McCree hums tunelessly; it is mostly a sloppy chain of sounds rumbling from his chest as he stares down at his work, shaggy chin on his collarbones, cigar clenched between his teeth in concentration.
“Easy now,” he grunts, big hand on the small of Zenyatta’s back, finger curling around the wide row of bright red cables there. He almost tugs, but Zenyatta goes stiff, his vocals climbing up high and nervous. He’s tittering like a bird and Jesse quickly lets go again, patting at the cables. “That’s alright. No need to fuss around. Ol’ Jesse McCree gotcha.”
He settles for carefully holding the omnic’s waist, big hand able to curl around it in a way that makes his head a little woozy. He never realized how slight of a thing Zenyatta really was.
“That’s right.” He mumbles; tapers off into non-words, probably, as he focuses back on the task at hand; watches himself press his cock against the jutting silicone lips of Zenyatta’s cunt; how they were already dripping with teal fluid, dripping down in sticky strands towards the bed.
His teeth dig in harder into the cigar. It is unlit, but he likes having it between his lips anyway. It is a nice distraction from the tight cunt he is slowly shoving his cock into. Zenyatta opens up for him like a flower, vocals crackling, metal fingers curling carefully into the bedding – calculating not to destroy anything even when he was getting split open by a cock.
Zenyatta is surprisingly easy to fuck. McCree had wondered about it idly – as he usually did while jerking off, thoughts meandering from one team member to the other; thinking about how they’d be when he stuffed them with his dick. How well they’d take it.
He hadn’t thought Zenyatta would be so easy to bend. He hadn’t thought he’d be so delightfully receptive to it: his voice static and high pitched, groaning whenever Jesse pressed in again, cramming a little more of his dick in, making him take him to the absolute hilt and lifting his hips up in the process until his small metal ass was in the air, pulsing, pouting cunt almost pointing to the ceiling.
He let himself get rearranged and mounted and didn’t speak one word of complaint about McCree making him bear his weight: leaning heavily with one big hand between his shoulder blades as he fucked him like an ape, teeth bared around the cigar, growling faintly as he dicked downwards, thighs burning from the awkward half-crouch.
Zenyatta just took it and sang for him, occasionally giving off steam in hissing, damp clouds as he tried to keep cool when McCree gave his cute little omnic cunt hell.
Cyberrat Writes 