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pennedbylisse · 30 days ago

Text

THE DANCER & THE FIGHTER

summary: opposites attract - a law so pervasive that even subatomic particles abide by it. what made you think this story would be an exception to the rule?

dancer falls for the street fighter, or is it the fighter who first falls for the ballerina? neither knows once they get tangled up, because somehow it feels as though they've been falling for each other, for eternity, through past and future lives, fated to meet. two stars, one constellation, a united fate.

other stuff: lots of red symbolism (passion, violence, rawness, sacrifice). contrast between bruteness and fragility. jeongguk (almost) always has a torn brow or lip :( riddled with star-lore that if you get we might as well get married in june. like so much star-lore (if it's not already obvious) because I am nothing if not obsessed with the concept.

basically, my humble attempt at web-weaving all my hyperfixations and wrapping the product with a pretty jeongguk-shaped bow :))

genuine request that if you read and liked you heart or reblog. not only does it push my silly lil fic out for more people to read and have the chance of liking?? but it also lets me know what content engages most readers. thanks!!

warnings: unedited, verbose descriptions on occasion, author is not a ballerina so there might be some inconsistencies (call me out on it, plz!), still being added to and ongoing; I do have an idea of what the ending will be like

available on AO3 at pennedbylisse

current wc: ??

My Betelgeuse, brightest beacon splintering a sea of dark nights. I needed you to shine, even if it consumed you. I was no less of an exploiter than the same tyrant, Orion, which we antagonized and dreamed of escaping.

I loved you with urgency, famine and desperation. Yes, I loved you selfishly, but I never did love anyone else in the likeness.

You are the one. My one. My shadow and reflection. My Wonderwall.

˚　　　　✦　　　.　　. 　 ˚　.　　　　　 . ✦　　　　˚　　　　 . ★⋆. ࿐࿔ 　　　. 　　˚　　　　*　　　　✦　　　.　　.　　　✦　˚ 　　　　 ˚　.˚　　　　✦　　　.　　. 　 ˚　.　　

ORION FIGHT CLUB september still don't know my name ♬

Elailah has a single addiction.

It is not the one-too-many cups of bitter, amber liquid in the evenings. Not the kind to be inhaled between lips from a thin, white cylinder. Not the white powder she catches her dance company members seeking aid in, and later feigns oblivion towards. Not the injectable or otherwise consumable kind.

It is rather abstract in the way it consumes her instead; an insatiable greed, she has come to know it as. Not for wealth, as she lives a comfortable enough life with parents that sponsor her (so long as she complies with what they choose for her to do, of course, but I'll get into that later).

It is avarice for possibility. For what potentially lies across the fence, dug beneath picture-perfect green grass. It's the chase for what's not yet known, not yet had. The coulds:

I could ascend to prima ballerina, if only I just practice enough.

I could make him love me, if only I make myself pretty enough, make myself soft-spoken enough. If only I'm agreeable enough, they'll stay.

This is all a somewhat lengthy way of explaining why she finds herself at an illegal fight club this night. She'd thought, once again, "I could..." win his attention, if only I pretended to share his interests.

Perhaps it wouldn't have to be pretend, she'd thought on their commute. Perhaps she'd grow appreciative of the change of scenery.

Once more, her narrow-minded pursuit of perfection has led her astray.

A bolus sensation makes itself prominent at the column of her throat. Bobs up and down with each peck the rooster takes of its comparatively smaller opponent in the cage center stage.

She quarrels with the inhumanity of the scene, and the irony that it is the humans that are lacking it, not the animals squawking and fluttering, only fighting for a chance at survival.

The smaller of the two roosters, with its white feathers now crimson, stumbles, sways on clumsy footing. The crowd erupts into cheers, green dollar bills being raised in the air.

In the uprise, she's tossed, and her hold of his tough hand slips.

A follower, he hoists his bet, sings victory.

I could fix him, she defaults. I could soften him. When, really, all she's sure of in that moment is that she'll break down into tears, or hurl her dinner, or somehow both, if she stays a minute longer.

She excuses herself to use the restroom.

He doesn't notice. It could be that in the overwhelm, she voiced it barely above a mutter, but it is more likely he doesn't even care. Finds her all the boring and dull, however pretty.

Hostile banging shudders the bathroom door.

