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salemluvs · 2 months

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Back at it with Ateez AT AU

Hongjoong in a band + meeting Seonghwa

Read what @nnnnnnnothingtoseehere wrote cus its fun

Hongjoong blames the enormous box of posters in his hands. It’s big enough to entirely block his view of his own feet, and he can’t even see the raised section of the pavement until it’s too late.

He hits the ground hard, posters spilling out of the box and rolling away. His hands took most of the fall, which is better than his face.

He sits up slowly, hissing at the sight of his own scuffed up palms. He’s thankful it’s just his palms; he definitely needs his fingers for tonight.

His palms will have to wait; he has multiple posters suddenly making a break for freedom.

As Hongjoong staggers to his feet, he has a brief moment of thankfulness for the fact that the venue they’re performing at is located on a quieter street. There aren’t many pedestrians around, meaning less people to potentially step on the posters.

He still breaks into a jog to try and catch some of them before they roll into the street. Not too fast though; rock stars don’t run.

He has to bend down to gather up the posters, and soon has an armful. He is straightening up to bring them back to the box when he realizes there’s someone helping him.

Hongjoong can’t see much of the stranger at the moment, white hair falling into his face as he scoops up several posters. He’s wearing an oversized black and white striped shirt, the demon notices absently, and has a tote bag slung over one shoulder that threatens to fall off as he reaches for another poster.

The stranger stands up fully, allowing Hongjoong to actually get a look at him.

He’s clearly human; Hongjoong could tell that just from his skin tone. Besides that, the demon can only make vague guesses about his age. He seems young-ish, but Hongjoong honestly has no idea. Besides that, he has incredibly round eyes, and an awkward smile.

“Do you have somewhere to put these?” the stranger asks, lifting his armful of posters slightly.

“Uh, yeah,” Hongjoong answers.

He immediately turns on his heel, heading back to the box that he left on the ground beside the merch stand. He drops his bunch of posters into the box, suddenly very self conscious about everything he is doing.

The stranger has followed him, and proceeds to kneel down beside the box to put his armful of posters away, making sure they’re neatly in place.

Hongjoong stands there watching him for a second before he realizes he’s being weird. He heads back out to gather up the last few posters, returning to hand them to the very detail-oriented stranger.

“There we go,” he finally says once the last roll is put away. “All done.”

He stands up then, and Hongjoong realizes very quickly that he is several inches taller than him, despite his boots. He knew he should have gone with the three-inch heel.

“I’m Seonghwa, by the way,” the stranger says with another smile.

He sticks his hand out, and Hongjoong tries to take it in a cool and nonchalant manner.

“I’m Hongjoong,” Hongjoong answers.

“Nice to meet you, Hongjoong,” Seonghwa says easily. “I like your outfit.”

Hongjoong can’t resist grinning at the compliment. He likes his outfit too, and may be wearing it hours before he needs to because he likes it that much.

“Thanks,” he replies. “I like your hair.”

Seonghwa laughs slightly at that and thanks him, reaching up to comb his hair back with one hand.

“So, what is all the paper for?” he asks, gesturing to the box on the ground between them.

“They’re posters,” Hongjoong tells him. “I’m setting up the merch stand.”

He steps slightly to the side so Seonghwa can see the table and booth behind him, already half-covered in t-shirts.

“Oh,” Seonghwa says, eyes widening. “The Demon Prince? Is that the name of a show?”

“A band,” Hongjoong corrects. “My band, actually.”

“Really?” Seonghwa’s whole face lights up in excitement. “You’re the front man?”

Hongjoong nods proudly, maybe sticking out his chest a little more.

“What kind of music do you play?” Seonghwa asks, tilting his head as he waits for Hongjoong’s answer.

“Rock,” Hongjoong answers easily. “Sometimes I switch it up a little, but I’m keeping in a more hardcore punk vein right now.”

Seonghwa makes suitably impressed noises, and Hongjoong congratulates himself mentally for doing so well at this. This is easy!

“Rock can be a really nebulous term,” he continues. “I don’t really care for some of the more laid back stuff that people call ‘rock’. Things like that misrepresent the genre and are just bad press in a lot of ways.”

Hongjoong can feel himself loosening up as he talks; he knows about this kind of stuff and is very comfortable talking about it. He widens his stance slightly, leaning against the booth wall behind him and incorporating a few hand gestures.

