Zenyatta is feather-light; he seems almost to float onto the bed in slow-motion, laughing, the mattress a soft and welcome presence at his back. The sheets feel dangerously, sinfully luxurious against his sensors, already primed and over-sensitive from Sombra's teasing. Backlit as she sits on his hips, pupils blown wide and dark, half-hidden by that violet sweep, she smiles down at him, hands still braced against his chest.


"I am," he says wryly, "nothing if not optimistic."

At least her fingers are out of his head, and the immediate, intimate pressure of her presence has relieved itself a little. But she's still there. Zenyatta is certain of it. This time he meets the grind of her hips with one of his own, soft mound meeting newly-released cock, silicone and segmented steel spreading her obscenely beneath her panties. It glows faintly along its length, against the plush heat of her cunt.

"What I would really like," he says, slowly and deliberately, his hands twitching as they come to rest on the top of Sombra's thighs, "is to bring you to the Iris."

Under her, his own is rapidly warming, swelling in anticipation. He is leaking, teal on the sheets.