Elailah grips the sink, threatening to sway after a bout of hurling. She wipes the corner of her mouth with the back of her hand. Opens the tap, splashes some cold water onto her cheeks.

Swinging the door open, a lady threatens to stumble in. Visibly drunk off her mind, the lady mutters a derogatory mark as she brushes shoulders with Elailah in the exchange.

Elailah decides she's had enough of this side of town for tonight, and, possibly, for life. Walking down a crammed hall, she turns for the make-shift lobby of the establishment.

There's a figure hunched to one side on one of the benches flushed against the dim walls.

Another drunkard, she thinks.

But as she approaches the exit adjacent to him, she attempts to study him further, feigns discreetness in her swift side glances.

He's young. Couldn't be more than five years older than her, she estimates. (meh)

He's spitting blood onto the ground beside the bench. A small glistening puddle. Clutching the side of his ribcage as if it hurts to breath.

She thinks of Ian, her older brother. Tries to imagine how a paramedic would approach. What measure of assistance can be offered without too far compromising one's own safety.

Her voice isn't as comforting and practiced as Ian's, but she tries. "Hey..." Approaching him, her voice quivers "you ok?" Winces at the words that leave her gaping mouth. Clearly he is not ok. What she really means to say is "Could I help in some way?"

He merely coughs up a gargle as response.

What she settles for is retrieving a fresh sanitary pad from her bag. The last resort after violently rummaging through the bag's contents. Tears the packaging, unfolds it and hands it over.

"It's clean," she reassures, waving it slightly in front of his gaze. "I promise." It is only now she realizes his brow is in a disheveled state of crusted blood.

"There's no need-"

"I insist."

He collects it in his quivering hand.

Adrenaline, Elailah thinks. Then wants to ask "Who did this to you?" but restrains herself from meddling in stranger's business.

"Thanks," he clears his throat. It triggers a coughing fit which his crinkling face lets show he quickly regrets.

"I can contact the emergency services," she offers, reaching for her phone. "They can catch whoever did this to y-"

He holds one of his quivering hands in the air. "Don't"

There's bruising around his knuckles; all shades of red, young and old.

"Are you one of the fighters?" Her eyes widen, raking him, finding new wounds and the whisper of former ones across his skin. Questions bubble towards the tip of her tongue but instead she awaits his response.

"Something like that..."

Judging from how this side of town treats its residents, she's not far from danger. Ultimately, she might still need to call the emergency services, if not her brother. Nervously, she glances down at her phone in her grip.

Just as soon as it illuminates, it blackens. The silhouette of a hollow battery blinks in place of her usual (quote) wallpaper and she remembers how's shed been asking her date for a charger just before the roosters were brought out and the crowd erupted.

Swallowing her doubt, her face contorts with pity and helplessness as she says "I hate to ask...given yo-your condition..." she lets her gaze fall to the ground. "Would you be so kind to lend me your phone for only a moment? It's only a quick call to my brother. Turns out my phone died and I'm not entirely familiar with this part of the city. Not even partially familiar, actually."

She fidgets with her bag, awaiting a response. Watching to see if he'll retrieve it from his pocket.

He doesn't. Merely remains pressing the pad against his brow.

"I don't have one. Sorry."

"Oh," she smiles, though disappointment sinks in her chest. It occurs to her that he could be lying, out of spite, or weariness towards a stranger. "That's alright," she lies, but her light, airy tone doesn't let it be known.

Her steps start retreating on their own accord. "Thanks anyways. Hope you heal quick...and that the other guy is in worse condition- actually, no, I don't. I hope he's ok." She grimaces.

The bloody side of his lip starts to curl just the slightest despite the sting. She's cute, he thinks.

"Wait...where do you live?"

Silence.

"Relax..." he chuckles. "I only want to repay your kindness."

"Considered it paid."

"I'm not as bad as I look."

"You want me to take your word for it? Trust a stranger?"

"No. Just give me the benefit of the doubt until I do something undeserving."

"I would, if I clearly wasn't the one disadvantaged." She gawks at his build as he rises slowly and painfully. He could squash her out like a measly fruit fly.

"I can walk you home. It's not safe out there, this late. Besides, I could really use some fresh air, get out of here for a while. You'd be doing me a favor."

"East," she generalizes, hoping only to be led in the right direction. She could walk the rest.

"East?" he arches the intact brow, silver piercings glistening in the low lights. For a moment, Elailah thinks that perhaps he had been trying to pierce his other brow when it went awfully awry.