“I’m sorry for interrupting,” Seonghwa interjects after a few moments. “But you hurt your hands.”

Hongjoong had honestly forgotten about his scraped-up palms. He flips his hands over, noting the way some of the deeper scratches are now oozing blood.

“Oh yeah,” he says casually. “It’s fine.”

“No, it’s not,” Seonghwa tells him. He has stepped closer, and now reaches out to take one of Hongjoong’s hands, his touch gentle.

The demon immediately freezes, incredibly aware of how small his hands look next to Seonghwa’s much bigger ones.

“You should really wash them off,” Seonghwa is saying, bending over slightly to get a better look. “You don’t want anything to get infected.”

“Yeah, I was planning on it,” Hongjoong answers. “There’s a sink inside and stuff.”

He may have seen one briefly. He honestly isn’t sure.

For a split second he’s sure Seonghwa is going to haul him to the possibly-imaginary sink right then and there. The human doesn’t, instead letting go of Hongjoong’s hand to dig in his tote bag briefly.

“I thought I had some,” he mutters, pulling the bag halfway off his shoulder to look inside better. “Oh, here they are!”

He triumphantly holds up a small plastic container decorated with cartoon animals. Hongjoong blinks at it for a second.

“What is it?” he asks flatly.

“They’re bandaids,” Seonghwa tells him, opening the container. “You’re going to need something if you have to play tonight.”

“Oh,” Hongjoong says. “I guess you’re right.”

Seonghwa gives him another smile, as well as a small handful of bandaids.

“Thanks,” Hongjoong tells him, slipping them into his pocket.

“Of course,” Seonghwa replies. “I’m glad I carry them.”

Hongjoong watches as he puts the container back in his bag, then adjusts the strap so it hangs comfortably again.

“Hey,” Hongjoong says abruptly, getting Seonghwa’s attention again. “Do you want to come to the show?”

“Me?” Seonghwa asks, blinking a few times.

“Yeah,” Hongjoong says. He doesn’t know who else the human thinks he could be talking to. “It starts at 8 tonight, right here.”

He pauses for a second.

“Well, not right here,” he quickly amends. “But at this venue.”

“I knew what you meant,” Seonghwa assures him. “And while I would love to, I can’t. I have a kid at home, and he doesn’t like crowds at all.”

Hongjoong nods slowly, thinking quickly over everything he knows about human children. It’s really not much, but he does know it’s probably not a good idea to leave babies alone at home for a long time.

“That’s cool,” he replies, hoping this comes across as a nonchalant and normal response.

Seonghwa clearly takes this to mean that Hongjoong thinks children as a whole are cool and that he definitely wants to hear more about them, his whole expression immediately brightening.

“He’s a really sweet kid,” the human says, digging in his bag again. “Here’s a picture of him when he was little.”

He holds out a small, well-loved picture, the edges tattered and almost soft. Hongjoong leans forward slightly, squinting at the miniature human who is in turn squinting at the camera in the picture. The demon can’t really make out much of their face, but he supposes they’re rather cute.

“Nice,” he says vaguely, leaning back.

“He’s a lot bigger now,” Seonghwa says, flipping the picture back around to look at it for a moment. “I think I have another picture somewhere-”

“I’m good,” Hongjoong hurriedly says. “I don’t really like kids.”

“Ahh,” Seonghwa replies, carefully putting the picture back in his bag.

The conversation kind of dies there, with the two of them just awkwardly looking at each other, the box of posters, then each other again.

“Do you want a poster?” Hongjoong finally says, desperate to break the silence somehow. “Since you can’t come and did help me pick all of them up.”

“Oh,” Seonghwa says, looking down at the rolled up posters. “I didn’t realize they were posters.”

Hongjoong laughs awkwardly at that, bending down to pick one up quickly.

“Here,” he says roughly.

Seonghwa takes it with a smile, thanking Hongjoong.

“I’ll have to hang it up,” he says. “It’s not every day I meet a real rockstar.”

Hongjoong does his best to push down the immediate rush of glee that comes from the human’s words. He should definitely be totally normal about being called a rockstar; he is one, after all.

“Hah, yeah,” he answers. “And I bet you don’t give other rockstars bandaids either.”

Seonghwa laughs, but the demon is immediately kicking himself mentally for saying something so dumb.

