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butchcarmy ยท 7 months ago
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Blood Orange (Ch 1: The Walk-In)
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Carmy Berzatto x Reader (R18)
Rating: E (7.3k words)
links: fic playlist, pinterest board, ao3 link, ch 2
Summary: Losing your job is the worst thing to ever happen to you. Getting hired by Carmen Berzatto is a close second. You tell yourself that The Beef is only temporary, that it's just a replacement until you find something better. It doesn't work. You've stopped listening. You've had a taste of Carmy, and now you don't think you're ever gonna be able to let go. No matter how bad it gets.ย 
Content Tags: secret workplace relationship/sex, friends/coworkers with benefits, they/them afab reader, miscommunication, mental illness (carmy and reader), dom/sub dynamics, dom carmy (for now), enemies to friends to lovers (eventually), unhealthy coping mechanisms, dysfunctional relationship
A/N: It's finally here! New series! We even get sex in the first chapter! In my other fic, I'm taking care of Carmy. In this one, I'm making him worse. Of course, here's a disclaimer that I DONโ€™T condone or intend to glorify any of this behavior. It's just compelling to write. Enjoy!
You return to The Beef for the first time in years when you're at your lowest.
The only upside to this abysmal situation is that the job was shitty. The job you just got laid off from, to be exact. Retail was never your passion, and there's a certain relief in knowing you don't have to go back to that windowless place. You didn't play an important role in the ecosystem, but it played a pretty crucial role in yours. It kept a roof over your head.
You're sure you couldโ€™ve sued them in some fashion for letting you go without any warning, any parachute, but you didn't have the luxury of time. You needed to figure out how you were going to pay rent, and fast.
After the rage boiled over (not to say that it's resolved, the residual anger's leveled into an even simmer), you pulled your hair back, found your cleanest, nicest outfit, and started your job search. With your updated resume in hand and scuffed sneakers on your feet, you've trekked all over Chicago looking for a new job. You weren't optimistic, nor were you hopeful.ย 
You suppose the only word you could use to describe yourself was desperate, and it was a matter of finding someone that was just as desperate, if not more desperate than you. To put it politely, the odds of that were low. Very low.ย 
You got laid off that very morning. The rest of your afternoon has been spent walking from door to door to every establishment you could spot. By some cruel twist of fate, none of them were hiring. The ones that were hiring looked unenthusiastic, even adverse to taking your resume.ย 
โ€œWhen would you be able to start?โ€ Some of the workers asked.ย 
โ€œTomorrow,โ€ was your desperately honest answer.ย 
โ€œIf all goes well, you'll hear from us in a week,โ€ was their response. The unspoken was, of course, the fact that radio silence was more likely than an email or phone call. Places didn't even send rejection letters anymore.ย 
โ€œThanks for your time,โ€ you'd say, bringing out a bright smile from a complete lack of reserves, and as soon as you turned around, your face would drop.ย 
Your hopes were low, nearly non-existent, but damn. Damn. It wasn't looking good for you.
That's why you enter The Beef. You vaguely remember visiting this place a couple years ago, back when you first moved to Chicago. The owner wasโ€ฆpretty nice, actually. You don't remember his name, but you remember having a pleasant conversation with him. Of course, there's nothing you can do if he doesn't have a job opening, but it wouldn't be bad to see a friendly face. Even if that face is from someone who's basically a stranger.ย 
The doorbell rings when you enter. It catches the attention of the man standing behind the counter, and with how his head jolts up, you'd think the bell functioned as an alarm instead.ย 
โ€œWelcome,โ€ he says. Your first impression, other than the fact that he seems very, very, tired, is that he's irritatingly attractive. If anything, the eyebags and the greased back waves only add to whatever the hell he's got going on.ย 
โ€œHi. Umโ€ฆโ€ You're briefly caught off guard by his biceps, but you catch yourself. โ€œI was actually wondering if you guys were hiring.โ€
โ€œWe are,โ€ he replies, and it's the best thing you've heard all day. He lights up like the spark of a lighter, bright and instantaneous. It doesn't shake the pervasive exhaustion that radiates off him, though.ย 
โ€œThank god,โ€ you mutter, and you want to take it back (it's far too casual), but he cracks an amused smile that makes you want to dissolve like a pinch of salt in a sea of sauce. โ€œSorry. Do you mind if I talk to the owner? We met a while ago, andโ€”โ€
โ€œI'm the owner,โ€ he interrupts, and any other words you had planned fall away.
โ€œSorry?โ€ You repeat. โ€œI swear it was this guyโ€”he had short dark hair, I thinkโ€”โ€
โ€œYeah, he left the place to me. Didn't want it anymore, so.โ€ He shrugs. The light you just saw from him has fizzled away like the end of a sparkler, short-lived and ultimately disappointing.ย 
โ€œOh. Got it. Uhโ€ฆโ€ To your credit, you don't fumble for too long. You have a lot of questions, but you've got more pressing issues. You pluck out a resume from a file folder. โ€œHere's my resume, then.โ€
He takes it from you, flips it to face him. He's quiet as his eyes lower down the page, and you wonder if it's going to be a guillotine or a pot of gold at the end of this. The only sounds in the entrance are the passing cars outside, the rickety air conditioning, and muffled chatter from the back.ย 
โ€œYou worked as a prep cook.โ€ He says it like a fact, but you know it's a question.ย 
โ€œYeah, nothing fancy. Just at some chain restaurants.โ€
โ€œRight. I see you worked as a line cook at another location. Which one did you prefer?โ€
โ€œUhโ€ฆโ€ They both came with their separate pains. Your honest answer is that being a line cook was one of the most stressful experiences of your life, but if he has a position open as a line cook, you don't want to fuck it up. โ€œThey were both fine. I think I was a little better as a prep cook, but I didn't mind either.โ€
He hums, satisfied by your answer. At least itโ€™s only half of a lie.ย ย ย ย ย ย ย ย ย ย ย ย ย ย ย ย ย ย ย ย ย ย ย ย ย ย ย ย ย ย ย ย ย ย ย ย ย ย ย ย ย ย ย ย ย ย ย ย ย ย ย ย ย ย ย ย ย ย ย ย ย ย ย ย ย ย ย ย ย ย ย ย ย ย ย ย ย ย ย ย ย ย ย ย ย ย ย ย ย ย ย ย ย ย ย ย ย ย ย ย ย ย ย ย ย ย ย ย ย ย ย ย ย ย ย ย 
โ€œHow do you work under pressure?โ€
โ€œGood,โ€ you answer quickly. โ€œWell enough.โ€
โ€œWilling to learn?โ€
โ€œObviously. I meanโ€ฆโ€ You think you see a flash of a smile, but you're unsure. โ€œYeah.โ€
โ€œWhen'd you be able to start?โ€ You're surprised he's already asking this.
โ€œTomorrow,โ€ you say, just like youโ€™ve been, and his reaction is different from the others. He nods. He doesn't smile, not like he did earlier, but you can tell this is a good sign.ย 
Before he can get a word out, there's a sharp, metallic explosion of noises that resounds from the direction of the kitchen.ย 
โ€œUh,โ€ he starts, eyebrows pinched in irritation, the voices come in.ย 
โ€œI told you, you have to say behind!โ€ A woman's voice. She sounds young, but there's no real way to be sure of that.
โ€œHow the hell did you not hear me coming?โ€ A Chicago accent, male. Older, maybe. โ€œI was in the middle of having a conversation with Tinaโ€”โ€
โ€œGreat, I'm so happy for you, I don't give a shit, now this has all went to wasteโ€”โ€
โ€œWell, who's fault is that?โ€
โ€œWho's fault is that? You did not justโ€”โ€
โ€œGuys!โ€ The man you've been talking to gives you an apologetic glance before walking to the back, pushing through the folding doors. You catch a glimpse of the two people arguing on the other side before it shuts. โ€œI'm tryinโ€™ to talk to a new hire here. We can't be like this right now. Not ever, but especially right now.โ€
Finally, the first sane person I've met all day, you think.ย 
โ€œCarmy, talk some sense into her,โ€ the older guy shouts, and it gives you a name to the face. โ€œAll of this on the floorโ€”โ€
โ€œYou didn't say behind,โ€ the woman repeats, except with more fury in it this time.
โ€œYou didn't say behind,โ€ he imitates back. โ€œCarmyโ€”โ€
โ€œSheโ€™s right. Richie, step out,โ€ Carmy says. โ€œSyd, you clean this up.โ€
โ€œButโ€”โ€ You hear her start to protest.ย 
โ€œYou spilled it, you clean it,โ€ he cuts through, decisive and firm.
โ€œI know, but Richieโ€”โ€
โ€œClean it,โ€ he repeats, firmer, darker this time, and there's a beat of silence.ย 
โ€œ...Yes, chef.โ€
โ€œI told you to step out,โ€ Carmy tells who you assume is Richie.ย 
โ€œYou're just gonna let herโ€”โ€
โ€œStep the fuck outside right fucking now!โ€ Carmy screams, his patience shooting away like a gunshot. You feel something shrivel inside you, and not in a good way. โ€œDo the one fucking thing you're good at and get out of the fucking way!โ€
Yeahโ€ฆdefinitely not in a good way.
From what you hear, it sounds like Richie has to get wrestled outside by someone, whom you're not sure. After another minute, Carmy returns to the front.ย 
โ€œI'm sorry about that. Fuckingโ€”โ€ He drags a hand across his face. You swear his eyebags have grown heavier in the 5 minutes he was in the kitchen. โ€œWhat was I saying?โ€
โ€œUm, I was saying that I could start tomorrow,โ€ you remind him, although the vigor you had just stated it with is a bit fizzled out.ย 
โ€œRight. Okay. Uhโ€”โ€ He pats his hands on his apron, searching for something. A pen and paper appear in his hands, and he scribbles something on it. This is when you notice his tattoos. A flower on the back of his hand. Surprising. โ€œYou're hired. Here's the paperwork you need to fill out, along with the number and email you'll be hearing from me at.โ€
โ€œWhat?โ€ You take the sheets, but the smooth paper doesn't feel real in your hands. His handwriting is hasty and dark, like he was running out of time on a test. โ€œI mean, I'm just surprised.โ€
โ€œDo you not want it?โ€
โ€œI want it,โ€ you promise, and you feel your cheeks flush. This is a bad time to yet again notice how attractive he is. His pretty eyes, his nose. The little moles under his left eye. โ€œY-Yeah, I want the job.โ€
โ€œGood.โ€ He motions towards the sticky note again. โ€œCome in at 8 am tomorrow. You'll be starting as a prep cook, which you've done before.โ€
โ€œOkay. Okay, yeah, I'll be there.โ€ The reality is setting in now, and an odd cocktail of relief, apprehension, and excitement is settling in your stomach. โ€œThank you so much.โ€ I just got laid off from my job this morning, so this means a lot, you want to say, but it's too soon. You don't want to say anything that'll make him change his mind about whatever he sees in you.ย 
โ€œThank you,โ€ he echoes back. โ€œWe need the help. I'll see you tomorrow.โ€
โ€œSee you,โ€ you reply, and with that, the door rings behind you. A customer comes up to the counter, peering up at the menu. You figure this is your cue to leave. He's not looking at you anymore anyway.ย 
So, I got a job now, you update your friends, texting them on your way home on the metro. As the relieved congratulations come flying in, another remark seems to resound amongst all of them.ย 
I can't believe you got the job just like that. That place must be desperate, too, is roughly what they've all said. The thing is, they're not wrong.ย 
You managed to find someone more desperate than you in the job economy. Just one, but that was enough. It makes you think, though. You think about Carmy's weary blue eyes, his brief smile, and his hand tattoos. You wonder if it's just the restaurant that gives him that bone-deep exhaustion, or if it's a smaller part of a bigger picture.ย 
You think about it for the rest of your commute, you think about it as you smoke on the porch, you think about it as you lay in bed. You think about it as you fill out the paperwork, fingers tracing where Carmy's written his name, number, and email.
Carmen Berzatto
773-555-0901
So Carmy's a nickname, you think. Not about what type of boss he's going to be, not about what it's going to be like working under someone you are obviously attracted to.ย 
Maybe you should be more worried about this.
If it's bad, I'll just find another job, you tell yourself, and you foolishly believe it.
. . . . .
Your first day on the job starts with introductions.ย 
At least, that's about as much as you've figured out so far. When he sees you upon arrival, he pauses and stares at you like he's forgotten. Not a great start. Granted, he does snap out of it. That's when he tells you to follow him, which is where you currently find yourself. You're not sure where he's leading to, only that he's introducing you to others as you pass them by.
โ€œTheyโ€™re working with us starting today,โ€ Carmy tells everyone. โ€œTheyโ€™re gonna be on prep.โ€
Right. So that's what you'll be doing. At least he told you that much yesterday.
The catalog of coworkers expands exponentially. You remember Sydney from yesterday, and to her credit, she apologizes about having you witness her fight with Richie, who conveniently isn't here yet. She seems the nicest out of all the bunch, so you decide to let it slide.ย 
Marcus is pretty nice, too. So are Ebra, Sweeps, Manny, Angelโ€”everyone seems to be pretty alright. Itโ€™s obvious theyโ€™re standoffish by you being in their space. You find it hard to hold it against them. Youโ€™re not really sure how your relationships with them are going to pan out. There are only three that youโ€™re particularly unsure on.
The first and obvious one is Richie. He came in eventually and didnโ€™t give you the best impression, immediately talking over everyone and oozing arrogance. The only salvageable thing is that heโ€™s not even a chef. At least you wonโ€™t have to be in the kitchen with him much. You want to avoid the honor of talking to him as much as possible.
Tina is next. She clearly doesnโ€™t enjoy having someone new in the ecosystem, and sheโ€™s spent more time ignoring you than talking with you. As you understand it, sheโ€™s close to the rest of the staff since theyโ€™ve all been together for a while. Minus you and Syd, as you learn sheโ€™s only been there for a week. You think Tina will warm up to youโ€ฆeventually.
Carmy is the last one, and heโ€™sโ€ฆheโ€™sโ€ฆ
Heโ€™s something else.
He has you doing prep for most of the day. After introducing you to everyone and giving you a brief tour, he brings you to your station, scratched up stainless steel.
