead draping my nakedness in hospital gowns. My large, dimpled ass claps behind me. I enjoy the sound immensely.

----

I have taken a nurse. Rather, I have repurposed Amélie. I need slim and nimble hands more than the world needs more corpses. She tends to me dutifully. I think my condition arises morbid curiosity within her. Spiders are known for letting their victims hang, are they not? I believe she sees me as a victim waiting to happen. My heart palpitates at random intervals, my blood pressure is nearing levels that require immediate hospitilization, and I am most certainly diabetic. I and this serum have done everything in my power to drag my body through the proverbial mud. Now, my arachnid inspired nurse wishes to make sport of me. I am happy to let her enjoy my body how she wishes, but she will be quite disappointed when she finds rumors of my demise to be untrue. She forgets that I am as much a doctor as anything else. I will, however, be delaying any life saving measures for the time being. I can tell how much my worsening condition increases Amélie’s lust. She practically salivates over me when I am half-comatose from too much sugar. She takes too long to find my pulse, probing my thick neck rolls with her nimble fingers. She wishes to explore my strained and brutalized body. I shall let her. It is not just food my body demands to indulge in. I have become a glutton in all things. This wonder drug I have created now heightens my libido, making it one of the few parts of my body that work better than intended. I flush at the mere entrance of Amélie into a room. I wish her to go deep under my folds. Lift this sagging, damp body and. . .

[Journal entry has been truncated and attached photos have been edited. This was done against Moira’s wishes.]

----

[Uncovered long after research trial has concluded]

Things become more extreme. Rapidly my condition “worsens”, though that is a highly subjective term. More objectively put, I grow ever more fat and unhealthy. I now struggle to waddle up stairs, fighting both my flagging endurance and racing heart. I can barely stand anymore, let alone walk. My waddling time is reserved for when Amélie can wedge her tight ass under my sagging breast and arm folds. Then we move as a single unit, her pressing close to my naked, sweat-seeping crevices. Yet, even with her help, I feel pains when I am over exerted now. Sharp needle pricks lance my arms and heart, prodding me with devilish intent. It is a reminder that nothing comes for free. This serum will grant me size at the cost of bodily fidelity. Systems will falter and fail and I must trust in my own medical genius to maintain my life. Through this I begin to gain a sort of understanding. It comes to me as I cough and heave, heart inching closer to total collapse. Oxygen will be artificially siphoned into me and I will be granted fabulous clarity. There is no benefit to be gained from this. Overwatch has not done this to gain some modicum of advantage. Rather, this is a fantasy playing out on a grand scale. This is a chess game against the clock. A heist against the laws of the universe. Mercy, Pharah, D.Va, and Brigitte all are trying to swindle as much pleasure without paying the due. I feel elated by this revelation, though I know Talon will not be. It shall have to be my secret as I continue to “test” this condition. Already I have more plans. But they will have to wait. For days now I have felt a cardiovascular storm brewing, one that I intend on encouraging.

Talon shall never see this entry, but they will see a Moira who has given in fully to the aberrant lifestyle. One who has cracked the code, but refuses to divulge the secrets. . .save to a chosen few.

--- The Rotten Fruits of One’s Labor ---

“Haaam-UURRRUP-lee. . .” Moira said weakly, butchering the soft and delicate sounds of her caretaker’s name. “Amaaalleeee.” She called again, struggling to force words out of her mouth. Her words were thick and heavy, her natural Irish drawl hidden amongst slurred speech and a lisp forced by sagging jowls. The words, and the accompanying wheezes, seemed to roll down Moira’s body as she spoke; hardly making it further than her vast body. Her chest was pressed down by fat as soft as butter but weightier than concrete. Moira’s body had mutated beyond her wildest dreams. She was a living mass of blubber, like a collection of sand dunes shaped into an approximation of a human being. She licked her lips, trying to call again. Hands so thick they could neither open nor close properly tried to reach a call button that was precious centimeters away. Pain radiated through her chest, seeming to burn a hole through her meaty middle. She sweat profusely, feeling her temperature rise as biological and synthetic systems failed in mass. She could see little besides the edges of her singular chin fold and the grease pooling within it. Moira was bound by her fat, held prisoner by how disastrously fat she had become. Once again the doctor was rolling the dice against fate, with only her desire to live as a counterbalance.