“No, you’re definitely right,” Seonghwa agrees. “I’ll certainly enjoy knowing you’ll be performing with gecko bandaids. Not every rockstar can pull that off, but I think you can.”

Hongjoong can’t stop himself from flushing at the compliment, and he does his best to brush it off as well as he can.

“Yeah, well,” he ends up saying. “A sense of style comes with the territory.”

Seonghwa laughs again at that, and Hongjoong notices distantly that he looks really nice smiling like that. The thought is strange, and he shakes his head slightly to clear it.

“So are you going to set these out?” Seonghwa asks, waggling the poster now cradled carefully in his hands.

“That’s the plan,” Hongjoong tells him. He glances over his shoulder at the rest of the table. “I should get some of my bandmates to help.”

“I could,” Seonghwa offers quickly, looking a little surprised by his own suggestion. “If you’re ok with it, that is.”

“Uh, sure,” Hongjoong says, running a hand through his hair. “If you want to.”

Seonghwa immediately nods, gaze flicking between Hongjoong’s face and the table behind him.

“I like organizing things,” he says in explanation. “And I’ve organized everything at home already.”

“Well, do you want to do the t-shirts?” Hongjoong asks. He steps around to the other side of the table, with Seonghwa doing the same but on the front end.

“How do you want them?” the human immediately asks, eyes practically sparkling.

“I mean, they’re all the same,” Hongjoong tells him. “I was just going to set them in piles.”

“They come in different sizes, though,” Seonghwa points out, picking up the closest shirt. “This one is a small; you wouldn’t want it in with the larges.”

Sizing hadn’t occurred to Hongjoong at all. He quickly tries to come up with a cool way to downplay this flaw in his thinking.

“Do whatever you want,” he finally says, waving one hand.

He probably should have kept the hand gestures to a minimum. The movement agitated his scuffed-up palms, and Seonghwa notices his slight grimace of discomfort.

“You should go wash your hands off now,” he says, dragging the closest stack of t-shirts forward on the table. “I can watch things here.”

Hongjoong is opening his mouth to say that it really doesn’t hurt when Seonghwa fixes him with a stern look.

“Go wash them,” he says firmly. “You’ll get blood all over things if you don’t.”

Something in his voice has Hongjoong automatically turning before he can even fully register what he’s doing, heading for the door that he left propped open.

About halfway down the hallway inside, he begins to feel a little stupid. But he does need to wash his hands, and Seonghwa made a good point about getting blood on the merch.

He spends most of the time washing his hands wondering if he could charge extra for bloodstained t-shirts and posters.

By the time he emerges from the building, Seonghwa has unboxed every t-shirt they have and laid them all neatly out in orderly stacks. He has moved on to organizing the posters, and looks up when Hongjoong steps closer to the table.

“Did you wash your hands?” he asks, raising an eyebrow expectantly.

Hongjoong finds himself holding out his hands for Seonghwa to inspect, feeling curiously like a little kid again.

“Good job,” Seonghwa tells him. “Do you want help putting on the bandaids?”

“I’m fine,” Hongjoong replies gruffly, already reaching into his pocket for the bandaids.

Seonghwa watches him for a long moment, but doesn’t say anything. Hongjoong focuses on the bandaids in his hands, having to figure out how to open them first.

He is surprised to learn that Seonghwa wasn’t joking about the bandaids. The first one he opens is covered in bright orange lizards, presumably geckos.

No one will see his palms anyways, he quickly decides. And if he really ends up hating them, he can just take them off once Seonghwa leaves.

Hongjoong puts the bandaids on as well as he can, frustrated at how inexpertly placed most of them are. It’s hard to put them on yourself, and he may regret refusing Seonghwa’s help. However, he does have a reputation to uphold, and so he struggles through the whole handful.

When his scrapes are covered by various colorful geckos, he stuffs the bandaid scraps into his pocket.

“Could you look over the t-shirts?” Seonghwa asks, nodding at that half of the table. “I want to make sure you like how I did it.”

Hongjoong steps closer to the table, slowing down to really look at the neat stacks of t-shirts. They are incredibly exact; the demon wonders absently if Seonghwa has a ruler somewhere in his bag. He wouldn’t be surprised if he did.

“Looks good,” he says, glancing over at the human. “Very precise.”