โ€œYouโ€™re going to be cutting onions and carrots today for the stock. The vegetables are in the walk-in I showed you earlier, and when itโ€™s done, it goes on the first shelf.โ€ Carmyโ€™s to your right, set up at his own station. You swear you keep your eyes focused on the vegetables, not his biceps in that shirt, butโ€ฆ โ€œYou should already know this, but label everything. I donโ€™t want to see anything without a date. Got it?โ€
โ€œYes, chef,โ€ you confirm, snapping out of it. Heโ€™s been flinging new information at you like itโ€™s a war and heโ€™s gunning to survive. But so are you. โ€œIโ€™ll do my best.โ€
โ€œI expect as such.โ€ He slides over a peeler for the carrots and some plastic bins for trash. โ€œItโ€™s just a stock, so donโ€™t worry about an even cut. Just salvage whatever you can, cut off anything that doesnโ€™t look good.โ€ You nod. โ€œBeen a year or so since you did this, right?โ€
โ€œYeah. I cook regularly, but Iโ€™ll need to get back into the groove of things. And I will,โ€ you add hastily. โ€œIโ€™ll combine them into this one when I'm done, right?โ€ You ask, nudging a large plastic container.ย 
โ€œCorrect.โ€ A brief smile flashes across his face. โ€œYou're already following quicker than I thought you would.โ€ Youโ€™re not sure if he means it as an insult or a compliment, so you decide to take it as the latter.ย 
โ€œI haven't even chopped anything yet.โ€
โ€œI know.โ€ His expression is flat again. You resist a laugh.ย  He plucks an onion from the bin, puts it in front of you. โ€œShow me a rough dice.โ€
The knife is sharp. You notice this as you place careful cuts into the onion. It's not quite as sharp as his unnerving gaze, which layers pressure upon pressure. It builds up like a pastry puff, thin multitudes of layers expanding upward. You need to be good. You need to be perfect. You don't want to disappoint him, not this early, even though you've barely been here for an hour.ย 
It's just a shitty old sandwich shop, you tell yourself, but your dicing is uneven and you briefly think about accidentally chopping your fingers off.ย 
โ€œNot my best work,โ€ you admit, vaguely breathless. Carmy hasn't said anything yet.
โ€œIt'll do.โ€ You're waiting for him to say something else, give you some tips, but he doesn't. Irritation prickles to the tips of your fingers. โ€œI'll be back to check in on you later.โ€
You stand there, motionless and shocked in the aftermath. You're not sure what you expected from today, but being abandoned an hour in was not at the top of your bucket list.ย 
Man, what the fuck, you think, the thought clear in the silence around you, and that's the last time you can hear yourself think for the rest of the shift.ย 
There's a prepared stock from yesterday simmering on the stove behind you. It's flanked by boiling potatoes and reducing tomato sauce. The heat from itโ€™s searing your back like a steak, slowly drawing lines of moisture all over the surface of your shirt. Your coworkers constantly invade your space to check on them. You suppose it's not their fault that the kitchen, but it's still irritating. They're also all shouting over each other like it's a competition.
โ€œWho the fuck touched my stockโ€”โ€
โ€œNo one touched your stupid shitty stockโ€”โ€
โ€œI am trying to find this cutting board, will someone pleaseโ€”โ€
You move on from the onions with only a thin layer of sweat collected at your hairline.ย 
Your hands are shaky as they peel the carrots. You know you're not getting as efficient of a shave as you could be, but the caffeine crash from your morning coffee is getting to you. You don't remember the last time you drank water. A cigarette sounds nice.ย 
โ€œClean your station, chef.โ€ Carmy materializes next to you. You hear him before you see his hands scooping carrot shavings into a plastic container. It shocks you so much that you almost cut yourself.ย 
โ€œSorry, chef,โ€ you reply reflexively. You look down at your station, straightening your tools. You want to ask if you can take your break, but you don't want to look any weaker than you do already. โ€œSo, uh, do we get 30's here?โ€
When you don't get a response, your head snaps up, irritation on the tip of your tongue, but he's not even there.ย 
Fucking hell, you think, annoyance simmering into something akin to anger, and you go back to finishing your prep.ย 
You don't see him for another hour after that. It's not even him that tells you to take your 15, it's Syd, who noticed you were half-way through your shift and on the verge ofโ€ฆsomething.ย 
โ€œYou finished the prep he gave you, right?โ€ Syd had asked. You told her you finished and put it back in the walk-in. โ€œYeah, then go take your break. Did he not tell you we get 15's here?โ€
โ€œHe didn't,โ€ you say, too annoyed to bother hiding the disdain in your face. Sydney just sighs, rolling her eyes, and you think you love her.ย 
โ€œAsshole.โ€ She makes a shooing motion at you then. โ€œGo, get a break from this madness. It'll get better, I promise.โ€
You're not sure if you believe her, but you do step outside to take your break.ย 
As you stand outside in the back, you take note of tightness in your body that you weren't even aware of. The cigarette smoke calms you, loosens you. Or maybe you owe that to getting out of that hot kitchen.ย 
This time, you see Carmy before you hear him. You turn to the door to see him stepping out, a pack of smokes in his hand.ย 
โ€œHey,โ€ he says.ย 
โ€œHey,โ€ you reply.
โ€œEverythinโ€™ goinโ€™ okay so far?โ€
โ€œYeah. It's fine.โ€ Other than everything.
โ€œReally?โ€ His surprise just pisses you off further. โ€œWell, that's good.โ€
โ€œ...Yeah.โ€ You decide if your mouth stays unoccupied, you'll start cussing him out, so you put your cigarette back in your mouth.ย 
โ€œYou're bleeding.โ€
โ€œWhat?โ€
โ€œI said, you're bleeding. Your hand.โ€ย 
You look down at your hand holding the cigarette, and sure enough, there's a thin, shallow cut oozing blood near one of your knuckles.ย 
โ€œShit,โ€ you mutter, quickly sucking the skin into your mouth. When you pull it back, the red refills. โ€œI didn't even notice.โ€
โ€œLet's get a bandaid on that.โ€ He puts his unlit cigarette back into his pack. โ€œI have some in my office.โ€
That's how you end up in the enclosed, dark space of his office, seated on the only chair as he leans back against his cluttered desk. The dingy first-aid kit is propped on top of a shaky stack of papers. Carmy takes out a bandaid from it and peels it open.
โ€œThought I gave you a sharp knife, it shouldn't have cut you like that,โ€ Carmy comments.ย 
โ€œIt was sharp,โ€ you correct. โ€œGuess I just fucked up.โ€
โ€œIt happens,โ€ he says, which surprises you. He keeps surprising you. You just can't seem to figure him out. โ€œLet me see the cut.โ€
You only realize that he's putting the bandaid on you when he cradles your hand in his. His hands are warm.ย 
He has so many hand tattoos. You notice the letters on his fingers first, the SOU curled around your palm. You notice the other tattoo on the back of his hand next, since that's the one carefully placing the bandaid on you.ย 
He wraps it around your finger just right. Not too tight, not too loose.ย 
โ€œIs that too tight?โ€ He asks, almost in a whisper. He's so close, and he smells like kitchen oil, cigarette smoke, and a faded cologne you can't place.ย 
โ€œNo, it's okay.โ€ You don't mean to talk so quietly back, but you do. You can't stop staring at his fingers. They're long and marked up with silver scars and burns. If you look carefully, you can place the locations of his callouses.ย 
โ€œGood.โ€ You donโ€™t know why he does it, but he runs his thumb across the seams of where your bandaid overlaps. Surely itโ€™s just to secure it furtherโ€ฆsurely.
โ€œThank you.โ€ Heโ€™s still holding your hand. Youโ€™re unsure if youโ€™re imagining the tension in the air or not. Everything feels more intimate behind closed doors, especially in low light. โ€œI couldโ€™ve done it myself.โ€
โ€œItโ€™s easier if another person does it.โ€ He lets go, finally, and you try not to mourn the loss. โ€œDid you finish prepping for the stock?โ€
โ€œWhat you gave me, yeah.โ€
โ€œAlright. Letโ€™s go take a look at it, then,โ€ he says, like that isnโ€™t the most anxiety inducing thing youโ€™ve ever heard.ย 
โ€œR-Right now?โ€
โ€œAs opposed to?โ€ He opens the door to his office, and the muffled noises in the kitchen become sharp and clear again, like emerging from underwater. โ€œCome on.โ€
You donโ€™t know how it happens, but Carmy gets into five separate arguments on the way to the walk-in. FIVE. To be fair, two of them are from Richie.
โ€œIโ€™ve been telling you guys to sharpen your knives, donโ€™t fucking treat them like this,โ€ Carmy shouts, trudging over to someoneโ€™s station. โ€œYou see this? This is exactly what we should not be doing! How many times have I said this today?! Donโ€™tโ€”โ€œ
โ€œStop going into my office when Iโ€™m not there,โ€ Carmy hisses at Richie next. โ€œYou keep fucking up where the papers are put, and I canโ€™t find anything! Itโ€™s enough of a mess as it is! Noโ€”I saidโ€”cousin, listen to meโ€”โ€œ
โ€œEveryone shut the hell up, clean your stations, and get the fuck back to work!โ€ Is the last thing he shouts before slamming the door to the walk-in behind you. He slams it so hard the wire racks rattle. You decide not to comment.ย 
The difference in sound is eerie. Youโ€™re always surprised by how sound proof these walk-in fridges are.
โ€œIs this the prep you did today?โ€ Carmy asks, touching one of the clear plastic bins. Sure enough, itโ€™s the one you placed there a moment ago.
โ€œYeah, it is.โ€ You chew the inside of your cheek. You were hoping he would be in an okay mood when he checked your work. It seemed like he was at first, but now?
โ€œIt's on the wrong shelf.โ€
โ€œWhat?โ€ You stare at it sitting on the first shelf, just like he told you to. โ€œYou told me to put it on the first shelf.โ€
โ€œIt goes on the second shelf.โ€ He's pissed, and there's ice in your veins. He huffs as he takes the container and moves it one shelf up, slamming it down unnecessarily. โ€œI told youโ€”second shelf.โ€
โ€œYou literally said it went on the first shelf.โ€ The ice has melted, and it's boiling.ย 
โ€œNo, I didn't.โ€ You wanna punch him. Badly. You know what you heard. โ€œAnd you forgot to label it.โ€
โ€œShit.โ€ That, you did forget. Youโ€™re not above owning up to your mistakes, unlike him. โ€œI'm sorry, I wasโ€”โ€
โ€œWe always need stuff like this to be labeled,โ€ he interrupts, rude and abrupt. You can hear the thinly veiled anger in his voice. โ€œI told you.โ€
โ€œI know, I justโ€”โ€œ
โ€œDonโ€™t make excuses. Just do better.โ€
โ€œItโ€™s my first fucking day!โ€ You snap, finally, and itโ€™s like a firecracker in the dead of night. โ€œI donโ€™t expect to be coddled, but Iโ€™ve only been here for a couple hours, and youโ€™re justโ€”โ€œ
โ€œI told you to put a label on it, to put it on the second shelf, and you didnโ€™t do either of those things.โ€ This is a different type of anger. Itโ€™s quiet, contained. Dangerous. And with your outburst, itโ€™s trembling at the edges.ย 
โ€œYou literally hired me yesterday!โ€ Youโ€™re exasperated. โ€œYou looked at my resume for like two seconds before hiring me, and youโ€™re mad that Iโ€™m messing up?โ€
โ€œYou had enough credentials on your resume. You told me you could work well under pressure and learn quickly. Is that true or not?โ€
โ€œIt is true! You just have to give me a chance first!โ€
โ€œI just gave you a chance,โ€ Carmy snaps back, โ€œand you fucked it up.โ€
โ€œOh my god. I justโ€”โ€œ You take a step back. โ€œI donโ€™t have to take this shit.โ€
โ€œAre you quitting already?โ€
โ€œI wasnโ€™t going to.โ€ You move towards the door. โ€œBut maybe I should, before you fire me. Doesn't seem like you want me, anyway.โ€
You were planning on exiting the walk-in after that, to leave on cue, but the door doesnโ€™t budge. You and Carmy notice it at the same time.ย 
Suddenly, there is a new problem.
โ€œFuck,โ€ Carmy curses under his breath. The two of you are pushing against the door, but it wonโ€™t budge. He slams his fist on it and calls out. โ€œGuys, the walk-in door is stuck! Can any of you open it from out there?โ€
โ€œCarmen?โ€ Richie's voice is muffled from the other end. There's the sound of frustrated efforts on the other end. โ€œIt's not fuckinโ€™ budging!โ€
โ€œFuck,โ€ Carmy repeats, seething, and you agree. โ€œCall Fak!โ€
โ€œI already did! Heโ€™s gonna be here in 20!โ€
โ€œ20 minutes?!โ€ Carmy shouts. You close your eyes and sigh, audibly. โ€œDon't we have a screwdriver in here or something?! Just take the hinges off!โ€
โ€œWhy do you think I called Fak?! Shut the hell up and be patient!โ€
โ€œTell him to hurry the fuck up,โ€ Carmy barks, and that's where their conversation ends.ย 
โ€œJust what I needed right now,โ€ you mutter under your breath. Carmy's not looking at you, eyes boring into the door that's trapping the both of you in here with each other. โ€œTo be locked in a room with you.โ€
It's quiet for a minute before he speaks, cutting the silence open.
โ€œ...I do want you, y'know.โ€
โ€œYouโ€”huh?โ€ He said it so quietly you're not sure if it was a hallucination.ย 
โ€œWe need you here.โ€ He's still not looking at you. โ€œThis placeโ€”it's fucked.ย  We don't have enough hands.โ€
โ€œI can tell,โ€ you say, and you mean for it to come out bitter, but it's soft. Naively so.ย 
โ€œI want you here. I do.โ€ He doesn't need to say it like that. You don't want to believe it, neither his words or the way hearing it makes you feel. โ€œI need you.โ€
โ€œCan you at least look at me when you say it?โ€ย 
Youโ€™re not sure why you say it. You instantly recognize it for how needy it sounds, but you don't get the luxury of embarrassment. Carmy's already turning to face you.ย 
โ€œI want you,โ€ he repeats, voice low. You think about the paint you'd need to mix to match the color of his eyes. Blue, white, and the slightest bit of orange to desaturate it. You're not sure what type of orange, though. โ€œI need you.โ€
โ€œFuck,โ€ you mutter, despite yourself, and it's too late.
โ€œAre you gonna do better?โ€ You didn't even register him moving closer to you. When did your back end up against the shelves?