"Yeah, East..." she grips the handle of her bag firmly. "Around Sutton and Matlock," she mumbles, looking over her shoulder at the entrance doors that swing open with the arrival of other bidders.

Rich quarters, Jeongguk thinks and scans his gaze down her frame for the second time that night. Part of him envies her instantly. A smaller but nonetheless related part of him wants her to figure it out for herself, to struggle like the rest of the world.

Concealing his preconceptions, he nods, dark locks falling forward.

The cobblestone is glistening with moisture from a recent shower, such that Elailah has to measure her strides to save herself the embarrassment of slipping and falling all too ungracefully.

"What brings a Sutton and Matlock girl to this side of town?" He digs his hands in the pockets of his coat, partly to fiddle with the hole tearing the seam of the right one, and just as much to save them from the chill of impending winter.

Eilailah continues to watch her steps as she responds "Detrimental habits."

"What? Like gambling? Did you bid on me?" He smirks, curious to know.

She shakes her head. Shivers a little, tensing her shoulder up against her neck, as breeze blows in through the alley they are currently crossing. "I actually only saw the rooster match. I assume you were before it."

He frowns, slightly disappointed with the revelation she'd not witnessed his victory. It had been a well earned and bloody one. He'd actually bid on himself and would collect his earn the following day whilst speaking to ***.

"If it's not gambling, then..."

"Only seeing something that wasn't ever there." She doesn't elaborate, which leaves a curiosity searing his mind the rest of the quiet walk.

"So..." she strikes up conversation after the awkward falling into cadence. Glances up at the night sky instead of turning to face him. Tries to make out constellations she's studied during her delving into Greek mythology but the light pollution obscures the brightest silhouettes from this street. "What got you into fighting?"

He cranes his neck, stretching an imperceivable knot. "Father."

At the lack of elaboration, she inquires further, "He used to fight?" Thinks of it as mindless chatter to fill the crater of silence between their strides. Doesn't realize, yet, she's scratching up against an inflamed nerve.

Perhaps the topic of parents, altogether, should be held like religion or politics over dinner conversation. An societal standard she'd uphold if only her parents were the least bit imperfect.

At this assumption, he chuckles dryly. Shakes his head. "He's no professional. Can throw a sharp hook, though."

"He used to train then. 'Those who can't, teach' as they say."

Whilst she's enjoying the puzzle of a guessing game, he cuts to the point quite bluntly. "He sold me to the club in exchange for cash."

"Oh..." At a loss for words, she can't help but redundantly say "Oh..." through every layer of comprehension she crosses. "I'm sorry..."

"Why? It's not your fault."

"I did press the topic. You could have warned me."

"I actually don't get to talk about it. It's nice to let it out, in more ways than fists."

"Can't you just leave?"

Shakes head. "Tried. Twice. Failed. Twice."

"How?"

"I'm property. A product on the market. Each fight night, profit's made on me, that I don't event get a percentage of. The owner's not much for loss on investments."

"Are you chipped or something?"

"Might as well be. He can find me anywhere." He rubs his bicep in what can only be taken as a subconscious soothing practice.

"That's...that's fucked up." She stares vacantly at the cross streets ahead. Having acquired a new-found appreciation for her life, however mundane and unexciting.

When he drops her off at her block, she insists on walking the rest of the way by herself. He doesn’t object, understands her guards would be up with a stranger. She’s wearing space buns tied with soft pink ribbons that drape over her shoulders. the blow in the night breeze. She hadn't realized one had been loosening on the walk.

The ribbon descends, billows onto the concrete. Jeongguk bends to retrieve it, when he bends back up to holler for her attention, she’s gone. He keeps it as memory of a stranger that had shown him greater kindness than his blood; wraps it around his wrist like a bracelet, to hold onto the good in the world, secretly hoping to return it one day, though he doubts she’ll stop by the fighting grounds given how pale and drained she had seemed at their first meet.

elailah doesn't sleep a wink that night. in her silk pajama set, and soft duvets, she can't help but feel disgusted, nauseated.

࿐࿔ 　　　. 　　˚　　　　*　　　　✦　　　.　　.　　　✦　˚ 　

WONDER WALL THEATRE september

As far as can be recalled, Jeongguk has been regularly ailed by a disturbance in the rhythm of sleep-wake. In his scenario, the scale lies skewed almost entirely towards wake.