Seonghwa flushes slightly at that, grinning. Hongjoong can feel his own cheeks heating up as well.

“Thanks,” Seonghwa replies. “Is there anything else, or just the posters?”

“Just the posters,” Hongjoong tells him. “I couldn’t line up any more merch unfortunately.”

“What else would you have liked to do?” Seonghwa asks, glancing at him briefly before looking back at the neat rolls of posters in front of him.

Hongjoong relaxes now that he is back in familiar territory. He easily launches into his plans for future merchandise, which include everything from hoodies to hats to shoes. Seonghwa makes all the right noises at the right times, occasionally asking questions to show that he is still listening.

They talk like that for quite a while, long enough that Hongjoong loses track of time. He is only reminded of how late it’s getting when he realizes that the light has definitely changed to that distinctive late afternoon color.

Unfortunately Seonghwa notices right at the same time.

“It’s getting late,” he says with a bit of worry in his voice. “I should be getting back to Yeosang. He’s probably worried.”

Hongjoong blinks at him, entirely unsure of who Yeosang is.

Seonghwa doesn’t seem to notice, too busy looking over the merch table one last time as if he’s making sure nothing has moved.

“Thanks for letting me organize things,” he says with a smile. “It was a lot of fun.”

“No problem,” Hongjoong tells him. “I wasn’t going to stop you.”

Seonghwa laughs at that, taking a half step back from the table.

“Wait,” Hongjoong calls out before he can walk any further away. “Don’t forget your poster.”

Seonghwa’s eyes immediately widen, and he retraces his few steps to take a rolled-up poster from Hongjoong’s hands.

“Thanks for catching that,” he says with a relieved laugh. “I would have been so mad at myself if I’d forgotten.”

Hongjoong laughs awkwardly at that, watching as Seonghwa carefully puts the poster in his bag, making sure it won’t get hurt.

“You should come to our next show,” he blurts out. “Because you can’t make it to this one.”

“I would like to,” Seonghwa tells him. “I really want to see what you’re like on stage.”

Hongjoong distantly manages to form a coherent reply to that, doing his best to keep from jumping up and down from excitement.

After his reply, the conversation kind of falls flat again. Hongjoong watches as Seonghwa’s gaze drops to the table again, one hand coming up to adjust his bag’s strap absently.

“Well I really should be going,” he finally says, making eye contact with Hongjoong. “It was really nice to meet you.”

“You too,” Hongjoong says awkwardly. “Thanks for helping with all of this.”

He waves a hand vaguely, encompassing the table and everything on it.

“You’re welcome,” Seonghwa says with a smile. “Like I said, it’s not every day I get to meet a real life rockstar.”

Hongjoong chuckles at that, trying to seem cool again as he raises a hand to run through his hair.

“It’s not every day I meet someone who carries gecko bandaids,” he points out, earning a genuine laugh and smile from Seonghwa.

“Very true,” the human admits. “I guess we both had crazy experiences today.”

They exchange mildly awkward goodbyes, and even more awkward waves when Seonghwa turns around halfway to the street and finds Hongjoong still watching him.

In Hongjoong’s defense, he can’t just leave the whole merch table set up and unattended. That would be poor business practice.

And maybe he just wanted to watch Seonghwa head off, poster sticking out of his tote bag.

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salemluvs · 1 year

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➜ SYMBOLS 3 !!

❝ ⵌ ⌗ ⨳ ❞﹒ᝰ つ ᘐ ට 𖥦 ᘏ ᐟ.ᐟメ Ꮺ ゝ꒱꒱ ➜ ◞ 𐃆 ✦ ꗃ◟ ⨯ ꒰╰╮︻デ═一︰✿ ζ﹐．𓊔⺌！％ ៹ 、 ₊˚ฅ ꔛ𓂃★☆✎﹏﹏﹏﹏ ₊˚๑꒷₊⊹ ⬫ ა ໒ ‧˚ ʚɞ ︿︿˗ˏˋ—ˎˊ˗﹆₊﹅˚ ⸝⸝ ꒷꒦︶︶꒷︶︶꒦꒦︶︶꒷꒦ ᘏ⑅ᕱ︵︵˚દ﹕ᜊ ᨓ˚₊↷ ୨୧﹕‧₊˚⊹﹕✧˚₊ ଘଓ⌒⌒✄┈┈ ˚ ᗢ ‧ ꕤ｡˚⤹┊≡°.• ꒰ キ 𓍯 𓏲𓂅 ♡ ‹3 ꒷꒦ ∿𖤐 𖦹 𖣠 જ ⧉ ⿻⌇𖧧﹢ヾ𓈒⁀➷ ‿➹ ▄▀▄▀▄▀▄ 𑑛 ৎ ໑ ࿔ 𓈀﹒ꜝ░ ◖ .꒷ 𖤐 ✯ ✪ ✮ ✰⤸₊˚ ִֶָ 𓆩 𓆪 ᠀ ⬫ ⬪ ౨ৎ 𖥔 ✉ ╳ ≛ 𖤩 ˖˚ ୫ 𐂴 𖠿 ‣ ִֶָ ، 𖤘 ، . ‹ ִֶ ャ彡 ᯅ ☄︎ 𖦆 ˚ 𖥨ぃ 𓈈ﾉꜞ≡ ⌂ ⌕ ↺ ⩇ ▨ ▦ ▩ 𖣯 ❒ ㆆ ꊥꊥ 𖨂᯽◌ ◍ ◷ ◔ ◕ ⪧◟𖣗 ̑̑ ꪶ ꫂ ᧙ ᥐ 𐑺ִ ◡ ◡ ꫂ ২ ζ १ ◠ ◠ ຊ ७ ५ 𓍢 𓍼 𓇟 𓍲 𓍱 ᨒ ᠀ 𑁯 ੭ × ະ ⵓ 𐀔 ❖｡ⵢ𖤠 𓈒 𓈒 𓈒 ꩟˚ ୭∿ ꔵ ⚑ ᕬ ⚐ ᶻᶻᶻ ꉂ ҂ ⋮ ❛❜ ꐑꐑ ✸ ૪ ໒ 🜲 𖥨 ⌦ ຯ ໒ ⌔？！៸៸ 𑑛 ৎ ໑ ࿔ 𓈀﹒ꜝ░ ◖ .꒷ 𖤐 ✯ ✪ ✮ ✰⤸₊˚ ִֶָ 𓆩 𓆪 ᠀ ⬫ ⬪ ౨ৎ 𖥔 ✉ ╳ ≛ 𖤩 ˖˚ ୫ 𐂴 𖠿 ‣ ִֶָ ، 𖤘 ، . ‹ ִֶ ャ彡 ᯅ ☄︎ 𖦆 ˚ 𖥨ぃ 𓈈ﾉꜞ≡ ⌂ ⌕ ↺ ⩇ ▨ ▦ ▩ 𖣯 ❒ ㆆ ꊥꊥ 𖨂᯽◌ ◍ ◷ ◔ ◕ ⪧◟𖣗 ̑̑ ꪶ ꫂ ᧙ ᥐ 𐑺ִ ◡ ◡ ꫂ ২ ζ १ ◠ ◠ ຊ ७ ५ 𓍢 𓍼 𓇟 𓍲 𓍱 ᨒ ᠀ 𑁯 ੭ × ະ ⵓ 𐀔 ❖｡ⵢ𖤠 𓈒 𓈒 𓈒 ꩟˚ ୭∿ ꔵ ⚑ ᕬ ⚐ ᶻᶻᶻ ꉂ ҂ ⋮ ❛❜ ꐑꐑ ✸ ૪ ໒ 🜲 𖥨 ⌦ ຯ ໒ ⌔？！