Sep 7, 2015
bychoiice
It’s always felt a little ill at ease on her tongue, the weight of the device in her hand cold. Everything’s cold. The only real redeeming quality these things have is that for a moment... Half a moment... They make her feel less cold. She senses him like a thunderclap, the hair on the back of her neck standing up before she hears, sees or scents him. He smells like gunpowder. He smells like fire. He smells... insulating. It’s hash this time and she hands it to him without hesitation, knowing without knowing that he’ll take it from her hand. Sometimes it’s nice to share, she thinks.