Overwatch CFNM: McCree Brandishes His Revolver

The salty breeze carried the sound of music and laughter across the white sand of Dorado Beach, signaling the start of the annual Festival de la Luz. Jesse McCree shielded his eyes from the sun as the communicator in his ear blared to life.

"Hey there, cowboy!” Tracer’s distinct British accent chirped over his earpiece, with its characteristic upbeat and playful tone, “Spot anything out yonder?"

“I thought I told you to keep the comms clear?” McCree responded with a touch of irritation in his voice. It was too damn hot in Mexico this time of the year.

“Grouch!” Tracer giggled teasingly into the communicator before it shut back off.

He scanned the beach for what felt like the hundredth time but didn’t spot anything out of the ordinary. Families enjoying the beach, revelers putting up festival decorations, and a few Los Muertos revolutionaries spraying their tags on the pier.

He scratched at the stubble on his face, still miffed that he had been forced to shave his beard in order to blend in with the crowd. The rest of his ridiculous disguise included a wide-brimmed sunhat that did little to keep him cool, chunky red board shorts emblazoned with the word “Lifeguard”, and a colorful beach towel draped across his shoulders. Even his bionic arm was sporting a new, bright red paint job. 

Torbjorn had modified his Peacekeeper revolver to resemble an unassuming flair gun, though the though it was still chambered with extremely-lethal, high-caliber .45-colt rounds. The Swedish engineer had etched the name “Desert Seagull” onto the side of the gun as some sort of joke. McCree had to restrain himself from shooting the diminutive engineer when he first saw it. 

The reason for Jesse's imaginative costume was that Overwatch had received intel that a covert rendezvous was going down at the beach between the remaining members of the Deadlock Gang and several operatives from the infamous terrorist organization, Talon; but the most dangerous thing McCree could spot was a few kids swimming a little too far from the shoreline. 

The frustrated gunslinger did another visual sweep of the beach, trying to spot where his chirpy partner had darted off too. He liked the kid, but sometimes it felt like Tracer was an unruly, hyperactive puppy that had broken off its lease. He quickly realized he wouldn't be able to spot her amongst the crowd without making it too obvious that he was casing the joint, so he grumbled miserably to himself and plopped down onto one of the deckchairs littering the beach. His eyes began to feel heavy and he felt himself dozing off as he spun a popsicle stick around idly in his mouth.