On nights he thinks long and hard about it, he suspects the disturbance likely originated some time around his father's descent into alcoholism. The thunderous thuds of steps on the creaking floor, accompanied by heated arguments between his parents would startle him awake. He'd stare at the dark ceiling of his childhood bedroom as if it were a puzzle in need of urgent resolve. A puzzle in which he was key. If only he could figure out what he'd done wrong, then perhaps his father would start acting like himself again; his mother would no longer cry religiously.

With a strangled breath, and tense limbs under dinosaur sheets, he'd tune-in on what was being said, fearful it would escalate. In fact, he'd often imagine scenarios where he'd have no choice but to run out of the safe seclude of his quiet room, into the kitchen - the source of his mother's agonizing screams - to find her caught in his father's brute grip. By that time, he was uniquely aware of just how rough his father's hands could be.

Though his body was tiny and frail then, the rage and adrenaline in his veins could have easily convinced him capable of toppling the mightiest Goliaths. Even if this particular Goliath had his father's face and voice.

Now, considerably less tiny, only a few hours from turning of legal age, he made sure to absolve the occasions in which he'd be home at the same time as his father. The tables had shifted away from genuine concern for his family's welfare, to the selfish instinct of self-preservation.

He wonders aimlessly through night-cast streets of his town, until his legs throb with exhaustion, but even that pain is preferable to that which is brought on by a beating from someone who's meant to keep you safe.

At first, he'd only stroll through isles at a grocery store. Study each nutritional label on the packages, to kill time, and boredom. When that didn't suffice, he'd eavesdrop on the conversation of other customers, families - actual ones, of bond and not just blood. Wondered how it felt to be them.

Since then, he's graduated to his very own hideout: a dilapidated cinema theatre - the closest thing to his own place so far in his early life.

At its prime, somewhere around the era of the ***s, it was coveted as the town's few sources of entertainment. Ever since the internet, more and more people find little use for places like it. With everything at the reach of a thumb over a cellphone screen, films have stopped debuting in velvet theatres, rendering places like this obsolete.

Still, it remains afoot, its stained and worn facade camoflaging with the rest of the historic street. The only reason it hasn't been demolished yet is the mayor's fixation in preserving history.

In a practiced motion, Jeongguk raises a wooden panel next to a "FOR RENT" sign and swoops into the cavity. Lets it fall behind him with a thud.

At the foot of the entrance, he gropes the pitch-black darkness for a familiar paper box. It makes a white, static-like noise when he grabs it and shakes it in his hand for confirmation.

He strikes one of its matches against its textured side and the darkness retreats around the amber flame.

There's a wax candle stick waiting to be lit by his scruffy sneakers. It's wick is misshapenly curled and tarred from previous lightings. It sparks when the flame is brought near it, borrowing its luminance.

Jeongguk shakes the match in his hand until the flame extinguishes. Flings the stick haphazardly across the dim room where it echoes. He rummages his pockets for his cigarettes and lights one with the flame on the candle.

Inhaling the warm smoke and with the wax candle dripping onto and from its make-shift holder (a glass soda bottle) he ascends a flight of curving stairs. Follows the fire exit passage to the roof.

He walks to the edge, leans over the cement to peer down at the sleeping street. No pedestrians this late into night, and barely any cars whirring pass on their ways home.

Unsurprisingly, nothing's changed since yesterday night; there's still a closed sign on the door of the bakery, that only opens weekends, across the street, and next to that, the 24/7 convenience store is reliably warmly lit, the emo cashier bored, scrolling on their phone. The one damaged streetlight still flickers, though he'd placed a bet against himself that it would fuse out by the start of the month. Somehow, he owes himself for that; hasn't decided what yet. Probably wont amount to anything.

The town has steered away from the abandoned theatre, a dark cloud of folklore looming over the building. Or dark threads of folklore covering the lot, like dusty cobwebs.

Entertaining the rumors, Jeongguk has, on two distinct occasions, attempted to summon the spirits of the departed. The first instance: craving companionship; that other time: seeking answers to an existential conundrum he'd stumbled upon through the late night pondering he often entertained himself with in place of dreams.

This night, he's not in search of ghosts or answers to impossible question. He is merely seeking out the quiet of a sleeping town as background noise for a volatile mind.

