But where would the excitement be without that frisson, without shadowy fingertips skimming his expectations, whispers against his aural sensors? Perhaps yes, Zenyatta could make her beg, in time- but for now Sombra is the one in the driving seat, so to speak, and she makes herself felt with the most delicate patter of her augmented nails.

A moment later his entire lower body is alive with ghostly friction, silicone consumed by soft heat. His sensors go haywire, his voice tripping in his throat as he tries to answer-- then he speaks.

"My dear," he answers, a smile lifting the edges of his voice, still ragged with the aftershocks, "I am in your thrall."

A pause. There is, at least, space enough for Zenyatta to act of his own accord. Sombra would almost be forgiven for missing the subtle click of his modesty panelling withdrawing beneath the fabric of his trousers.

"If you would like me to fuck you, it would be my pleasure. And yours."