โ€œIโ€™m gonna do better,โ€ you whisper, โ€œif you stop being such an asshole.โ€
โ€œIt won't happen again,โ€ he whispers back, and you recognize it for the lie that it is.ย 
You don't really care, though.ย 
His face is so close to yours that you can see the separate specks of colors in his iris. You watch his gaze fall from your eyes to your lips, and it lingers there before rising again. Any shreds of self respect or control you were clinging onto disintegrate. It doesn't matter if he really means what it says. All that matters is getting your mouth on his.ย ย 
โ€œOkay,โ€ you say, a whisper of foolish acceptance, and you're kissing him.ย 
Or is he kissing you? You don't know who leaned forward first. It's not important.ย 
โ€œI saw you staring at my hands today,โ€ Carmy says against your lips. Spit makes your mouths slide easily against each other. โ€œYesterday, too.โ€
โ€œWhat theโ€”no you didn't,โ€ you gasp, appalled, heat rising in your face, โ€œhow did youโ€”?โ€
โ€œYou're right. I didn't,โ€ he admits with a cheeky grin. Youโ€™re really gonna punch him now.ย 
โ€œGod, you're just,โ€ you mutter, โ€œyou're such an asshole.โ€
โ€œI know.โ€ At first, you think he's being smug, but there's a surprising sense of remorse under it. You don't have time to think about it, though, not when his hand is cradling your face. There's no way he doesn't feel how hot your face is.ย 
โ€œWhat're youโ€ฆ?โ€ His thumb passes over your lower lip, and the words fall away.ย 
โ€œTell me you want this.โ€ Your eyes flicker to his hand, then to his face. His other hand is at the top of your jeans, fingers resting on the edge of your waistband. Excited arousal hits your gut, sizzling like browning butter, warm and toasted. His eyes are dark, caramel on the verge of burning. โ€œIf you don't, I'll pretend like this never happened. I'll never touch you again.โ€
I'll never touch you again, he says, like it's not the last thing you'll ever want.ย 
โ€œI want this,โ€ you murmur. โ€œTouch me. Please.โ€
โ€œGood,โ€ Carmy praises, one quiet word enough to sear your insides with heat, blue flame on the underside of a pan. โ€œThat's what I thought.โ€
His hands slip behind you to untie your apron. The strings fall to your sides, and you tug it hastily up and over your head. It falls to the floor next to you. Surely that's a gigantic health hazard, but Carmy's the one who throws it there, so you don't say anything. You lower your gaze to his fingers unbuttoning your pants. The sight of it makes you woozy. You take note of his other tattoos, noticing the letters on his fingers. You watch as the stabbed hand made of ink on his right disappears under the cloth of your underwear.
โ€œOh,โ€ you breathe. You didn't expect his hand to be so warm, even though you had just felt his heated palm gentle on your cheek.
โ€œYou're wet.โ€ The tip of his index finger dips into where your hot folds separate. It strokes at the fluid that's pooled at your entrance, coaxing it out. โ€œWhen did this happen?โ€
โ€œFuck you is when,โ€ you bite back, but it's all bark. โ€œI don't know.โ€
โ€œSure,โ€ he agrees, but not really. His condescending smile shouldn't be hot, it really shouldn't, but your pussy throbs against his hand, and he smiles knowingly. โ€œAll you need is me to talk and you get wet, is that it?โ€
โ€œIโ€”โ€ His finger rises upward, splitting you open and flicking at your clit. You buck against his hand. โ€œDon't ask me a question and then touch me like that,โ€ you hiss, horribly turned on.
โ€œMm, sorry.โ€ It's barely an apology. You throw your head back in frustration. โ€œI didn't mean to.โ€
โ€œI have a hard time believing that,โ€ you pant. He's pushed your slick up your pussy to your clit, two slick fingers sliding back and forth on your stiff nub. The pads of his calloused fingers are rubbing you almost where you're too sensitive.ย 
โ€œThen don't. I don't care what you think of me.โ€ You think he's about to get his fingers inside of you, and your breath hitches, but he pulls back. You regret the frustrated whine that is just audible enough in the back of your throat. He does it again, just barely pushing the tips of fingers in before pulling away.
โ€œYouโ€”whyโ€”do you want me to beg or something?โ€ Your clenched hands raise by your sides to grip the collar of his white shirt and yank him forward. The shock that flashes across his face gives you a sick sense of satisfaction.
โ€œIt wouldn't hurt,โ€ he mumbles. Seeing him stagger like this, even if briefly, sends a rush through your head.
โ€œIs that what it's gonna take for you to get those fucking fingers inside me?โ€ย 
Like a coward, instead of answering, he leans an inch forward and kisses you. Or maybe that was his answer. That's when he sinks two fingers inside you, long and thick, pushing until your wet pussy's pressed tight against his palm.ย 
You moan, a pathetic thing, and Carmy swallows the sound of it.
โ€œYou're already begging,โ€ he says quietly. He pulls his fingers out. You whine in protest, desperate and angry pleas on the tip of your tongue, but then he's pushing inside again.
That's the last moment of reprieve you get. His fingers start thrusting into you faster, dragging out slick each time he pulls them out. Paranoia suddenly screams that youโ€™re gonna wet the front of your pants at this rate. The aching pleasure is louder than your fear, though. You canโ€™t help the way his fingers are making you moan.
โ€œMore,โ€ you plead, โ€œgive me another, I can take it.โ€ Your hips are thrusting forward to meet his hand when they push inside. Your clit slaps against the heel of his palm, and you chase the friction. He must notice, because when he obliges and stretches you out with a third finger, he grinds the heel of his palm into your clit.
โ€œYou have to be quiet,โ€ he says lowly when you keep moaning. โ€œTheyโ€™re gonna hear you.โ€ย 
โ€œIโ€”Iโ€™m trying,โ€ you whine. Youโ€™re squeezing so tight down on him. You feel so full. โ€œYour fingersโ€”โ€œ
โ€œYouโ€™re the one who asked for more.โ€ He slaps his other hands firmly over your mouth. It silences your sound of surprise. โ€œYou said you could take it, so hereโ€™s whatโ€™s gonna happen.โ€ His fingers are slamming into your now, and your hole spasms around them in pleasure. โ€œYouโ€™re gonna come on my fingers, and youโ€™re gonna be quiet. Understand?โ€
You know how soundproof the walk-in is. You had just witnessed it moments ago. But Carmyโ€™s warnings do something fierce to you, bypassing logic straight into anxious, desperate arousal. Heโ€™s right, you think. You need to be quiet. You nod quickly in response, so he takes your consent and sprints with it.
To your credit, you try to be quiet. You said you would. But thereโ€™s only so much you can do when heโ€™s fingering you so hard your legs are shaking. Youโ€™re whimpering into his hand, the sounds muffled.ย  Your own moans, his heavy breathing, and the slick sound of your pussy getting railed by his fingersโ€”thatโ€™s what you listen to as you come.
โ€œFuck, youโ€™re squeezing down tight,โ€ Carmy hisses, and for an irrational secondย  youโ€™re afraid youโ€™re hurting him, but one look at his starved expression changes your mind. His three wide fingers are fucking you slowly through your wildly contracting orgasm. In one of his palms, you're oozing slick, and in his other palm, you're smearing with spit.
You should be thinking about how bad of an idea this all is, having sex with your boss. Itโ€™s too bad your orgasm is so potent you canโ€™t think at all.
You lean your head back against the cold metal railings of the wire racks behind you. Itโ€™s uncomfortable, but a part of it feels good against the coiling heat thatโ€™s unraveling in your stomach. The air around you is cold, but youโ€™re hot, far too hot. You donโ€™t remember the last time youโ€™ve finished this hard.
He finally pries his hand off your mouth once you've stopped clamping down on his fingers. His hand lingers at your face before wiping it on the side of his jeans. His expression has this unreadable, unnamed intensity to it, and you can't tell where that ends and where the hunger starts. Although he is looking very, very starved.
His hand that's tucked into your underwear tugs it upward as it leaves, pulling the fabric taut against your pussy. It sticks like paper mache with the glue of your orgasm, molded to your shape. You make an aroused noise that's a mixture of surprise and annoyance.
You're about to complain, something along the lines of โ€œwas that really necessaryโ€, but then your eyes are zeroed in on the sheen of his fingers that were fucking you.
โ€œDon't,โ€ you start, suddenly worried he's going to wipe them on his jeans again, but you don't get to finish. He's pushing his index finger into your mouth, and you taste yourself on his skin.
โ€œGood,โ€ Carmy whispers when he feels your tongue wrapping around him. Fuck, hearing him say it like that does awful things to you.
You don't know why you accept it without a fight, but if you're being honest with yourself, this is exactly what you wanted. You start to suck, but he doesn't linger. When he pulls his finger out, your parted lips expect the other two, but he sucks them into his mouth instead.ย 
God. What do you even say to that? He even has the nerve to look you in the eyes as he pops his cleaned fingers out of his mouth.ย 
โ€œLet me touch you,โ€ you decide to say instead, because if you think about him and his fingers inโ€”anyway.ย 
โ€œIt's fine. I don't need it.โ€ He's oddly cagey all of a sudden.ย 
โ€œLet me return the favor, please,โ€ you insist, even adding in some good manners. It seems to still him for a moment, giving you enough time to lift his apron.
Fuck, you think to yourself, the word resounding like an alarm inside your head. His jeans are tented so tightly it looks painful. All this from touching me, you realize. You can see the shape of his bulge under the denim. The silhouette is vague, but...
It's big.
โ€œCarmy? You still in there?โ€
A voice you don't recognize calls out beyond the door. As soon as you both hear it, Carmy jerks away. You mourn the loss only for a moment before you remember yourself. You're scrambling to get your pants buttoned and your apron over your head.ย 
โ€œYeah, I'm still in here,โ€ Carmy shouts back, instantaneously irritable. His back is turned to you, and you want to feel those muscles tensing under your palm. โ€œAbout fuckinโ€™ time!โ€
โ€œYou're welcome, by the way! I could've left you in here to freeze and die a tragic death!โ€
โ€œIt's not just me in here, Fak.โ€ A beat of silence. โ€œAre you opening it?โ€
โ€œAm I fuckingโ€”Jesus Christ, Carmen, just give me a second! I'm working my magic!โ€
That shuts Carmy up. Almost. He sighs before turning to look at you.ย 
โ€œSorry for getting us stuck in here.โ€ The apology is equally as surprising as the softness of which he speaks. โ€œShitty first day, huh?โ€
โ€œIt's cool. It's not your fault.โ€ Other than all the shit that was completely your fault, you think, remembering the way you were shouting at each other just a moment ago. โ€œKinda shitty though, yeah.โ€
โ€œYeah.โ€ He sighs again. โ€œIf you wanna leave, I don't blame you.โ€
โ€œI thought I wasn't getting fired.โ€
โ€œYou're not,โ€ he says quickly. โ€œBut I'mโ€”this place is a shitshow.โ€ You're not sure which he really means to say, but you hear both. The restaurant, and him especially, are both complete messes. That much was obvious from the beginning. โ€œSo if you wanna take off, justโ€ฆโ€ He shrugs. โ€œJust go.โ€
Maybe that'd be for the best, if you left. As far as first days go, you've already broken every rule in the book. You messed up your first task, got into an argument with your boss, and then had sex with him. Nothing about this place is particularly inviting, either. This restaurant wears its dysfunction on its sleeve, unabashed in all the ways it lacks. You had left the kitchen with ringing ears from all the noise and a cut on your hand you didn't even notice.ย 
But here you are. You're not running. Maybe it's because of the fact that you need to pay rent. Maybe it's knowing that just one more pair of hands here could really make a difference. Maybe you're just desperate to keep food on the table. Maybe it's Carmen Berzatto, beautiful, haunted, and angry. Maybe it's all of that, a combined whole that's become greater than the sum of its parts.
Or maybe it's just that now that you've kissed him, had a taste of him, you refuse to let go. Maybe the reason is as shallow as that.ย 
Carmy's been waiting for you to speak, tired eyes searching your own. You're still not sure what exact colors you need to perfectly recreate the blue you're staring at.ย 
โ€œAlmost done!โ€ Fak shouts. โ€œJust one more hinge!โ€
โ€œHeard,โ€ Carmy shouts back. He hasn't taken his eyes off you. โ€œSo? What's it gonna be? Are you staying or not?โ€
Blood orange, you think all of a sudden. That's the orange you would need to make the perfect blue to match his eyes. Just a little bitโ€”that's all you would need.
โ€œI'm staying,โ€ you tell him. โ€œI need to pay rent, after all.โ€
Yeah. That's the reasoning you're settling on. Rent.
โ€œRight. Of course.โ€ There's a glimpse of that gentle smile you've seen flashes of today. It fades away as quickly as it came. โ€œAfter this, I'm gonna have you learn how to check produce next.โ€
โ€œOkay, sounds good,โ€ you say as naturally as you can, given the tonal whiplash.
โ€œThere should be some that's about to get washed. I'll show you where that is.โ€ The door's shifting. โ€œBut before thatโ€ฆโ€ He lowers his voice, leans in close. Is he about to kiss you?
โ€œW-What?โ€
โ€œGet a new apron from my office. That one's dirty.โ€ Beams of light stream through the entrance of the walk-in, forced wide open. โ€œYou need to keep your apron clean, chef.โ€
YOU WERE THE ONE WHO THREW IT ON THE GROUND, you want to scream. Just when you thought he started being nice, he does something that makes you want to grab him by the collar and shake him.
But you can't. The walk-in's open again, and you see your coworkers crowded by the door.ย 
โ€œYes, chef,โ€ you reply, and the words taste bitter on your tongue.
~
@zorrasucia
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supermaks ยท 8 months ago
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A series of A24 inspired grand prix movie posters for 2024. Bahrain. Og shot by Vladimir Rys. Edit by me.
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campwillowpeakvn ยท 2 months ago
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For the characters what are their alpha/beta/omega status?
All of them are Omega so they're all breedable
All of them
Even Carl
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starfilled-galaxy ยท 3 months ago
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.........yeah i dont think we're sleeping tonight
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xxbl00ds0akeds3raxx ยท 9 months ago
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FIFI OGNTHDDHJDFI GO TO THE HOSPITAL AND GET WHAT YOU NEED GIRL OMFG you do not want that boy's devil spawn omffhdhdhdhdhd
going to!!! its okay! dont worry about me aha like i said i have everything under control~ <3
(girl. immmm soooo fuckeddddd,,,,,)
imgoigntokms kkgjgghhghghg imdont even
want to know .
