&& 𝘚𝘖 𝘚𝘏𝘌 𝘉𝘓𝘖𝘖𝘔𝘚.

… ❝ 𝑬𝒗𝒆𝒓𝒚𝒕𝒉𝒊𝒏𝒈 𝒅𝒐𝒆𝒔 𝒇𝒆𝒆𝒍 𝒍𝒊𝒌𝒆 𝒂 𝒅𝒓𝒆𝒂𝒎, 𝒅𝒐𝒆𝒔𝒏'𝒕 𝒊𝒕? ˚ ༘♡ ⋆｡˚ ꕥ -ˋˏ ༻❁༺ ˎˊ- OLIVIA HAAS; LOVER OF BOTANY— mind forever inquisitive.

A low whistle; fingers slick from a clever mouth, breath exhaled—whilst a free hand settles upon steel, wheelchair moving forward.

Metal 𝒔𝒑𝒊𝒏𝒔, bracing cold against a loving touch—as she hauls herself across the ground, well violated by the pouring heavens. A shiver embraces a spine, jumper a little solace in the grand scheme of things.

Wheels spin, loving hands gliding against its blackened edge—tongue shifting as a mouth hums a low song. The grass is little consequence to her path, despite the fog’s wet kiss upon the earth.

Olivia props herself upon spread fingers, elbows buckling from weight——hands digging into mud, searching for fennel. She swallows her cries; cheek savaged by hungry bones, crimson blooming in a maw. She is hungry, so, 𝓼𝓸 hungry. These forests have no end.

“𝘛𝘩𝘢𝘵—“ a soft click of the tongue, a lithe hand reaches for the ( reader’s, ) && a finger rolls over fresh, blooming bruises. “Might need arnica. This inflammation will not do. You need to be well for whatever comes our way.”

&& her? Hands are 𝒔𝒕𝒂𝒓𝒗𝒆𝒅—time in this gloom, does little for warmth. Glacial winter seeps with no gentle ceremony. A hand wanders up fabric-covered arm (such is the shiver with teeth upon a shattered spine && weak legs), cranium tilting. She does not need to see him, •