Behind it, he noticed Phobos’ brow wrinkle with rare annoyance. Meouch tucked his chin, looking down into the visor. It just pissed him off, to think that–Ī golden helmet bobbed into his vision, followed by the distorted feedback loop of his shoulder ramming into equipment. He could just feel the weight that annoying prick’s goddamn stare at the back of his head. His eyes locked with hers, those of a predator, as he’d circled back to his berth at stage left. He couldn’t stop himself from licking his chops, slapping the bottom of his bass and tilting it back into a comfortable position. His pupils turned to slits as he searched for her, quickly rounding in dilation as he’d honed in on her smiling features. With his foot perched atop the rightmost amp, his sharp eyes narrowed, allowing him to peer across the sea of jumping party-goers with ease. Though the bulk of their performances had been planned to the letter, there was no way that smug asshole could one-up what Sung had in store for him–Ī lascivious tongue weaved between Meouch’s teeth as he hunched forward, pointing the neck of his bass guitar toward the crowd. The left corner of his mouth was upturned confidently as his gaze unseen shifted toward the Commander at stage right. His chest heaved as he projected his tone into the rubber tubing clenched behind his right molars. Bare fingers pounded the controls of his talkbox as he precisely toggled the pitches of his voice according to plan. It was essential his attention was collected solely toward the task at hand. He felt the moisture collect as it descended toward the small of his back, but chose to ignore it for now. In this position, the prickle of sweat bubbling towards the fabric of his jumpsuit sent shivers down Doc’s spine.
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