Alarms screamed as her body continued deeper into cardiac arrest. Moira grit her teeth and tried to raise an arm with the circumference of a couch arm rest. She lay upon a rolling bed of sorts. It was built in order to handle her literal ton of fat. It was a marvel of engineering, able to piloted by the feeble swipes of her grease stained fingers. Now, without its hyper-obese feedee to steer, it did slow and pathetic semi-circles. “Cooommooon. . .huuaaaahh. . .” Moira tried to encourage herself, struggling to push her enormous arm a full inch off of its resting place. The feeding fluid she had been sucking on drizzled down her body, pouring like an oil spill. The sloped hill of fat between Moira’s distended breasts became even more sodden as the sugar enriched, diabetes inducing sludge was expelled onto her. Even through life ending pain, Moira was distracted by the loss of potential calories. Her arm slumped down, defeated by her inability to focus on anything besides gluttony. Moira lay on her slab, feeling her limbs go numb. The pain was bliss. Once more she had been brought to the very edge of collapse and was held back only by the merest thread of her own genius. She felt her heart beat even more erratically and her thighs wet in pleasure. Death could not triumph over her ingenuity and was forced to simply wound her.

“Oooh, is my hefty slug in trouble?”Amélie sauntered in from the other room. The alarms which blared from Moira’s bed also were transmitted directly to the lavender skinned woman’s watch. She had full knowledge of how close Moira was to death at any time, reveling in the power that gave her. “A mess is being made here as well.”The frenchwoman’s accent was as slow and sweet as the fluid dripping onto Moira’s gut. Rather than end the cardiovascular torture, Amélie instead ran a hand through the murky mess upon Moira’s body. She had to lean past breasts nearly as big as a person. “Ooooh, don’t slip away just yet, l' amant.” She smacked the river of dripping fluid. “Surely you have one more meal in you.” Her hand landed in the soupy mess, seasoned with Moira’s own sweat and body odor. Sprays of fluid flew into the air. Moira made wimpy attempts to catch them. Her face, now rounded out cartoonishly and bereft of its formerly angular shape, turned red as she struggled to take in more calories. Amélie laughed. “Such a pig. A swine bred for contests.” She leaned in, kissing Moira’s clammy lips. “I and this body are your prize. Is it worth it?” She taunted, kissing Moira more and sliding her slim body onto the island of obesity.

“Wouldn’t. . .you. . .BBBLBOOORRRUUUP. . .like. . . to. . .know.” Moira struggled to get the words out but smiled the entire time. She forced the belch out as well. If this was to be her final moment, she was going to exit it in the most debauched manner possible. She stiffened for a moment, feeling tremors pass through her body. Cardiac pains mutated into thrills of sexuality and vice versa. Her body was confused and her mind delirious. She wanted to eat, she wanted to fuck, she wanted to be trapped in the cycle forever. Her purple hand, sickly but too fat to be called withered, struggled upwards again. Rather than trying to save her own life, she instead wished to gratify it more. Her fingers were thicker than most peoples’ big toe, but still bearing her witch-like nails. The purple hand rose with more strength than its healthy counterpart earlier. Rather than tap the buttons which would end her current heart attack, Moira instead brought it around to grasp Amélie’s per buttcheek. Moira’s fingers were weak, hardly able to grasp the little bit of blubber. Though, one of her nails did poke deeply into the lavender color woman’s buttcheek. Moira’s tongue lolled out of her open mouth, letting her lust be openly known. Thanks to the serum, she had been freed from any manner of professionalism.

“Ow!” Amélie fled from the accidental scratch, rolling over Moira’s gigantic breast and onto her stomach. She felt the immobile woman’s chugging heart, beating out its disastrously off kilter rhythms. The thick feeding fluid ran onto Amélie. “For that I am going to steal some of your lunch.” She said before slurping off of Moira’s gut. It was an indescribable taste, some sickly combination of pure sugar and other synthetic fatteners. It was the kind of thing only a glutton bound for hell could enjoy. Amélie shivered as a sugar haze passed over her. Too much of that and she would be in Moira’s condition. She stared up, looking at the rolls which acted as the holding palace for the Irish doctor’s fat face. Though turned into a pitiable and loathsome beached whale, Moira had never lost her aristocratic demeanor. She looked proud to stand at death’s door. Despite her best efforts, Amélie could never get her to crack. She sighed, knowing the game was up. “Fine, I shall save you this time.”

“No. . .BBBBLLOOOORRRRUUUUH. . .need.” Moira belched. She strained her good hand, using her long nails to tap at the hidden buttons. Instantly miracle fluids and nanobots were dispersed into her body. She began to return to normal. Her blood pressure, blood sugar, and pulse remained high but were of the manageable sort. Two thin, metal arms rose from behind her greasy orange hair to insert nasal plugs into her nose. Moira was once again able to breathe freely. Oxygen laced with chemicals to enhance the euphoria poured into her lungs. Moira was strengthened by the endorphins and adrenaline entering her blood steam from the nanobots. Her arm soon returned to clasping Amélie’s ass. “You’re. . .not. . .OORRRRUUP. . .here for that.” She smiled, face seeming to grow even bigger. Moira’s thumb crested over the spot where Amélie had been pricked. Moira had been incubating something within her body, stirring the toxin that she had ingested herself with many months ago. Now it was time to pass it on. The experiments never ended within Talon.