#i won't....

The thought comes to McCree as he’s working on his gun and marveling at the precision of his new hand, how it seems to move exactly as a flesh and blood hand would. He cracks a joke to himself that having a ‘private moment’ would still be the same. After all, his dominant hand was spared, even if his left hand now was a lot more like Genji’s. 

He stares at his own metal hand and then rubs his face with the other hand, the flesh-and-blood one, covered in gun oil. 

(He tries not to think about Torbjorn.) 

He can wait until he gets home, until he can get cleaned up, until he’s eaten and had a smoke and maybe a whiskey. 

But his hand is always there, always reminding him of the other cyborg he knew, whose company he kept hour after hour. That metallic laugh, still warm; he can call it up as if it’s echoing around the room he’s in right now. The smell of warm electrical components and Genji’s sour breath-- he never drank enough water. 

He hasn’t had a tug in days, or a bed partner in months, and the ache is heavy between his legs. He’s not so far gone that he can’t see what he’s doing, watching his dark, mechanical hand close around himself with his own eyes. But the way his cum stretches between metal fingers forces a soft sigh of bittersweet contentment out of his mouth.