While he consciously inhales a pair of deep breaths, attempting to ground himself in the moment, he mindlessly weaves and unweaves the ribbon from the girl around his wrist and fingers.

He's lost in the maze of his mind, thrashing amidst the competing voices. His thoughts are deeper and more abstract than people give him credit. They see a scruffy street thug, and nothing more. He's awful at voicing it, if anyone dares to ask; it comes at him as images, reels, often so overwhelmingly loud and fast that he can't restrain the impulse to funnel it through pencil on paper in a bid to catch up. To stay afloat the surface of the sea.

The pen translates the abstract of his mind into a tangible product, until it takes a life of its own amidst the pages of a tiny black journal, barely seamed to its own spine at this point.

wonders who the girl was. how he'd never seen her before. what led her to Orion, and why. why'd shed extended kindness to a disheveled stranger. so he draws the girl amidst the rowdy crowd earlier that evening. draws the ribbon draping down her shoulders like some sort of angelic halo. draws her creased eyes in cooncern as she asked of his condition.

you see, for the longest time, jeongguk found himself alone. like the sleeping town cloaked in night, jeon found himself enveloped by darkeness; a lone star in an early universe. it hadn't occurred to him that one day floating debris could compact itself tight enough to birth a neighboring star which he ultimately would become engrossed in studying. (how are stars born?)

࿐࿔ 　　　. 　　˚　　　　*　　　　✦　　　.　　.　　　✦　˚ 　

ORION FIGHT CLUB September

SOMEWHERE EAST, AROUND SUTTON & MATLOCK september, still

Elailah gets out of dance rehearsals an hour later than scheduled, a change from the usual two hours over, and though that would normally be enough to put a pep in her step on the way home, today she feels a storm clouding her mood. She sort of lets it drench her. Her gym bag is heavy enough to draw a huff from her when she hoists it up off the locker room floor and shoves past the snickering, rumoring juniors. Heavy with all the criticism she'd received from her instructor for the better part of practice. Ballet master Byron has always shown a tendency to isolate her "poor posture" and "lazy arms" since she joined the company but today the comments were a hail storm. One would think her skin's calloused over from the amount of cuts inflicted by criticism; it's still as tender and youthful as when she'd fall on the concrete of her neighborhood while chasing friends in a game of tag. she holds the strap of her bag over her shoulder in both fists. holds the weight of the doubt that, maybe, she'll never be good enough for the part, as Byron so often accuses. and perhaps he's right, having trained enough dancers to discern between the ones that have the enigmatic spark and those that don't. no matter how much she dances in front of the mirror, she can never tell whether the sparks there, doesn't know where to look, really. is it meant to be in her gaze? in her poised smile? in the slopes of her arms and legs, which she painfully carves and molds? or is it something more abstract, gleaming from the soul, through the layers of tule. she thinks that if she were to see it one day, of sudden nature, she'd cling to it desperately. a lost ship having found its lighthouse. for now she has little-to-no alternative but to grope the darkness.

At times like this, it feels like all her life she's been auditioning for a part. She doesn't even know the casting, doesn't even know if its a character she'd like to become but it's no matter. she's an expert at becoming what people want her to be.

She doesn't expect to find both of her parents home when she sluggishly mounts the stairs up to their apartment door.

They're sat at the kitchen island, nursing warm mugs of coffee. Bills and print-outs are loitered across the textured surface of the counter.

Having heard enough attacks to her persona today, however disguised by constructive intent, she decides she can't hear anymore of it. She retreats down the hall she'd sauntered through just minutes ago.

Calls her one friend, from primary school. used to be neighbors before their parents moved her up into the city district for better dedication to dance. now they only keep in touch via socials, and scarce and few in between face calls.

she's still the only friend she has. at the dance company, it's hardly friendship between the students. it's rivalry fueled by ambition and misplaced greed of parents. every kid is fighting for a scholarship, or a position on the recital, hoping for their one chance in the limelight.

Childhood company wilts in the past as the phone call directs to voicemail.

E fiddles with the strap of her bag. repositions it so it's no longer digging into the flesh of her shoulder.

she shoots a text at her brother, Ian, the paramedic. starts walking down the block to his shared flat (shares it with other paramedics who thought they could better save for medical or nursing school if they could cut their rent into fourths amongst themselves). she types she's headed over, asks if he's around.

"sorry, sis. I'm on shift. ten more hours."

