Sombra grinds down on him as if he were little more than a charming object for her personal gratification, and perhaps to some extent she is right to do so; with time to delve deep enough Zenyatta suspects that she could root herself into every part of his memory and make him dance like a puppet on a string. He might never be the same again.
Yet strangely, and maybe foolishly, he trusts her.
"Show me," he says, and his voice glitches with thwarted expectations as the touch multiplies and crawls like a spider across his sensors, ghosting along every inch of him, just beneat the threshold of frustration.
Twitching, his hand clenches, squeezing its warm, yielding handful, she is so small and yet so demanding in her own ways, fuller here than he was anticipating- "O-oh. That is v-ery nice," he admits, staticky. Of their own accord his hips jump against the soft place between Sombra's legs.
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Yet strangely, and maybe foolishly, he trusts her.
"Show me," he says, and his voice glitches with thwarted expectations as the touch multiplies and crawls like a spider across his sensors, ghosting along every inch of him, just beneat the threshold of frustration.
Twitching, his hand clenches, squeezing its warm, yielding handful, she is so small and yet so demanding in her own ways, fuller here than he was anticipating- "O-oh. That is v-ery nice," he admits, staticky. Of their own accord his hips jump against the soft place between Sombra's legs.