a safely hidden sphere (overwatch | ana/brigitte)

[fiachairecht]

a safely hidden sphere. overwatch, ana/brigitte. ana indulges brigitte's interest in her gun. 509w, rated m.

"It's so small." Brigitte turns the pistol over in her hands, the golden liquid inside glinting in the overly-bright fluorescents that are inescapable this deep in the Watchpoint's halls.

Cross-legged on the lab table, Ana shivers. The sleep darts have saved her life more times than she can count by now, but the memory of Angela's disapproving eyes still follows her every time she pulls the trigger. Brigitte, though — all Brigitte looks is hungry.

Ana isn't sure it's much of an improvement over the studiously blank face Reinhardt's shadow usually turns towards her even when they fuck, but she would be lying if she didn't admit to at least a little curiosity.

"It pierces armour?" Brigitte asks, pressing an experimental finger against the muzzle as if daring it to react.

"Yes," Ana says shortly, entirely sure she doesn't like where this line of questioning is headed. "What are you playing at?"

Brigitte's face is all innocence as she steps closer and points the pistol directly at Ana. Over her remaining eye, over her mouth, over her heart. Pressing into her stomach. "You've never tested your designs on yourself? Never been curious?"

Ana's breath catches in her throat. "I've been shot plenty of times before." But now that Brigitte's said it, Ana wants nothing more. You deserve it, whispers the small voice in the back of her mind, the one that hasn't been quiet for more years than she wants to think about. Like you deserve every other bullet you've taken.

She swallows hard, presses her thighs together. "You could have simply told me you had an interest in somnophilia."

"Hmm. But that wouldn't be the whole truth." The hand not pressing Ana's own pistol into the bare sliver of skin between her t-shirt and her uniform pants strokes gently down her cheek, over her arm. "It's not sleeping. It's how."

Brigitte nudges Ana's knees apart, and Ana holds herself very still as she presses forward. The pistol nudges lower, the muzzle just on the edge of digging into her overheated cunt, a cold promise of something Brigitte doesn't yet know how to make a threat. Ana breathes, waits, lets the chill of the gun curl around her.

"It's you," Brigitte says softly, right against Ana's lips, and for a long moment — long enough that she almost forgets what's coming - Ana loses herself in Brigitte's kiss, her chapped lips and skillful tongue.

Her eyes are still closed when Brigitte withdraws the pistol from between her thighs. "It's you," she says, and Ana feels the words ghost across her lips almost more than she hears them. "And the things you let me do when no one's here to see."

Ana licks her lips, tastes the faint heat of the cardamom that always seems to cling to Brigitte. Her cunt throbs with the memory of her gun. "Show me," she says, and the last word is lost to the shock of the dart between her ribs, the solidity of Brigitte's arms as she eases her down to lie flat on the table.