:)
if im pregnant im going to literally take his fav knife-- the one he prettied up just specifically 4 me~ and slit my wrists in his fucking bathtub!!! <3 :D
like iactually cant stop thinking about it its all i can think of n all i can think of is my mum im going 2 b just like hermy life is so over
i dont. want a baby. ive never wnted a baby. he knows i dont like when he says ill b a goodmum bc we both know hes fkn lying. icant even take care of myself i cant take care of a baby.
im so fucking stupid 4 not being on birth control i knew within tha 1st month he poked holes in condoms wjat is wrong with me
been playing around with fire 4 too long n i got burned omg !!! what a surprise!!! the fucking whore got wat was coming 4 her im so . FUCKING stupid
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sizfulker ยท 1 year ago
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hi this is siz i love horror & i love YOU :3c
๐Ÿฆ‰ 24 ๐Ÿฆ‰ lesbian | they/he
๐Ÿž letterboxd ๐Ÿž spotify
๐Ÿ‡ sideblog @meat4sale ๐Ÿ‡
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rinringringu ยท 2 years ago
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the way wattpad fics traumatized me from calling hajime a tsundere ๐Ÿ˜ญ๐Ÿ˜ญ๐Ÿ˜ญlike hell no what tf was that
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manticorium ยท 1 year ago
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| fang | mid 20something | white | tme | he/its | fat gay nonbinary feline therian | autistic as shit | happily married to da love of my life ๐Ÿบ๐Ÿ–ค Arab.org Daily Clicks - Vetted Organizations Providing Gaza with Food, Water, Shelter, and Medical Care - Vetted Gaza Evacuation Fundraiser List
personal/upload blog, expect text posts and pictures of vintage plushes and vending machines and metalocalypse and all the other dumb shit i'm into. not a fandom blog. i am thirty or forty years old i do not need this. (be aware i like a lot of horror movies/games so there will be untagged (fake or cartoon) blood and carnage)
!! no minor interaction . no dni because common sense & i block liberally but for the sake of warding evil, yaaaay transfems and fatlib and communism and boooo zionism and racism and liberals and diddling kids or whatever the fuck
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changed my header ๐Ÿฅ˜๐ŸŒต๐Ÿš๐Ÿš›
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eleheba ยท 4 months ago
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the good nurse๐ŸŠ๐Ÿฉธ
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butchcarmy ยท 7 months ago
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I need blood orange part 2 so badly
ILL GET TO IT BRO TRUSTโ€ฆ. happy to know thereโ€™s interest tho!! :) Iโ€™m cursed to work sadlyโ€ฆ time has been escaping me
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pjackk ยท 6 months ago
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i can make pictures easily๐Ÿ˜€๐Ÿ˜ƒ๐Ÿ˜„๐Ÿ˜๐Ÿ˜†๐Ÿ˜…๐Ÿคฃ๐Ÿ˜‚๐Ÿ™‚๐Ÿ™ƒ๐Ÿซ ๐Ÿ˜‰๐Ÿ˜Š๐Ÿ˜‡๐Ÿฅฐ๐Ÿ˜๐Ÿคฉ๐Ÿ˜˜๐Ÿ˜—โ˜บ๏ธ๐Ÿ˜š๐Ÿ˜™๐Ÿฅฒ๐Ÿ˜‹๐Ÿคฉ๐Ÿ˜˜๐Ÿ˜—โ˜บ๏ธ๐Ÿ˜š๐Ÿ˜™๐Ÿฅฒ๐Ÿ˜‹๐Ÿ˜›๐Ÿ˜œ๐Ÿคช๐Ÿ˜๐Ÿค‘๐Ÿค—๐Ÿคญ๐Ÿซข๐Ÿซฃ๐Ÿคซ๐Ÿค”๐Ÿซก๐Ÿค๐Ÿคจ๐Ÿ˜๐Ÿ˜‘๐Ÿ˜ถ๐Ÿซฅ๐Ÿ˜ถโ€๐ŸŒซ๏ธ๐Ÿ˜๐Ÿ˜’๐Ÿ™„๐Ÿ˜ฌ๐Ÿ˜ฎโ€๐Ÿ’จ๐Ÿคฅ๐Ÿซจ๐Ÿ™‚โ€โ†”๏ธ๐Ÿ™‚โ€โ†•๏ธ๐Ÿ˜Œ๐Ÿ˜”๐Ÿ˜ช๐Ÿคค๐Ÿ˜ด๐Ÿ˜ท๐Ÿค’๐Ÿค•๐Ÿคข๐Ÿคฎ๐Ÿคง๐Ÿฅต๐Ÿฅถ๐Ÿฅด๐Ÿ˜ต๐Ÿ˜ตโ€๐Ÿ’ซ๐Ÿคฏ๐Ÿค ๐Ÿฅณ๐Ÿฅธ๐Ÿ˜Ž๐Ÿค“๐Ÿง๐Ÿ˜•๐Ÿซค๐Ÿ˜Ÿ๐Ÿ™โ˜น๏ธ๐Ÿ˜ฎ๐Ÿ˜ฏ๐Ÿ˜ฒ๐Ÿ˜ณ๐Ÿฅบ๐Ÿฅน๐Ÿ˜ฆ๐Ÿ˜ง๐Ÿ˜จ๐Ÿ˜ฐ๐Ÿ˜ฅ๐Ÿ˜ข๐Ÿ˜ญ๐Ÿ˜ฑ๐Ÿ˜ฃ๐Ÿ˜ฃ๐Ÿ˜ž๐Ÿ˜“๐Ÿ˜ฉ๐Ÿ˜ซ๐Ÿฅฑ๐Ÿ˜ค๐Ÿ˜ก๐Ÿ˜ ๐Ÿคฌ๐Ÿ˜ˆ๐Ÿ‘ฟ๐Ÿ’€โ˜ ๏ธ๐Ÿ’ฉ๐Ÿคก๐Ÿ‘น๐Ÿ‘บ๐Ÿ‘ป๐Ÿ‘ฝ๐Ÿ‘พ๐Ÿค–๐Ÿ˜บ๐Ÿ˜ธ๐Ÿ˜น๐Ÿ˜ป๐Ÿ˜ผ๐Ÿ˜ฝ๐Ÿ™€๐Ÿ˜ฟ๐Ÿ˜พ๐Ÿ™ˆ๐Ÿ™‰๐Ÿ™Š๐Ÿ’‹๐Ÿ’Œ๐Ÿ’˜๐Ÿ’๐Ÿ’–๐Ÿ’—๐Ÿ’“๐Ÿ’ž๐Ÿ’•๐Ÿ’Ÿโฃ๏ธ๐Ÿ’”โค๏ธโ€๐Ÿ”ฅโค๏ธโ€๐Ÿฉนโค๏ธ๐Ÿฉท๐Ÿงก๐Ÿ’›๐Ÿ’š๐Ÿ’™๐Ÿฉต๐Ÿ’œ๐ŸคŽ๐Ÿ–ค๐Ÿฉถ๐Ÿค๐Ÿ’ฏ๐Ÿ’ข๐Ÿ’ฅ๐Ÿ’ซ๐Ÿ’ฆ๐Ÿ’จ๐Ÿ•ณ๐Ÿ’ฃ๐Ÿ’ฌ๐Ÿ—จ๐Ÿ—ฏ๐Ÿ’ญ๐Ÿ’ค๐Ÿ‘‹๐Ÿคš๐Ÿ–โœ‹๏ธ๐Ÿ––๐Ÿซฑ๐Ÿซฒ๐Ÿซณ๐Ÿซด๐Ÿซท๐Ÿซธ๐Ÿ‘Œ๐ŸคŒ๐ŸคโœŒ๏ธ๐Ÿคž๐Ÿซฐ๐ŸคŸ๐Ÿค˜๐Ÿค™๐Ÿ‘ˆ๐Ÿ‘‰๐Ÿ‘†๐Ÿ–•๐Ÿ‘‡โ˜๏ธ๐Ÿซต๐Ÿ‘๐Ÿ‘ŽโœŠ๏ธ๐Ÿ‘Š๐Ÿค›๐Ÿคœ๐Ÿ‘๐Ÿ™Œ๐Ÿซถ๐Ÿ‘๐Ÿคฒ๐Ÿค๐Ÿ™โœ๏ธ๐Ÿ’…๐Ÿคณ๐Ÿ’ช๐Ÿฆพ๐Ÿฆฟ๐Ÿฆต๐Ÿฆถ๐Ÿ‘‚๐Ÿฆป๐Ÿ‘ƒ๐Ÿง ๐Ÿซ€๐Ÿซ๐Ÿฆท๐Ÿฆด๐Ÿ‘€๐Ÿ‘๐Ÿ‘…๐Ÿ‘„๐Ÿซฆ๐Ÿ‘ถ๐Ÿง’๐Ÿ‘ฆ๐Ÿ‘ง๐Ÿง‘๐Ÿ‘ฑ๐Ÿ‘จ๐Ÿง”โ€โ™‚๏ธ๐Ÿง”โ€โ™€๏ธ๐Ÿง”๐Ÿ‘จโ€๐Ÿฆฐ๐Ÿ‘จโ€๐Ÿฆฑ๐Ÿ‘จโ€๐Ÿฆณ๐Ÿ‘จโ€๐Ÿฆฒ๐Ÿ‘ฉ๐Ÿ‘ฉโ€๐Ÿฆฐ๐Ÿง‘โ€๐Ÿฆฐ๐Ÿ‘ฉโ€๐Ÿฆฑ๐Ÿง‘โ€๐Ÿฆฑ๐Ÿ‘ฉโ€๐Ÿฆณ๐Ÿง‘โ€๐Ÿฆณ๐Ÿ‘ฉโ€๐Ÿฆฒ๐Ÿง‘โ€๐Ÿฆฒ๐Ÿ‘ฑโ€โ™‚๏ธ๐Ÿ‘ฑโ€โ™€๏ธ๐Ÿ‘ด๐Ÿ‘ต๐Ÿง“๐Ÿ™โ€โ™‚๏ธ๐Ÿ™โ€โ™€๏ธ๐Ÿ™๐Ÿ™Žโ€โ™‚๏ธ๐Ÿ™Žโ€โ™€๏ธ๐Ÿ™Ž๐Ÿ™…โ€โ™‚๏ธ๐Ÿ™…โ€โ™€๏ธ๐Ÿ™…๐Ÿ™†โ€โ™‚๏ธ๐Ÿ™†โ€โ™€๏ธ๐Ÿ™†๐Ÿ’โ€โ™‚๏ธ๐Ÿ’โ€โ™€๏ธ๐Ÿ’๐Ÿ™‹โ€โ™‚๏ธ๐Ÿ™‹โ€โ™€๏ธ๐Ÿ™‹๐Ÿงโ€โ™‚๏ธ๐Ÿงโ€โ™€๏ธ๐Ÿง๐Ÿ™‡โ€โ™‚๏ธ๐Ÿ™‡โ€โ™€๏ธ๐Ÿ™‡๐Ÿคฆโ€โ™‚๏ธ๐Ÿคฆโ€โ™€๏ธ๐Ÿคฆ๐Ÿคทโ€โ™‚๏ธ๐Ÿคทโ€โ™€๏ธ๐Ÿคท๐Ÿ‘จโ€โš•๏ธ๐Ÿ‘ฉโ€โš•๏ธ๐Ÿง‘โ€โš•๏ธ๐Ÿ‘จโ€๏ฟฝ๏ฟฝ๏ฟฝ๐Ÿ‘ฉโ€๐ŸŽ“๐Ÿง‘โ€๐ŸŽ“๐Ÿ‘จโ€๐Ÿซ๐Ÿ‘ฉโ€๐Ÿซ๐Ÿง‘โ€๐Ÿซ๐Ÿ‘จโ€โš–๏ธ๐Ÿ‘ฉโ€โš–๏ธ๐Ÿง‘โ€โš–๏ธ๐Ÿ‘จโ€๐ŸŒพ๐Ÿ‘ฉโ€๐ŸŒพ๐Ÿง‘โ€๐ŸŒพ๐Ÿ‘จโ€๐Ÿณ๐Ÿ‘ฉโ€๐Ÿณ๐Ÿง‘โ€๐Ÿณ๐Ÿ‘จโ€๐Ÿ”ง๐Ÿ‘ฉโ€๐Ÿ”ง๐Ÿง‘โ€๐Ÿ”ง๐Ÿ‘จโ€๐Ÿญ๐Ÿ‘ฉโ€๐Ÿญ๐Ÿง‘โ€๐Ÿญ๐Ÿ‘จโ€๐Ÿ’ผ๐Ÿ‘ฉโ€๐Ÿ’ผ๐Ÿง‘โ€๐Ÿ’ผ๐Ÿ‘จโ€๐Ÿ”ฌ๐Ÿ‘ฉโ€๐Ÿ”ฌ๐Ÿ‘จโ€๐Ÿ’ป๐Ÿ‘ฉโ€๐Ÿ’ป๐Ÿง‘โ€๐Ÿ’ป๐Ÿ‘จโ€๐ŸŽค๐Ÿ‘ฉโ€๐ŸŽค๐Ÿง‘โ€๐ŸŽค๐Ÿ‘จโ€๐ŸŽจ๐Ÿ‘ฉโ€๐ŸŽจ๐Ÿง‘โ€๐ŸŽจ๐Ÿ‘จโ€โœˆ๏ธ๐Ÿ‘ฉโ€โœˆ๏ธ๐Ÿง‘โ€โœˆ๏ธ๐Ÿ‘จโ€๐Ÿš€๐Ÿ‘ฉโ€๐Ÿš€๐Ÿง‘โ€๐Ÿš€๐Ÿ‘จโ€๐Ÿš’๐Ÿ‘ฉโ€๐Ÿš’๐Ÿง‘โ€๐Ÿš’๐Ÿ‘ฎโ€โ™‚๏ธ๐Ÿ‘ฎโ€โ™€๏ธ๐Ÿ‘ฎ๐Ÿ•ตโ€โ™‚๏ธ๐Ÿ•ตโ€โ™€๏ธ๐Ÿ•ต๐Ÿ’‚โ€โ™‚๏ธ๐Ÿ’‚โ€โ™€๏ธ๐Ÿ’‚๐Ÿฅท๐Ÿ‘ทโ€โ™‚๏ธ๐Ÿ‘ทโ€โ™€๏ธ๐Ÿ‘ท๐Ÿซ…๐Ÿคด๐Ÿ‘ธ๐Ÿ‘ณโ€โ™‚๏ธ๐Ÿ‘ณโ€โ™€๏ธ๐Ÿ‘ณ๐Ÿ‘ฒ๐Ÿง•๐Ÿคตโ€โ™‚๏ธ๐Ÿคตโ€โ™€๏ธ๐Ÿคต๐Ÿ‘ฐโ€โ™‚๏ธ๐Ÿ‘ฐโ€โ™€๏ธ๐Ÿ‘ฐ๐Ÿคฐ๐Ÿซƒ๐Ÿซ„๐Ÿคฑ๐Ÿ‘จโ€๐Ÿผ๐Ÿ‘ฉโ€๐Ÿผ๐Ÿง‘โ€๐Ÿผ๐Ÿ‘ผ๐ŸŽ…๐Ÿคถ๐Ÿง‘โ€๐ŸŽ„๐Ÿฆธโ€โ™‚๏ธ๐Ÿฆธโ€โ™€๏ธ๐Ÿฆธ๐Ÿฆนโ€โ™‚๏ธ๐Ÿฆนโ€โ™€๏ธ๐Ÿฆน๐Ÿง™โ€โ™‚๏ธ๐Ÿง™โ€โ™€๏ธ๐Ÿง™๐Ÿงšโ€โ™‚๏ธ๐Ÿงšโ€โ™€๏ธ๐Ÿงš๐Ÿง›โ€โ™‚๏ธ๐Ÿง›โ€โ™€๏ธ๐Ÿง›๐Ÿงœโ€โ™‚๏ธ๐Ÿงœโ€โ™€๏ธ๐Ÿงœ๐Ÿงโ€โ™‚๏ธ๐Ÿงโ€โ™€๏ธ๐Ÿง๐Ÿงžโ€โ™‚๏ธ๐Ÿงžโ€โ™€๏ธ๐Ÿงž๐ŸงŸโ€โ™‚๏ธ๐ŸงŸโ€โ™€๏ธ๐ŸงŸ๐ŸงŒ๐Ÿ’†โ€โ™‚๏ธ๐Ÿ’†โ€โ™€๏ธ๐Ÿ’†๐Ÿ’‡โ€โ™‚๏ธ๐Ÿ’‡โ€โ™€๏ธ๐Ÿ’‡๐Ÿšถโ€โ™‚๏ธ๐Ÿšถโ€โ™‚๏ธโ€โžก๏ธ๐Ÿšถโ€โ™€๏ธ๐Ÿšถโ€โ™€๏ธโ€โžก๏ธ๐Ÿšถ๐Ÿšถโ€โžก๏ธ๐Ÿงโ€โ™‚๏ธ๐Ÿงโ€โ™€๏ธ๐Ÿง๐ŸงŽโ€โ™‚๏ธ๐ŸงŽโ€โ™‚๏ธโ€โžก๏ธ๐ŸงŽโ€โ™€๏ธ๐ŸงŽโ€โ™€๏ธโ€โžก๏ธ๐ŸงŽ๐ŸงŽโ€โžก๏ธ๐Ÿ‘จโ€๐Ÿฆฏ๐Ÿ‘จโ€๐Ÿฆฏโ€โžก๏ธ๐Ÿ‘ฉโ€๐Ÿฆฏ๐Ÿ‘ฉโ€๐Ÿฆฏโ€โžก๏ธ๐Ÿง‘โ€๐Ÿฆฏ๐Ÿง‘โ€๐Ÿฆฏโ€โžก๏ธ๐Ÿ‘จโ€๐Ÿฆผ๐Ÿ‘จโ€๐Ÿฆผโ€โžก๏ธ๐Ÿ‘ฉโ€๐Ÿฆผ๐Ÿ‘ฉโ€๐Ÿฆผโ€โžก๏ธ๐Ÿง‘โ€๐Ÿฆผ๐Ÿง‘โ€๐Ÿฆผโ€โžก๏ธ๐Ÿ‘จโ€๐Ÿฆฝ๐Ÿ‘จโ€๐Ÿฆฝโ€โžก๏ธ๐Ÿ‘ฉโ€๐Ÿฆฝ๐Ÿ‘ฉโ€๐Ÿฆฝโ€โžก๏ธ๐Ÿง‘โ€๐Ÿฆฝ๐Ÿง‘โ€๐Ÿฆฝโ€โžก๏ธ๐Ÿƒโ€โ™‚๏ธ๐Ÿƒโ€โ™‚๏ธโ€โžก๏ธ๐Ÿƒโ€โ™€๏ธ๐Ÿƒโ€โ™€๏ธโ€โžก๏ธ๐Ÿƒ๐Ÿƒโ€โžก๏ธ๐Ÿ•บ๐Ÿ’ƒ๐Ÿ•ด๐Ÿ‘ฏโ€โ™‚๏ธ๐Ÿ‘ฏโ€โ™€๏ธ๐Ÿ‘ฏ๐Ÿง–โ€โ™‚๏ธ๐Ÿง–โ€โ™€๏ธ๐Ÿง–๐Ÿง—โ€โ™‚๏ธ๐Ÿง—โ€โ™€๏ธ๐Ÿง—๐Ÿคบ๐Ÿ‡โ›ท๏ธ๐Ÿ‚๐ŸŒโ€โ™‚๏ธ๐ŸŒโ€โ™€๏ธ๐ŸŒ๐Ÿ„โ€โ™‚๏ธ๐Ÿ„โ€โ™€๏ธ๐Ÿ„๐Ÿšฃโ€โ™‚๏ธ๐Ÿšฃโ€โ™€๏ธ๐Ÿšฃ๐ŸŠโ€โ™‚๏ธ๐ŸŠโ€โ™€๏ธ๐ŸŠโ›น๏ธโ€โ™‚๏ธโ›น๏ธโ€โ™€๏ธโ›น๏ธ๐Ÿ‹โ€โ™‚๏ธ๐Ÿ‹โ€โ™€๏ธ๐Ÿ‹๐Ÿšดโ€โ™‚๏ธ๐Ÿšดโ€โ™€๏ธ๐Ÿšด๐Ÿšตโ€โ™‚๏ธ๐Ÿšตโ€โ™€๏ธ๐Ÿšต๐Ÿคธโ€โ™‚๏ธ๐Ÿคธโ€โ™€๏ธ๐Ÿคธ๐Ÿคผโ€โ™‚๏ธ๐Ÿคผโ€โ™€๏ธ๐Ÿคผ๐Ÿคฝโ€โ™‚๏ธ๐Ÿคฝโ€โ™€๏ธ๐Ÿคฝ๐Ÿคพโ€โ™‚๏ธ๐Ÿคพโ€โ™€๏ธ๐Ÿคพ๐Ÿคนโ€โ™‚๏ธ๐Ÿคนโ€โ™€๏ธ๐Ÿคน๐Ÿง˜โ€โ™‚๏ธ๐Ÿง˜โ€โ™€๏ธ๐Ÿง˜๐Ÿ›€๐Ÿ›Œ๐Ÿ‘ฌ๐Ÿ‘ซ๐Ÿ‘ญ๐Ÿง‘โ€๐Ÿคโ€๐Ÿง‘๐Ÿ‘จโ€โค๏ธโ€๐Ÿ’‹โ€๐Ÿ‘จ๐Ÿ‘ฉโ€โค๏ธโ€๐Ÿ’‹โ€๐Ÿ‘จ๐Ÿ‘ฉโ€โค๏ธโ€๐Ÿ’‹โ€๐Ÿ‘ฉ๐Ÿ’๐Ÿ‘จโ€โค๏ธโ€๐Ÿ‘จ๐Ÿ‘ฉโ€โค๏ธโ€๐Ÿ‘จ๐Ÿ‘ฉโ€โค๏ธโ€๐Ÿ‘ฉ๐Ÿ’‘๐Ÿ‘ฉโ€๐Ÿ‘ฉโ€๐Ÿ‘ฆ๐Ÿ‘จโ€๐Ÿ‘ฉโ€๐Ÿ‘ง๐Ÿ‘ฉโ€๐Ÿ‘ฉโ€๐Ÿ‘งโ€๐Ÿ‘ฆ๐Ÿ‘จโ€๐Ÿ‘ฉโ€๐Ÿ‘ฆโ€๐Ÿ‘ฆ๐Ÿ‘จโ€๐Ÿ‘ฉโ€๐Ÿ‘งโ€๐Ÿ‘ง๐Ÿ‘จโ€๐Ÿ‘ฆ๐Ÿ‘ฉโ€๐Ÿ‘ฆ๐Ÿ—ฃ๐Ÿ‘ค๐Ÿ‘ฅ๏ธ๐Ÿซ‚๐Ÿ‘ฃ๐Ÿง‘โ€๐Ÿง‘โ€๐Ÿง’๐Ÿง‘โ€๐Ÿง‘โ€๐Ÿง’โ€๐Ÿง’๐Ÿง‘โ€๐Ÿง’๐Ÿง‘โ€๐Ÿง’โ€๐Ÿง’๐Ÿต๐Ÿ’๐Ÿฆ๐Ÿฆง๐Ÿถ๐Ÿ•๐Ÿฆฎ๐Ÿ•โ€๐Ÿฆบ๐Ÿฉ๐Ÿบ๐ŸฆŠ๐Ÿฆ๐Ÿฑ๐Ÿˆ๐Ÿˆโ€โฌ›๐Ÿฆ๐Ÿฏ๐Ÿ…๐Ÿ†๐Ÿด๐ŸซŽ๐Ÿซ๐ŸŽ๐Ÿฆ„๐Ÿฆ“๐ŸฆŒ๐Ÿฆฌ๐Ÿฎ๐Ÿ‚๐Ÿƒ๐Ÿ„๐Ÿท๐Ÿ–๐Ÿ—๐Ÿฝ๐Ÿ๐Ÿ‘๐Ÿ๐Ÿช๐Ÿซ๐Ÿฆ™๐Ÿฆ’๐Ÿ˜๐Ÿฆฃ๐Ÿฆ๐Ÿฆ›๐Ÿญ๐Ÿ๐Ÿ€๐Ÿน๐Ÿฐ๐Ÿ‡๐Ÿฟ๐Ÿฆซ๐Ÿฆ”๐Ÿฆ‡๐Ÿป๐Ÿจ๐Ÿปโ€โ„๏ธ๐Ÿผ๐Ÿฆฅ๐Ÿฆฆ๐Ÿฆจ๐Ÿฆ˜๐Ÿฆก๐Ÿพ๐Ÿฆƒ๐Ÿ”๐Ÿ“๐Ÿฃ๐Ÿค๐Ÿฅ๐Ÿฆ๐Ÿง๐Ÿ•Š๐Ÿฆ…๐Ÿฆ†๐Ÿฆข๐Ÿฆ‰๐Ÿฆค๐Ÿชถ๐Ÿฆฉ๐Ÿฆš๐Ÿฆœ๐Ÿชฝ๐Ÿฆโ€โฌ›๐Ÿชฟ๐Ÿฆโ€๐Ÿ”ฅ๐Ÿธ๐ŸŠ๐Ÿข๐ŸฆŽ๐Ÿ๐Ÿฒ๐Ÿ‰๐Ÿฆ•๐Ÿฆ–๐Ÿณ๐Ÿ‹๐Ÿฌ๐Ÿฆญ๐ŸŸ๐Ÿ ๐Ÿก๐Ÿฆˆ๐Ÿ™๐Ÿฆ€๐Ÿฆž๐Ÿฆ๐Ÿฆ‘๐Ÿš๐Ÿชธ๐Ÿชผ๐ŸŒ๐Ÿฆ‹๐Ÿ›๐Ÿœ๐Ÿ๐Ÿชฒ๐Ÿž๐Ÿฆ—๐Ÿ•ท๐Ÿชณ๐Ÿ•ธ๐Ÿฆ‚๐ŸฆŸ๐Ÿชฐ๐Ÿชฑ๐Ÿฆ ๐Ÿ’๐ŸŒธ๐Ÿ’ฎ๐Ÿชท๐Ÿต๐ŸŒน๐Ÿฅ€๐ŸŒบ๐ŸŒป๐ŸŒผ๐ŸŒท๐Ÿชปโš˜๏ธ๐ŸŒฑ๐Ÿชด๐ŸŒฒ๐ŸŒณ๐ŸŒด๐ŸŒต๐ŸŒพ๐ŸŒฟโ˜˜๏ธ๐Ÿ€๐Ÿ๐Ÿ‚๐Ÿƒ๐Ÿชน๐Ÿชบ๐Ÿ‡๐Ÿˆ๐Ÿ‰๐ŸŠ๐Ÿ‹๐ŸŒ๐Ÿ๐Ÿฅญ๐ŸŽ๐Ÿ๐Ÿ๐Ÿ‘๐Ÿ’๐Ÿ“๐Ÿซ๐Ÿฅ๐Ÿ…๐Ÿซ’๐Ÿฅฅ๐Ÿ‹โ€๐ŸŸฉ๐Ÿฅ‘๐Ÿ†๐Ÿฅ”๐Ÿฅ•๐ŸŒฝ๐ŸŒถ๐Ÿซ‘๐Ÿฅ’๐Ÿฅฌ๐Ÿฅฆ๐Ÿง„๐Ÿง…๐Ÿ„๐Ÿฅœ๐Ÿซ˜๐ŸŒฐ๐Ÿซš๐Ÿซ›๐Ÿ„โ€๐ŸŸซ๐Ÿž๐Ÿฅ๐Ÿฅ–๐Ÿซ“๐Ÿฅจ๐Ÿฅฏ๐Ÿฅž๐Ÿง‡๐Ÿง€๐Ÿ–๐Ÿ—๐Ÿฅฉ๐Ÿฅ“๐Ÿ”๐ŸŸ๐Ÿ•๐ŸŒญ๐Ÿฅช๐ŸŒฎ๐ŸŒฏ๐Ÿซ”๐Ÿฅ™๐Ÿง†๐Ÿฅš๐Ÿณ๐Ÿฅ˜๐Ÿฒ๐Ÿซ•๐Ÿฅฃ๐Ÿฅ—๐Ÿฟ๐Ÿงˆ๐Ÿง‚๐Ÿฅซ๐Ÿฑ๐Ÿ˜๐Ÿ™๐Ÿš๐Ÿ›๐Ÿœ๐Ÿ๐Ÿ ๐Ÿข๐Ÿฃ๐Ÿฆช๐Ÿค๐Ÿฅ๐Ÿฅฎ๐Ÿก๐ŸฅŸ๐Ÿฅ ๐Ÿฅก๐Ÿฆ๐Ÿง๐Ÿจ๐Ÿฉ๐Ÿช๐ŸŽ‚๐Ÿฐ๐Ÿง๐Ÿฅง๐Ÿซ๐Ÿฌ๐Ÿญ๐Ÿฎ๐Ÿฏ๐Ÿผ๐Ÿฅ›โ˜•๏ธ๐Ÿซ–๐Ÿต๐Ÿถ๐Ÿพ๐Ÿท๐Ÿธ๐Ÿน๐Ÿบ๐Ÿป๐Ÿฅ‚๐Ÿฅƒ๐Ÿซ—๐Ÿฅค๐Ÿง‹๐Ÿงƒ๐Ÿง‰๐ŸงŠ๐Ÿฅข๐Ÿฝ๐Ÿด๐Ÿฅ„๐Ÿ”ช๐Ÿซ™๐Ÿบ๐ŸŒ๐ŸŒŽ๐ŸŒ๐ŸŒ๐Ÿ—บ๐Ÿงญ๐Ÿ”โ›ฐ๏ธ๐ŸŒ‹๐Ÿ—ป๐Ÿ•๐Ÿ–๐Ÿœ๐Ÿ๐Ÿž๐ŸŸ๐Ÿ›๐Ÿ—๐Ÿงฑ๐Ÿชจ๐Ÿชต๐Ÿ›–๐Ÿ˜๐Ÿš๐Ÿ ๐Ÿก๐Ÿข๐Ÿฃ๐Ÿค๐Ÿฅ๐Ÿฆ๐Ÿจ๐Ÿฉ๐Ÿช๐Ÿซ๐Ÿฌ๐Ÿญ๐Ÿฏ๐Ÿฐ๐Ÿ’’๐Ÿ—ผ๐Ÿ—ฝโ›ช๏ธ๐Ÿ•Œ๐Ÿ›•๐Ÿ•โ›ฉ๏ธ๐Ÿ•‹โ›ฒ๏ธโ›บ๏ธ๐ŸŒ๐ŸŒƒ๐Ÿ™๐ŸŒ„๐ŸŒ…๐ŸŒ†๐ŸŒ‡๐ŸŒ‰โ™จ๏ธ๐ŸŽ ๐Ÿ›๐ŸŽก๐ŸŽข๐Ÿ’ˆ๐ŸŽช๐Ÿš‚๐Ÿš๐Ÿš„๐Ÿš…๐Ÿš†๐Ÿš‡๐Ÿšˆ๐Ÿš‰๐ŸšŠ๐Ÿš๐Ÿšž๐Ÿš‹๐ŸšŒ๐Ÿš๐ŸšŽ๐Ÿš๐Ÿš‘๐Ÿš’๐Ÿš“๐Ÿš”๐Ÿš•๐Ÿš–๐Ÿš—๐Ÿš˜๐Ÿš™๐Ÿ›ป๐Ÿšš๐Ÿš›๐Ÿšœ๐ŸŽ๐Ÿ๐Ÿ›ต๐Ÿฆฝ๐Ÿฆผ๐Ÿ›บ๐Ÿšฒ๐Ÿ›ด๐Ÿ›น๐Ÿ›ผ๐Ÿš๐Ÿ›ฃ๐Ÿ›ค๐Ÿ›ขโ›ฝ๏ธ๐Ÿ›ž๐Ÿšจ๐Ÿšฅ๐Ÿšฆ๐Ÿ›‘๐Ÿšงโš“๏ธ๐Ÿ›Ÿโ›ต๏ธ๐Ÿ›ถ๐Ÿšค๐Ÿ›ณโ›ด๏ธ๐Ÿ›ฅ๐Ÿšขโœˆ๏ธ๐Ÿ›ฉ๐Ÿ›ซ๐Ÿ›ฌ๐Ÿช‚๐Ÿ’บ๐Ÿš๐ŸšŸ๐Ÿš ๐Ÿšก๐Ÿ›ฐ๐Ÿš€๐Ÿ›ธ๐Ÿ›Ž๐ŸงณโŒ›๏ธโณ๏ธโŒš๏ธโฐ๏ธโฑ๏ธโฒ๏ธ๐Ÿ•ฐ๐Ÿ•›๐Ÿ•ง๐Ÿ•๐Ÿ•œ๐Ÿ•‘๐Ÿ•๐Ÿ•’๐Ÿ•ž๐Ÿ•“๐Ÿ•Ÿ๐Ÿ•”๐Ÿ• ๐Ÿ••๐Ÿ•ก๐Ÿ•–๐Ÿ•ข๐Ÿ•—๐Ÿ•ฃ๐Ÿ•˜๐Ÿ•ค๐Ÿ•™๐Ÿ•ฅ๐Ÿ•š๐Ÿ•ฆ๐ŸŒ‘๐ŸŒ’๐ŸŒ“๐ŸŒ”๐ŸŒ•๐ŸŒ–๐ŸŒ—๐ŸŒ˜๐ŸŒ™๐ŸŒš๐ŸŒ›๐ŸŒœ๐ŸŒกโ˜€๏ธ๐ŸŒ๐ŸŒž๐Ÿชโญ๏ธ๐ŸŒŸ๐ŸŒ ๐ŸŒŒโ˜๏ธโ›…๏ธโ›ˆ๏ธ๐ŸŒค๐ŸŒฅ๐ŸŒฆ๐ŸŒง๐ŸŒจ๐ŸŒฉ๐ŸŒช๐ŸŒซ๐ŸŒฌ๐ŸŒ€๐ŸŒˆ๐ŸŒ‚โ˜‚๏ธโ˜”๏ธโ›ฑ๏ธโšก๏ธโ„๏ธโ˜ƒ๏ธโ›„๏ธโ˜„๏ธ๐Ÿ”ฅ๐Ÿ’ง๐ŸŒŠ๐ŸŽƒ๐ŸŽ„๐ŸŽ†๐ŸŽ‡๐Ÿงจโœจ๏ธ๐ŸŽˆ๐ŸŽ‰๐ŸŽŠ๐ŸŽ‹๐ŸŽ๐ŸŽŽ๐ŸŽ๐ŸŽ๐ŸŽ‘๐Ÿงง๐ŸŽ€๐ŸŽ๐ŸŽ—๐ŸŽŸ๐ŸŽซ๐ŸŽ–๐Ÿ†๐Ÿ…๐Ÿฅ‡๐Ÿฅˆ๐Ÿฅ‰โšฝ๏ธโšพ๏ธ๐ŸฅŽ๐Ÿ€๐Ÿ๐Ÿˆ๐Ÿ‰๐ŸŽพ๐Ÿฅ๐ŸŽณ๐Ÿ๐Ÿ‘๐Ÿ’๐Ÿฅ๐Ÿ“๐Ÿธ๐ŸฅŠ๐Ÿฅ‹๐Ÿฅ…โ›ณ๏ธโ›ธ๏ธ๐ŸŽฃ๐Ÿคฟ๐ŸŽฝ๐ŸŽฟ๐Ÿ›ท๐ŸฅŒ๐ŸŽฏ๐Ÿช€๐Ÿช๐ŸŽฑ๐Ÿ”ฎ๐Ÿช„๐Ÿงฟ๐Ÿชฌ๐ŸŽฎ๐Ÿ•น๐ŸŽฐ๐ŸŽฒ๐Ÿงฉ๐Ÿงธ๐Ÿช…๐Ÿชฉ๐Ÿช†โ™ ๏ธโ™ฅ๏ธโ™ฆ๏ธโ™ฃ๏ธโ™Ÿ๏ธ๐Ÿƒ๐Ÿ€„๐ŸŽด๐ŸŽญ๐Ÿ–ผ๐ŸŽจ๐Ÿงต๐Ÿชก๐Ÿงถ๐Ÿชข๐Ÿ‘“๐Ÿ•ถ๐Ÿฅฝ๐Ÿฅผ๐Ÿฆบ๐Ÿ‘”๐Ÿ‘•๐Ÿ‘–๐Ÿงฃ๐Ÿงค๐Ÿงฅ๐Ÿงฆ๐Ÿ‘—๐Ÿ‘˜๐Ÿฅป๐Ÿฉฑ๐Ÿฉฒ๐Ÿฉณ๐Ÿ‘™๐Ÿ‘š๐Ÿชญ๐Ÿ‘›๐Ÿ‘œ๐Ÿ‘๐Ÿ›๐ŸŽ’๐Ÿฉด๐Ÿ‘ž๐Ÿ‘Ÿ๐Ÿฅพ๐Ÿฅฟ๐Ÿ‘ ๐Ÿ‘ก๐Ÿฉฐ๐Ÿ‘ข๐Ÿชฎ๐Ÿ‘‘๐Ÿ‘’๐ŸŽฉ๐ŸŽ“๐Ÿงข๐Ÿช–โ›‘๏ธ๐Ÿ“ฟ๐Ÿ’„๐Ÿ’๐Ÿ’Ž๐Ÿ”‡๐Ÿ”ˆ๐Ÿ”‰๐Ÿ”Š๐Ÿ“ข๐Ÿ“ฃ๐Ÿ“ฏ๐Ÿ””๐Ÿ”•๐ŸŽผ๐ŸŽต๐ŸŽถ๐ŸŽ™๐ŸŽš๐ŸŽ›๐ŸŽค๐ŸŽง๐Ÿ“ป๐ŸŽท๐Ÿช—๐ŸŽธ๐ŸŽน๐ŸŽบ๐ŸŽป๐Ÿช•๐Ÿฅ๐Ÿช˜๐Ÿช‡๐Ÿชˆ๐Ÿ“ฑ๐Ÿ“ฒโ˜Ž๏ธ๐Ÿ“ž๐Ÿ“Ÿ๐Ÿ“ ๐Ÿ”‹๐Ÿชซ๐Ÿ”Œ๐Ÿ’ป๐Ÿ–ฅ๐Ÿ–จโŒจ๏ธ๐Ÿ–ฑ๐Ÿ–ฒ๐Ÿ’ฝ๐Ÿ’พ๐Ÿ’ฟ๐Ÿ“€๐Ÿงฎ๐ŸŽฅ๐ŸŽž๐Ÿ“ฝ๐ŸŽฌ๐Ÿ“บ๐Ÿ“ท๐Ÿ“ธ๐Ÿ“น๐Ÿ“ผ๐Ÿ”๐Ÿ”Ž๐Ÿ•ฏ๐Ÿ’ก๐Ÿ”ฆ๐Ÿฎ๐Ÿช”๐Ÿ“”๐Ÿ“•๐Ÿ“–๐Ÿ“—๐Ÿ“˜๐Ÿ“™๐Ÿ“š๐Ÿ““๐Ÿ“’๐Ÿ“ƒ๐Ÿ“œ๐Ÿ“„๐Ÿ“ฐ๐Ÿ—ž๐Ÿ“‘๐Ÿ”–๐Ÿท๐Ÿ’ฐ๐Ÿช™๐Ÿ’ด๐Ÿ’ต๐Ÿ’ถ๐Ÿ’ท๐Ÿ’ธ๐Ÿ’ณ๐Ÿงพโœ‰๏ธ๐Ÿ“ง๐Ÿ“จ๐Ÿ“ฉ๐Ÿ“ค๐Ÿ“ฅ๐Ÿ“ฆ๐Ÿ“ซ๐Ÿ“ช๐Ÿ“ฌ๐Ÿ“ญ๐Ÿ“ฎ๐Ÿ—ณโœ๏ธโœ’๏ธ๐Ÿ–‹๐Ÿ–Š๐Ÿ–Œ๐Ÿ–๐Ÿ“๐Ÿ’ผ๐Ÿ“๐Ÿ“‚๐Ÿ—‚๐Ÿ“…๐Ÿ“†๐Ÿ—’๐Ÿ—“๐Ÿ“‡๐Ÿ“ˆ๐Ÿ“‰๐Ÿ“Š๐Ÿ“‹๐Ÿ“Œ๐Ÿ“๐Ÿ“Ž๐Ÿ–‡๐Ÿ“๐Ÿ“โœ‚๏ธ๐Ÿ—ƒ๐Ÿ—„๐Ÿ—‘๐Ÿ”’๐Ÿ”“๐Ÿ”๐Ÿ”๐Ÿ”‘๐Ÿ—๐Ÿ”จ๐Ÿช“โ›๏ธโš’๏ธ๐Ÿ› ๐Ÿ—กโš”๏ธ๐Ÿ”ซ๐Ÿชƒ๐Ÿน๐Ÿ›ก๐Ÿชš๐Ÿ”ง๐Ÿช›๐Ÿ”ฉโš™๏ธ๐Ÿ—œโš–๏ธ๐Ÿฆฏ๐Ÿ”—โ›“๏ธโ›“๏ธโ€๐Ÿ’ฅ๐Ÿช๐Ÿงฐ๐Ÿงฒ๐Ÿชœโš—๏ธ๐Ÿงช๐Ÿงซ๐Ÿงฌ๐Ÿ”ฌ๐Ÿ”ญ๐Ÿ“ก๐Ÿ’‰๐Ÿฉธ๐Ÿ’Š๐Ÿฉน๐Ÿฉผ๐Ÿฉบ๐Ÿฉป๐Ÿšช๐Ÿ›—๐Ÿชž๐ŸชŸ๐Ÿ›๐Ÿ›‹๐Ÿช‘๐Ÿšฝ๐Ÿช ๐Ÿšฟ๐Ÿ›๐Ÿชค๐Ÿช’๐Ÿงด๐Ÿงท๐Ÿงน๐Ÿงบ๐Ÿงป๐Ÿชฃ๐Ÿงผ๐Ÿซง๐Ÿชฅ๐Ÿงฝ๐Ÿงฏ๐Ÿ›’๐Ÿšฌโšฐ๏ธ๐Ÿชฆโšฑ๏ธ๐Ÿ—ฟ๐Ÿชง๐Ÿชช๐Ÿง๐Ÿšฎ๐Ÿšฐโ™ฟ๏ธ๐Ÿšน๐Ÿšบ๐Ÿšป๐Ÿšผ๐Ÿšพ๐Ÿ›‚๐Ÿ›ƒ๐Ÿ›„๐Ÿ›…โš ๏ธ๐Ÿšธโ›”๏ธ๐Ÿšซ๐Ÿšณ๐Ÿšญ๐Ÿšฏ๐Ÿšฑ๐Ÿšท๐Ÿ“ต๐Ÿ”žโ˜ข๏ธโ˜ฃ๏ธโฌ†๏ธโ†—๏ธโžก๏ธโ†˜๏ธโฌ‡๏ธโ†™๏ธโฌ…๏ธโ†–๏ธโ†•๏ธโ†”๏ธโ†ฉ๏ธโ†ช๏ธโคด๏ธโคต๏ธ๐Ÿ”ƒ๐Ÿ”„๐Ÿ”™๐Ÿ”š๐Ÿ”›๐Ÿ”œ๐Ÿ”๐Ÿ›โš›๏ธ๐Ÿ•‰โœก๏ธโ˜ธ๏ธโ˜ฏ๏ธโœ๏ธโ˜ฆ๏ธโ˜ช๏ธโ˜ฎ๏ธ๐Ÿ•Ž๐Ÿ”ฏ๐Ÿชฏโ™ˆ๏ธโ™‰๏ธโ™Š๏ธโ™‹๏ธโ™Œ๏ธโ™๏ธโ™Ž๏ธโ™๏ธโ™๏ธโ™‘๏ธโ™’๏ธโ™“๏ธโ›Ž๏ธ๐Ÿ”€๐Ÿ”๐Ÿ”‚โ–ถ๏ธโฉ๏ธโญ๏ธโฏ๏ธโ—€๏ธโช๏ธโฎ๏ธ๐Ÿ”ผโซ๏ธ๐Ÿ”ฝโฌ๏ธโธ๏ธโน๏ธโบ๏ธโ๏ธ๐ŸŽฆ๐Ÿ”…๐Ÿ”†๐Ÿ“ถ๐Ÿ›œ๐Ÿ“ณ๐Ÿ“ดโ™€๏ธโ™‚๏ธโšง๏ธโœ–๏ธโž•๏ธโž–๏ธโž—๏ธ๐ŸŸฐโ™พ๏ธโ€ผ๏ธโ‰๏ธโ“๏ธโ”๏ธโ•๏ธโ—๏ธใ€ฐ๏ธ๐Ÿ’ฑ๐Ÿ’ฒโš•๏ธโ™ป๏ธโšœ๏ธ๐Ÿ”ฑ๐Ÿ“›๐Ÿ”ฐโญ•๏ธโœ…๏ธโ˜‘๏ธโœ”๏ธโŒ๏ธโŽ๏ธโžฐ๏ธโžฟ๏ธใ€ฝ๏ธโœณ๏ธโœด๏ธโ‡๏ธยฉ๏ธยฎ๏ธโ„ข๏ธ#๏ธโƒฃ*๏ธโƒฃ0๏ธโƒฃ1๏ธโƒฃ2๏ธโƒฃ3๏ธโƒฃ4๏ธโƒฃ5๏ธโƒฃ6๏ธโƒฃ7๏ธโƒฃ8๏ธโƒฃ9๏ธโƒฃ๐Ÿ”Ÿ๐Ÿ” ๐Ÿ”ก๐Ÿ”ข๐Ÿ”ฃ๐Ÿ”ค๐Ÿ…ฐ๏ธ๐Ÿ†Ž๏ธ๐Ÿ…ฑ๏ธ๐Ÿ†‘๏ธ๐Ÿ†’๏ธ๐Ÿ†“๏ธโ„น๏ธ๐Ÿ†”๏ธโ“‚๏ธ๐Ÿ†•๏ธ๐Ÿ†–๏ธ๐Ÿ…พ๏ธ๐Ÿ†—๏ธ๐Ÿ…ฟ๏ธ๐Ÿ†˜๏ธ๐Ÿ†™๏ธ๐Ÿ†š๏ธ๐Ÿˆ๏ธ๐Ÿˆ‚๏ธ๐Ÿˆท๏ธ๐Ÿˆถ๏ธ๐Ÿˆฏ๏ธ๐Ÿ‰๏ธ๐Ÿˆน๏ธ๐Ÿˆš๏ธ๐Ÿˆฒ๏ธ๐Ÿ‰‘๏ธ๐Ÿˆธ๏ธ๐Ÿˆด๏ธ๐Ÿˆณ๏ธใŠ—๏ธใŠ™๏ธ๐Ÿˆบ๏ธ๐Ÿˆต๏ธ๐Ÿ”ด๐ŸŸ ๐ŸŸก๐ŸŸข๐Ÿ”ต๐ŸŸฃ๐ŸŸคโšช๏ธโšซ๏ธ๐ŸŸฅ๐ŸŸง๐ŸŸจ๐ŸŸฉ๐ŸŸฆ๐ŸŸช๐ŸŸซโฌ›โฌœ๏ธโ—ผ๏ธโ—ป๏ธโ—พ๏ธโ—ฝ๏ธโ–ช๏ธโ–ซ๏ธ๐Ÿ”ถ๏ธ๐Ÿ”ท๏ธ๐Ÿ”ธ๏ธ๐Ÿ”น๏ธ๐Ÿ”บ๏ธ๐Ÿ”ป๐Ÿ’ ๐Ÿ”˜๐Ÿ”ฒ๐Ÿ”ณ๐Ÿ๐Ÿšฉ๐Ÿด๐Ÿณ๐Ÿณ๏ธโ€๐ŸŒˆ๐Ÿณ๏ธโ€โšง๏ธ๐Ÿดโ€โ˜ ๏ธ๐Ÿ‡ฆ๐Ÿ‡จ๐Ÿ‡ฆ๐Ÿ‡ฉ๐Ÿ‡ฆ๐Ÿ‡ช๐Ÿ‡ฆ๐Ÿ‡ซ๐Ÿ‡ฆ๐Ÿ‡ฌ๐Ÿ‡ฆ๐Ÿ‡ฎ๐Ÿ‡ฆ๐Ÿ‡ฑ๐Ÿ‡ฆ๐Ÿ‡ฒ๐Ÿ‡ฆ๐Ÿ‡ด๐Ÿ‡ฆ๐Ÿ‡ถ๐Ÿ‡ฆ๐Ÿ‡ท๐Ÿ‡ฆ๐Ÿ‡ธ๐Ÿ‡ฆ๐Ÿ‡น๐Ÿ‡ฆ๐Ÿ‡บ๐Ÿ‡ฆ๐Ÿ‡ผ๐Ÿ‡ฆ๐Ÿ‡ฝ๐Ÿ‡ฆ๐Ÿ‡ฟ๐Ÿ‡ง๐Ÿ‡ฆ๐Ÿ‡ง๐Ÿ‡ง๐Ÿ‡ง๐Ÿ‡ฉ๐Ÿ‡ง๐Ÿ‡ช๐Ÿ‡ง๐Ÿ‡ซ๐Ÿ‡ง๐Ÿ‡ฌ๐Ÿ‡ง๐Ÿ‡ญ๐Ÿ‡ง๐Ÿ‡ฎ๐Ÿ‡ง๐Ÿ‡ฏ๐Ÿ‡ง๐Ÿ‡ฑ๐Ÿ‡ง๐Ÿ‡ฒ๐Ÿ‡ง๐Ÿ‡ณ๐Ÿ‡ง๐Ÿ‡ด๐Ÿ‡ง๐Ÿ‡ถ๐Ÿ‡ง๐Ÿ‡ท๐Ÿ‡ง๐Ÿ‡ธ๐Ÿ‡ง๐Ÿ‡น๐Ÿ‡ง๐Ÿ‡ป๐Ÿ‡ง๐Ÿ‡ผ๐Ÿ‡ง๐Ÿ‡พ๐Ÿ‡ง๐Ÿ‡ฟ๐Ÿ‡จ๐Ÿ‡ฆ๐Ÿ‡จ๐Ÿ‡จ๐Ÿ‡จ๐Ÿ‡ฉ๐Ÿ‡จ๐Ÿ‡ซ๐Ÿ‡จ๐Ÿ‡ฌ๐Ÿ‡จ๐Ÿ‡ญ๐Ÿ‡จ๐Ÿ‡ฎ๐Ÿ‡จ๐Ÿ‡ฐ๐Ÿ‡จ๐Ÿ‡ฑ๐Ÿ‡จ๐Ÿ‡ฒ๐Ÿ‡จ๐Ÿ‡ณ๐Ÿ‡จ๐Ÿ‡ด๐Ÿ‡จ๐Ÿ‡ต๐Ÿ‡จ๐Ÿ‡ท๐Ÿ‡จ๐Ÿ‡บ๐Ÿ‡จ๐Ÿ‡ป๐Ÿ‡จ๐Ÿ‡ผ๐Ÿ‡จ๐Ÿ‡ฝ๐Ÿ‡จ๐Ÿ‡พ๐Ÿ‡จ๐Ÿ‡ฟ๐Ÿ‡ฉ๐Ÿ‡ช๐Ÿ‡ฉ๐Ÿ‡ฌ๐Ÿ‡ฉ๐Ÿ‡ฏ๐Ÿ‡ฉ๐Ÿ‡ฐ๐Ÿ‡ฉ๐Ÿ‡ฒ๐Ÿ‡ฉ๐Ÿ‡ด๐Ÿ‡ฉ๐Ÿ‡ฟ๐Ÿ‡ช๐Ÿ‡ฆ๐Ÿ‡ช๐Ÿ‡จ๐Ÿ‡ช๐Ÿ‡ช๐Ÿ‡ช๐Ÿ‡ฌ๐Ÿ‡ช๐Ÿ‡ญ๐Ÿ‡ช๐Ÿ‡ท๐Ÿ‡ช๐Ÿ‡ธ๐Ÿ‡ช๐Ÿ‡น๐Ÿ‡ช๐Ÿ‡บ๐Ÿ‡ซ๐Ÿ‡ฎ๐Ÿ‡ซ๐Ÿ‡ฏ๐Ÿ‡ซ๐Ÿ‡ฐ๐Ÿ‡ซ๐Ÿ‡ฒ๐Ÿ‡ซ๐Ÿ‡ด๐Ÿ‡ซ๐Ÿ‡ท๐Ÿ‡ฌ๐Ÿ‡ฆ๐Ÿ‡ฌ๐Ÿ‡ง๐Ÿ‡ฌ๐Ÿ‡ฉ๐Ÿ‡ฌ๐Ÿ‡ช๐Ÿ‡ฌ๐Ÿ‡ซ๐Ÿ‡ฌ๐Ÿ‡ฌ๐Ÿ‡ฌ๐Ÿ‡ญ๐Ÿ‡ฌ๐Ÿ‡ฎ๐Ÿ‡ฌ๐Ÿ‡ฑ๐Ÿ‡ฌ๐Ÿ‡ฒ๐Ÿ‡ฌ๐Ÿ‡ณ๐Ÿ‡ฌ๐Ÿ‡ต๐Ÿ‡ฌ๐Ÿ‡ถ๐Ÿ‡ฌ๐Ÿ‡ท๐Ÿ‡ฌ๐Ÿ‡ธ๐Ÿ‡ฌ๐Ÿ‡น๐Ÿ‡ฌ๐Ÿ‡บ๐Ÿ‡ฌ๐Ÿ‡ผ๐Ÿ‡ฌ๐Ÿ‡พ๐Ÿ‡ญ๐Ÿ‡ฐ๐Ÿ‡ญ๐Ÿ‡ฒ๐Ÿ‡ญ๐Ÿ‡ณ๐Ÿ‡ญ๐Ÿ‡ท๐Ÿ‡ญ๐Ÿ‡น๐Ÿ‡ญ๐Ÿ‡บ๐Ÿ‡ฎ๐Ÿ‡จ๐Ÿ‡ฎ๐Ÿ‡ฉ๐Ÿ‡ฎ๐Ÿ‡ช๐Ÿ‡ฎ๐Ÿ‡ฒ๐Ÿ‡ฎ๐Ÿ‡ณ๐Ÿ‡ฎ๐Ÿ‡ด๐Ÿ‡ฎ๐Ÿ‡ถ๐Ÿ‡ฎ๐Ÿ‡ท๐Ÿ‡ฎ๐Ÿ‡ธ๐Ÿ‡ฎ๐Ÿ‡น๐Ÿ‡ฏ๐Ÿ‡ช๐Ÿ‡ฏ๐Ÿ‡ฒ๐Ÿ‡ฏ๐Ÿ‡ด๐Ÿ‡ฏ๐Ÿ‡ต๐Ÿ‡ฐ๐Ÿ‡ช๐Ÿ‡ฐ๐Ÿ‡ฌ๐Ÿ‡ฐ๐Ÿ‡ญ๐Ÿ‡ฐ๐Ÿ‡ฎ๐Ÿ‡ฐ๐Ÿ‡ฒ๐Ÿ‡ฐ๐Ÿ‡ณ๐Ÿ‡ฐ๐Ÿ‡ต๐Ÿ‡ฐ๐Ÿ‡ท๐Ÿ‡ฐ๐Ÿ‡ผ๐Ÿ‡ฐ๐Ÿ‡พ๐Ÿ‡ฐ๐Ÿ‡ฟ๐Ÿ‡ฑ๐Ÿ‡ฆ๐Ÿ‡ฑ๐Ÿ‡ง๐Ÿ‡ฑ๐Ÿ‡จ๐Ÿ‡ฑ๐Ÿ‡ฎ๐Ÿ‡ฑ๐Ÿ‡ฐ๐Ÿ‡ฑ๐Ÿ‡ท๐Ÿ‡ฑ๐Ÿ‡ธ๐Ÿ‡ฑ๐Ÿ‡น๐Ÿ‡ฑ๐Ÿ‡บ๐Ÿ‡ฑ๐Ÿ‡ป๐Ÿ‡ฑ๐Ÿ‡พ๐Ÿ‡ฒ๐Ÿ‡ฆ๐Ÿ‡ฒ๐Ÿ‡จ๐Ÿ‡ฒ๐Ÿ‡ฉ๐Ÿ‡ฒ๐Ÿ‡ช๐Ÿ‡ฒ๐Ÿ‡ซ๐Ÿ‡ฒ๐Ÿ‡ฌ๐Ÿ‡ฒ๐Ÿ‡ญ๐Ÿ‡ฒ๐Ÿ‡ฐ๐Ÿ‡ฒ๐Ÿ‡ฑ๐Ÿ‡ฒ๐Ÿ‡ฒ๐Ÿ‡ฒ๐Ÿ‡ณ๐Ÿ‡ฒ๐Ÿ‡ด๐Ÿ‡ฒ๐Ÿ‡ต๐Ÿ‡ฒ๐Ÿ‡ถ๐Ÿ‡ฒ๐Ÿ‡ท๐Ÿ‡ฒ๐Ÿ‡ธ๐Ÿ‡ฒ๐Ÿ‡น๐Ÿ‡ฒ๐Ÿ‡บ๐Ÿ‡ฒ๐Ÿ‡ป๐Ÿ‡ฒ๐Ÿ‡ผ๐Ÿ‡ฒ๐Ÿ‡ฝ๐Ÿ‡ฒ๐Ÿ‡พ๐Ÿ‡ฒ๐Ÿ‡ฟ๐Ÿ‡ณ๐Ÿ‡ฆ๐Ÿ‡ณ๐Ÿ‡จ๐Ÿ‡ณ๐Ÿ‡ช๐Ÿ‡ณ๐Ÿ‡ซ๐Ÿ‡ณ๐Ÿ‡ฌ๐Ÿ‡ณ๐Ÿ‡ฎ๐Ÿ‡ณ๐Ÿ‡ฑ๐Ÿ‡ณ๐Ÿ‡ด๐Ÿ‡ณ๐Ÿ‡ต๐Ÿ‡ณ๐Ÿ‡ท๐Ÿ‡ณ๐Ÿ‡บ๐Ÿ‡ณ๐Ÿ‡ฟ๐Ÿ‡ด๐Ÿ‡ฒ๐Ÿ‡ต๐Ÿ‡ฆ๐Ÿ‡ต๐Ÿ‡ช๐Ÿ‡ต๐Ÿ‡ซ๐Ÿ‡ต๐Ÿ‡ฌ๐Ÿ‡ต๐Ÿ‡ญ๐Ÿ‡ต๐Ÿ‡ฐ๐Ÿ‡ต๐Ÿ‡ฑ๐Ÿ‡ต๐Ÿ‡ฒ๐Ÿ‡ต๐Ÿ‡ณ๐Ÿ‡ต๐Ÿ‡ท๐Ÿ‡ต๐Ÿ‡ธ๐Ÿ‡ต๐Ÿ‡น๐Ÿ‡ต๐Ÿ‡ผ๐Ÿ‡ต๐Ÿ‡พ๐Ÿ‡ถ๐Ÿ‡ฆ๐Ÿ‡ท๐Ÿ‡ช๐Ÿ‡ท๐Ÿ‡ด๐Ÿ‡ท๐Ÿ‡ธ๐Ÿ‡ท๐Ÿ‡บ๐Ÿ‡ท๐Ÿ‡ผ๐Ÿ‡ธ๐Ÿ‡ฆ๐Ÿ‡ธ๐Ÿ‡ง๐Ÿ‡ธ๐Ÿ‡จ๐Ÿ‡ธ๐Ÿ‡ฉ๐Ÿ‡ธ๐Ÿ‡ช๐Ÿ‡ธ๐Ÿ‡ฌ๐Ÿ‡ธ๐Ÿ‡ญ๐Ÿ‡ธ๐Ÿ‡ฎ๐Ÿ‡ธ๐Ÿ‡ฏ๐Ÿ‡ธ๐Ÿ‡ฐ๐Ÿ‡ธ๐Ÿ‡ฑ๐Ÿ‡ธ๐Ÿ‡ฒ๐Ÿ‡ธ๐Ÿ‡ณ๐Ÿ‡ธ๐Ÿ‡ด๐Ÿ‡ธ๐Ÿ‡ท๐Ÿ‡ธ๐Ÿ‡ธ๐Ÿ‡ธ๐Ÿ‡น๐Ÿ‡ธ๐Ÿ‡ป๐Ÿ‡ธ๐Ÿ‡ฝ๐Ÿ‡ธ๐Ÿ‡พ๐Ÿ‡ธ๐Ÿ‡ฟ๐Ÿ‡น๐Ÿ‡ฆ๐Ÿ‡น๐Ÿ‡จ๐Ÿ‡น๐Ÿ‡ฉ๐Ÿ‡น๐Ÿ‡ซ๐Ÿ‡น๐Ÿ‡ฌ๐Ÿ‡น๐Ÿ‡ญ๐Ÿ‡น๐Ÿ‡ฏ๐Ÿ‡น๐Ÿ‡ฐ๐Ÿ‡น๐Ÿ‡ฑ๐Ÿ‡น๐Ÿ‡ฒ๐Ÿ‡น๐Ÿ‡ณ๐Ÿ‡น๐Ÿ‡ด๐Ÿ‡น๐Ÿ‡ท๐Ÿ‡น๐Ÿ‡น๐Ÿ‡น๐Ÿ‡ป๐Ÿ‡น๐Ÿ‡ผ๐Ÿ‡น๐Ÿ‡ฟ๐Ÿ‡บ๐Ÿ‡ฆ๐Ÿ‡บ๐Ÿ‡ฌ๐Ÿ‡บ๐Ÿ‡ฒ๐Ÿ‡บ๐Ÿ‡ณ๐Ÿ‡บ๐Ÿ‡ธ๐Ÿ‡บ๐Ÿ‡พ๐Ÿ‡บ๐Ÿ‡ฟ๐Ÿ‡ป๐Ÿ‡ฆ๐Ÿ‡ป๐Ÿ‡จ๐Ÿ‡ป๐Ÿ‡ช๐Ÿ‡ป๐Ÿ‡ฌ๐Ÿ‡ป๐Ÿ‡ฎ๐Ÿ‡ป๐Ÿ‡ณ๐Ÿ‡ป๐Ÿ‡บ๐Ÿ‡ผ๐Ÿ‡ซ๐Ÿ‡ผ๐Ÿ‡ธ๐Ÿ‡ฝ๐Ÿ‡ฐ๐Ÿ‡พ๐Ÿ‡ช๐Ÿ‡พ๐Ÿ‡น๐Ÿ‡ฟ๐Ÿ‡ฆ๐Ÿ‡ฟ๐Ÿ‡ฒ๐Ÿ‡ฟ๐Ÿ‡ผ๐Ÿด๓ ง๓ ข๓ ฅ๓ ฎ๓ ง๓ ฟ๐Ÿด๓ ง๓ ข๓ ณ๓ ฃ๓ ด๓ ฟ๐Ÿด๓ ง๓ ข๓ ท๓ ฌ๓ ณ๓ ฟ
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contact-guy ยท 8 months ago
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helloooo this is a MASTER POST of my Sherlock Holmes annotations, aka shitpost doodles of my favorite parts with occasional headcanons. I will pin this so it's available and update it as I go because this feels like it's becoming a full series, god help me.
