[ Iris blown, Locus stutters for a moment, the movement of his hand suddenly less steady than before. Just that singular grip, the rough feel of kevlar and metal, has every nerve in his body singing, pitched and unending.
The moan against the gun pressed to his lips is decidedly more guttural, before his eyelids fall shut and, purely on instinct, his tongue slips out against the barrel. The taste is bitter and acrid, oil and mineral and metal, but that doesn't stop him.
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The moan against the gun pressed to his lips is decidedly more guttural, before his eyelids fall shut and, purely on instinct, his tongue slips out against the barrel. The taste is bitter and acrid, oil and mineral and metal, but that doesn't stop him.
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