( Even just to a bit of praise, his body reacts honestly and immediately, so inherently endeared to this person who's only ever been held in the highest regard through word of mouth alone— someone else who saves lives, and the life of one so dear to them both. She wants nothing other than to help save him here, too, giving him all these little things she finds him craving and the touches that leave his system blipping off and on, vocals cutting out and scratching mid-syllable.
It's certainly giving her an idea of how he functions, yes. His "quirks", if she may.
It feels like cheating; trying to distract her so he can have some measure of peace to enjoy the glow of after. She ruins it just as thoroughly as she takes the other piece of him in hand, feeling the sizable lump within being pushed up. Should she try to help stop it...? Her fingers circle the organ atop it and every thrust of his hips up into her has her huffing out breaths laced with little whimpers, and subsequently forces the egg back down the shaft. It never stays down long until it's bumping against her fingers again. It must be agonizing, that sensation. )
—Yes, I'm sure you— will... Mmn, please.
( Every buck of his hips seems to seat within her perfectly, every dig of smooth metal digits careful as much as they have that pleasant bruise-ache blooming beneath her skin from hefting her weight up, and she stirs herself on him every time his hips rest up against hers, trying to help angle the other piece of him down.
The third hand takes her by surprise. She doesn't expect to see something incorporeal much less feel it, pressure and warmth without any real sense of mass, massaging at her and thumb shifting down, between them. He is making a mess of her, but she hardly minds it. He's making a mess of himself and, really, the Iris moon that has sung in her veins so often seems to glimmer on her skin even yet to show in the sky, serenading that urge within her to— to mate. Spark new life in the world. To be one's other half. Zenyatta's sating that quiet residual urge in her in spades, with every drop poured into her and every thrust of his cock, promising more.
It is so intensely human. And every thrust just as promising displaces more of his seed, though she knows tucked away deep that they're both sterile. That it made no sense to feel otherwise. To want otherwise. And still she lines that new length of him up against the first, already buried in her, ready for the next thrust to take in more of him. Even without his release, she would've been positively dripping. Her body wants this more than anything and she's biting her lip already, anticipating it. It's just as agonizing for her, the way time stretches between the rock of his hips. )
no subject
It's certainly giving her an idea of how he functions, yes. His "quirks", if she may.
It feels like cheating; trying to distract her so he can have some measure of peace to enjoy the glow of after. She ruins it just as thoroughly as she takes the other piece of him in hand, feeling the sizable lump within being pushed up. Should she try to help stop it...? Her fingers circle the organ atop it and every thrust of his hips up into her has her huffing out breaths laced with little whimpers, and subsequently forces the egg back down the shaft. It never stays down long until it's bumping against her fingers again. It must be agonizing, that sensation. )
—Yes, I'm sure you— will... Mmn, please.
( Every buck of his hips seems to seat within her perfectly, every dig of smooth metal digits careful as much as they have that pleasant bruise-ache blooming beneath her skin from hefting her weight up, and she stirs herself on him every time his hips rest up against hers, trying to help angle the other piece of him down.
The third hand takes her by surprise. She doesn't expect to see something incorporeal much less feel it, pressure and warmth without any real sense of mass, massaging at her and thumb shifting down, between them. He is making a mess of her, but she hardly minds it. He's making a mess of himself and, really, the Iris moon that has sung in her veins so often seems to glimmer on her skin even yet to show in the sky, serenading that urge within her to— to mate. Spark new life in the world. To be one's other half. Zenyatta's sating that quiet residual urge in her in spades, with every drop poured into her and every thrust of his cock, promising more.
It is so intensely human. And every thrust just as promising displaces more of his seed, though she knows tucked away deep that they're both sterile. That it made no sense to feel otherwise. To want otherwise. And still she lines that new length of him up against the first, already buried in her, ready for the next thrust to take in more of him. Even without his release, she would've been positively dripping. Her body wants this more than anything and she's biting her lip already, anticipating it. It's just as agonizing for her, the way time stretches between the rock of his hips. )