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Summary
He can feel Hangman tense and swallow against his forearm, breath heaving and shallow, deeply aware that he’s fucked if Mox decides he wants him unconscious, or dead. Fuck, wouldn’t that be something?
It’s enough to make him blush, the idea of skipping the foreplay and getting it all out of the way, quick and dirty, wringed neck and bloodshot eyes twisted face-down into the grimy floor of some dark corner nobody’s going to bother checking for at least another two hours. Some poor fuck in a black polo finding the people’s cowboy finished off with his wrists zip-tied behind his back in a puddle of his own spit and cold sweat.