I'm reading the stories in the order they occurred (according to Baring-Gould, who I am currently arm wrestling in the astral plane over how many wives Watson had) so that's how I will present them!
EDIT: decided to draw them in the order that makes sense to me, Baring-Gould youโ€™re too silly
EDIT 2: this is basically a webcomic at this point, with ongoing continuity and a romantic storyline that can be enjoyed if you read in order. I did not intend this, but I have Sherlock Holmes disease and there's only one cure (doing this)
EDIT 3: content warning/advertisement depending on your temperament: this series gets into one of my big interests, historical queerness, period accurate homophobia, and how laws around queerness affected lived experience. it also has things that you can expect from a Sherlock Holmes story like: drug use involving needles, violence, flagrant use of old timey guns, and people dying in shocking and mysterious ways!
Copies of Volume 1 can be purchased here - sold out currently, more on the way!
A Study in Scarlet ๐Ÿฉธ
The Speckled Band ๐Ÿ
The Resident Patient ๐Ÿฉบ
The Noble Bachelor ๐Ÿ‘ฐ
The Second Stain ๐Ÿ“ฎ
The Reigate Squires ๐Ÿ“
The Dancing Men ๐Ÿ‘ฏโ€โ™‚๏ธ
Silver Blaze ๐Ÿ‡๐Ÿป
The Six Napoleons โšซ๏ธ
The Red Circle ๐Ÿ•ฏ๏ธ๐ŸชŸ
The Greek Interpreter ๐Ÿฉน
Mycroft Interlude ๐ŸŽฉ
The Beryl Coronet ๐Ÿฅช
The Yellow Face ๐Ÿ™‚
The Hound of the Baskervilles ๐Ÿบ
-Part One
-Part Two
-Part Three
-Part Four
-Part Five
-Part Six
-Part Seven
The Gloria Scott โš“๏ธ
The Valley of Fear ๐Ÿฐ
-Part One
-Part Two
Shoscombe Old Place ๐ŸŽฃ
Charles Augustus Milverton ๐Ÿ’Œ
-Part One
-Part Two
-Part Three
-Part Four
-Part Five
The Copper Beeches โœ‚๏ธ
-Part One
-Part Two
The Sign of the Four ๐Ÿ’‰
-Part One
-Part Two
-Part Three
-Part Four
-Part Five
-Illustration
-Part Six
-Part Seven
The Cardboard Box ๐Ÿ“ฆ๐Ÿ‘‚๐Ÿป
Second Interlude ๐Ÿ’’
A Scandal In Bohemia ๐Ÿ’ƒ
-Part One
-Part Two
-Part Three
The Stockbrokers Clerk ๐Ÿฆท
The Engineerโ€™s Thumb ๐Ÿ‘๐Ÿป
The Crooked Man ๐Ÿฆ
The Naval Treaty ๐ŸŒน
The Five Orange Pips ๐ŸŠ
The Man With The Twisted Lip ๐Ÿงฝ
-Part One
-Part Two
The Boscombe Valley Mystery ๐Ÿชจ
-Part One
-Part Two
-Part Three
The Dying Detective ๐Ÿฆช
-Part One
-Part Two
-Part Three
Christmas Eve, 1890 ๐ŸŽ„
-Part One
-Part Two
-Part Three
The Blue Carbuncle ๐Ÿชฟ๐Ÿ’Ž
-Part One
-Part Two
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starfilled-galaxy ยท 3 months ago
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DJVHKFJG I ALMOST SAID "WE'RE ALMOST DONE" TO MY MOM. LIKE. WE. AS IN. PLURAL. DIES DIES DIES DIES
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zipsunz ยท 1 year ago
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LIFE JAM! it really works! ๐Ÿ‡ ๐Ÿ‰ ๐ŸŠ ๐ŸŽ
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๐ŸŒ ๐Ÿ“ ๐Ÿฉธ
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mommyghostface28 ยท 10 months ago
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Pronouns: She/Herย 
Honorifics/titles: Mommy, Daddy, Mistress, Master.ย 
Kinks: praise, Degradation, somno, CNC, Anal, Primal play, Role play, free use, ownership, Bondage, pussy worship, orgasam control, edging, breeding, public sex.ย ย Humiliation, Monster fucking, mind control, objectification, Housewife(1950s) kink. Corruption. petplay.
Hard limits: scat, piss, raceplay, age play, knives.ย 
Hey there! If youโ€™re reading this, that means youโ€™ve stumbled into my dungeon. Welcome to my territory, Iโ€™m a rough, mushy Domme that loves to steal hearts and give praises to my good girls. Feel free to hangout, or slide into my DMs ;)ย 
@whoreishcritterrrr is my lovely sub/girlfriend! โค๏ธWhile Iโ€™m definitely not looking for another D/s dynamic or relationship, spicy asks are still welcomed โ˜บ๏ธ
Men will get a block, Minors will get a block. No messing with my mutuals, or mommy will have a problem.ย 
Taken emojis: ๐Ÿท๐Ÿฆ•๐Ÿชฌ๐Ÿชฟ(๐ŸŒธ๐Ÿ’œ)๐Ÿบ๐Ÿฉธ๐Ÿ˜‡๐Ÿฐ๐Ÿ”ฅ๐Ÿ”ฎ๐Ÿงธ๐Ÿ’โ˜•๏ธ๐Ÿ ๐Ÿฆ‚๐ŸŒ™๐ŸŒท๐Ÿ€๐Ÿ•Š๏ธ๐Ÿš๐Ÿ’ซ๐Ÿญ๐Ÿฆ๐Ÿ‘€๐Ÿ˜ˆ๐Ÿš€๐Ÿฉท๐Ÿ„๐Ÿ–Œ๏ธ๐Ÿ‘๐Ÿง›โ€โ™€๏ธ๐Ÿฆ‹๐ŸŒป๐Ÿ‘ปโค๏ธ๐Ÿงฌ๐Ÿชโค๏ธโ€๐Ÿ”ฅ๐Ÿงต๐Ÿงšโ€โ™€๏ธ๐Ÿง๐Ÿฅผ๐Ÿชฉ๐Ÿ‚๐Ÿฉฐ๐Ÿ‡๐Ÿฆด๐Ÿซง๐Ÿ๐Ÿชด๐Ÿง ๐Ÿ“๐Ÿฃ๐Ÿฉตโœจ๐Ÿฅฅ๐Ÿง๐Ÿ’‹๐Ÿป๐Ÿชผโ˜„๏ธ๐Ÿฆ†๐Ÿฎโ˜ ๏ธ๐ŸŒง๏ธ๐ŸŒ๐Ÿฑโค๏ธโ€๐Ÿฉนโ™๏ธ๐Ÿโ™Ž๏ธ๐Ÿ›๐Ÿ‘‘๐Ÿชท๐ŸŒ›๐ŸŒˆ๐Ÿฆˆ๐Ÿ’ง๐Ÿฆข๐Ÿข๐Ÿ”‘๐Ÿฅž๐Ÿฆ‡๐Ÿ‹๐Ÿฏ๐Ÿฆโ€โฌ›๐ŸงŽ๐Ÿญ๐Ÿ’•๐ŸฆŠ๐Ÿˆโ€โฌ›๐Ÿฏ๐Ÿ‘พ๐Ÿชป๐Ÿ’๐Ÿ†โ™ˆ๏ธโšฐ๏ธ๐Ÿ‰๐Ÿ’™๐ŸŽ‹๐Ÿชžโ˜€๏ธ๐Ÿ•ธ๏ธ๐ŸŽ€๐Ÿ”ช๐Ÿฆ‰๐ŸŒŠโ˜”๏ธ๐Ÿž๐Ÿ‘๐Ÿฅฆ๐Ÿ‘ ๐Ÿ’โ™‰๏ธ๐Ÿ๐Ÿฆ„๐Ÿ‡โ„๏ธ๐ŸŒฟ๐Ÿฆโ€๐Ÿ”ฅโญ๏ธ๐Ÿชฒ๐Ÿ•ท๏ธ๐Ÿฆท๐ŸŽธ๐Ÿฆจ๐Ÿฌ๐Ÿ’˜๐ŸŒผ๐Ÿฆฉ๐Ÿถ๐Ÿฟ๏ธ๐Ÿฐ๐Ÿชถ๐Ÿ“š๐ŸŠ๐Ÿฆ”โš™๏ธ๐Ÿ€๐Ÿฆช๐Ÿ•๐Ÿพ๐Ÿ™ˆ๐Ÿฆ๐Ÿฅ๐Ÿฅƒ๐ŸŒ‹๐Ÿ’„โ™‹๏ธ๐Ÿ’Š๐Ÿ’‰๐Ÿด๓ ง๓ ข๓ ณ๓ ฃ๓ ด๓ ฟ)๐ŸŽป๐Ÿƒ๐Ÿช๐Ÿจ๐Ÿชธ๐Ÿฅบ๐Ÿ๐Ÿงฎ๐Ÿณ๏ธโ€โšง๏ธโ™‘๏ธ๐ŸŒ—โ›“๏ธ๐Ÿ””๐Ÿง˜๐Ÿพโ€โ™€๏ธ๐ŸŽ ๐Ÿ’Ž๐Ÿฆ–๐Ÿฅ€๐Ÿ™๐ŸŒน๐Ÿฌ๐Ÿฉ๐ŸŒต๐Ÿฅ๐ŸฆšโœŒ๐Ÿป๐ŸŒฑ๐ŸŒ โ˜‚๏ธ๐Ÿ•บ๐Ÿฟ๐Ÿง‹๐Ÿ‰โ™ฆ๏ธ๐Ÿ’’๐Ÿ๐Ÿ™ƒ๐Ÿช…๐Ÿคญโšก๏ธ๐Ÿ”†๐Ÿ๐Ÿ๐Ÿฉถ๐Ÿค๐ŸŽƒ๐ŸŒฒ๐ŸซŽ๐ŸŒฉ๏ธ๐Ÿชญ๐Ÿฆญ๐Ÿงšโ€โ™‚๏ธ๐Ÿ’Œ๐Ÿ’›๐Ÿงก๐Ÿงโš–๏ธ๐Ÿซ๐ŸŽ๐ŸŒฎ๐ŸŽฉ๐ŸŽ“๐Ÿซ’๐ŸŒณ๐Ÿ๐Ÿฆ ๐Ÿซ๐ŸŒจ๏ธ๐ŸŽ‰๐Ÿช„๐Ÿ‡ซ๐Ÿ‡ท๐Ÿ’ฅ๐ŸŽฑ๐ŸŽŸ๏ธ๐Ÿป๐Ÿซฆ๐ŸŒฐ๐Ÿซ๐Ÿฅญ๐Ÿ‘—๐Ÿฆค
โ€”โ€”โ€”โ€”โ€”- โ€”โ€”โ€”โ€”โ€”โ€” โ€”โ€”โ€”โ€”โ€”โ€” โ€”โ€”โ€”โ€”-
๐Ÿด๓ ง๓ ข๓ ณ๓ ฃ๓ ด๓ ฟ (they/them) ๐Ÿฆ  (Any pronouns)
๐ŸŽฉ (they/them) ๐Ÿ‡ซ๐Ÿ‡ท (She/Her)
๐Ÿง (she/her) โšก๏ธ(they/them)
๐Ÿค (she/they)
๐Ÿ•บ (They/Them)
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