"can i just stop by, i think i forgot my cream leg warmers last week."

"No one's home today to let you in and Nick lost the spare key" they kept in a dead plant vase at the foot of the entrance next to the door mat. "I'll look around when i get off to see if I find it.

her parents could think she's still at practice. it wouldn't be an oddity. she just needed a moment of quiet solitude. just wanted to be no one or entirely someone else for only a moment before resuming her perpetual role casting.

and for reason she can't entirely name, her strides lead west. towards a sketchy, dingy fight club she first visited a week ago.

she visits the club the following night, drawn compulsively as if in a manic state. cloaked in oversized attire enough to be confused with a male figure in the boisterous crowd. she sinks into it, allows it to embrace her, as she watches from beneath her hood the fights proceed, all the while holding herself at the edge of her seat for the familiar pierced brow and set of dark locks.

she down plays it as pity. btut perhaps she's caught herself in her own web again. fallen to her own ploys of saving things whenever she feels helpless herself.

that night she's leaving to head back home. replying to her mother who asked when she'll be home. "did coach point out your sloppy form during *** move again. I've told you to strengthen your ankles*** lol.

a weird figure approcahes her in the dim valley. she doesn't realize at first.

somehow jeongguk comes to her rescue, lures her out of there muttering how it's not safe. takes her to his hideout until the storm blows over (apparently they were his rivals?).

Jeongguk's hand swiftly gyrates. Bold charcoal on paper, smearing against the side of his hand, his knuckles. The absract circles and frames begin to consolidate into a vivid figure on the page. Perhaps it because he deeply understands restlessness, a bystander can spot it in his incessant bouncing leg, the knibble of his cheek, the drumming of his fingers. whatver the reason, he manages to capture the fluidity of the dancer on the stage so that the drawing emanates her swiftness, her grace, her state of action, transcendence. she is dancing across the page just as much as she is dancing up on the stage.

he briefly glances up from his journal, scrutinizing the lines of her figure through his parted fringe*. doesn't stop his pencil from moving as he does so, doesn't want to disrupt the momentum.

when he looks back down at the page, blotches of red pepper its surface. he jolts his hand, sliding it to the margins of the page to inspect the source and finds the trail of red follows his flesh. lifting his hand for inspection, a tear over the abused flesh of his knuckles stings.

undeterred, he starts a new frame on the bottom left fourth of the page. emphasizes the sleek, elegant lines of her swan-like neck, her arms bowed about her.

had it not been for the intense stage lights, he wouldn't have noticed, seated in the dark auditorium a number of rows back, a tear glisten down her face. it did nothing to erode her smile. a paradox, that smile seemed. stoic and permanent but so fragile. a ceramic vase, sculpted to perfection, hardened by fire. no matter how many times she had collided with the gorund - which he estimated was more than he could count on his fingers - it persisted, never shattering.

and that's when his hands slowed on the page, leg ceased its bouncing, muscles laxed, eyes rounded. like seeing something hidden for hte first time, he came to realize she and him are kindered in spirit. kindred in pain. that while she dresses in heavenly tulle, and he in metal armor, their souls are weaved of the same thread.

࿐࿔ 　　　. 　　˚　　　　*　　　　✦　　　.　　.　　　✦　˚ 　

OUTTAKES

(things i wish i wrote better, emphasized more or changed altogether and why)

bit unrealistic how she'd walk with a stranger through the night, through an unknown and dangerous side of town, without access to her phone without as much as constant, paranoid glances over her shoulder.

Would have liked to have further developed the contrast between their respective sides of town (reminiscent of Gatsby’s East and West Egg) and emphasized the boundary line between the two, perhaps positioned Wonderwall theater dead center of it to symbolize their union.

Wished I'd exposed more of the toxic parent-daughter dynamic on Elailah's side to make the reader empathize with her desire to flee.

#jeon jeongguk fanfic #jeongguk fanfic au #bts jjk #bts jjk au #mostly prose #an exploration of a thematic dynamic #there's no plot lol #only my adoration for koo #and star lore #im just a girl #KEEP IT SIMPLE KEEP IT SIMPLE KEEP IT SIMPLE #secretly wrote this in the hopes dappleddaisies would grace me with their attention :(#honestly don't care if anybody reads this as long as holly reads it :((#kind of cried while writing the rooster scene :( hate it here #holly please read this

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