៸៸ ☆ ～(‘▽^人) 🍥 ଓ ˖˚⊹ ₊ ╭⌗♡𓂃・꒰꒱ ﹕ᕱ⑅ᕱ﹕﹕ ₊˚੭ ╰╮𖥻໒ ♡੭ ╰╮ꔫ꒦⊹﹕﹕ˎˊ- 𑁥 ੭ 𑊑 𑊁 ረ ૮ ᭡ ᘓ ១ 𑫈 ꝿ ౿ꪆ 𑁯 𑊁 𑊡 𑫏 𑜷 Թ Ծ ౿ 𑁯 𑁭 𑁥 ੭ ꪆ ᥫ ᘏ Ꮼ ᘓ ୬ ෧ ᘡ ୪ ১ 𖥨Ꮼ ꮱ ᰢ ꮺ 𐑙 ꫤ﹅﹆ Ꮺ ᰝ ჲ ᴥ𖦆 𓍲 𓍱 Ꮘ ફ ળ ਨ ৬ ৫ ২ ণ 𖡋 ଽ ꒰ ꒱ ꒲ 𖢆 ꯊ ꒷ ꒥ ꒦ ⏝ ︶ ᝰ 𖬺ꔚ ꔛ ꕁ ꕀ ꒳ ꒴ 𖢺 ଓ ଲ ପ ମ ଘ᳂ 🝎 𓐍 𐐫 𐐃 ◍ ⱺ ◔ ◷ 𔓏 • 〄⌾ 𖣠 𖦹 ꩜ 🝎 ๑ ꮻ ☹︎ 𓇸 𖦸 𔓶𒀭 𔓘 𑁍 𖡎 ֍ 🜰 ᦅ⟲⟳❁ ᜊ 𒆳 𒉽 ▸◂ 𝅎𝅏 𝅈𝅉 🝓 ◃▹ ː ⬫ ⬥ ⬦ ⑅Ⰶ ⊞ 𐌎 ⌦ 𐅰 ⎗ ◫ ༕ 🜲 ꯀ 𖣯 ▦𝄝 𝄜 𖣖 ⎗ ⎘ ⌂ ⩩ 𐄹 ⋕ ＃ ꖛ 𖥻𔗨 ᜃ ୫ ะ ⎎ १ ∿ 𖤛 𖧧 🝭 𖧉 🜵𔒝 𓆜 𓆝 𔘜 𓅫 𐀔 𔒌 𐙼 𖡅 𖣂 𔒱𐚱 𐚬 𐚯 𐚤 𐂴 𐃨 𐃫 𓄣 𓏊 𖥧 𖤣 𔒅 ♡ ❥ ᯽ ꕤ 🝮 ♥︎ 𑃢 𐀶 ꒧ ꇊ⎙ ⏚ 〧 ▌ ▬ ▭ ꉙ ꗃ ౾ ౽ 𐰢 ⏧𓄹 𓄼 𔓕 𔐬 𔘏 𓏲 𓍢 𓍯 𓂅 𓂃 𓁹 𐇻ᨃ ᨓ ᨑ ᨐ ᨏ ᨎ ╭╯◖ ◗ ꉂ ‡ꃋ ꃼ ୶ 𝄿 # ﹪ 𖠲 יִ 𖥔 🝊 ✾ 𔖲࿔ ⩩ 𖥨 ╰ ╮ ࿓ ᘒ ⊹ ✧ ✦ ⟆ ֊ ꗃ ⌗ ❍ ﹕ཿ ♡ ■ ꫂ ২ ζ १ 𖥧 𓂃 ♥︎ ᨒ ୫ ૪ ໒ 𐂴 ৎ ຊ ∿ ꔵ ⸙ ຯ ໒ ೨ 𖧧 Ꮺ 𖧷 𓏲 𖥨 𖦹 ๑ ໑ ࿔ ७ ५ ୭ ᠀ 𑁯 ੭ ⩩ 𖦹 ৎ 𖨂 𖥦 𓍢 ζִֶָ ꔛ ੭ 𓎆 ◞ 𐚱 ⩄ ⍝ ᠀ · ꗃ 𖦹 𓈒 𖧧 𓂃 𝕝 𓄹 𓄼 ҂ ⬫ ܀ ⃝ ᘏ ︰ ⚠ ꤥ 𓇬 𓃉 𓇸 𓆇 ⸃ ⸰ ⬞ 𐑥 ᠈ ✉ ᨒ ﹆ ⬝ 𑁤 𔘓 𔓘 ᜊ ᪤ ꒷ ⌨ ⬪ ↀ ⬩ ⬧ ⬥ ⊹ 〨 ⩌ ⩍ ⩋ 𓊌 𓇿 𓊔 𓈈 ㆐ Ⳋ ︳ ⴰ 𔒴 ↻ 𝅅 ﹐ ㄔ ഒ ＊ ⛓ 𓎆 ⩩ ⵌ٠ ᭡ ꕤ 𓈀 っ 𓊘 𓄹 ⦂ ᘏ 𔘓 𓈈 𓂃 𖠿 ཿ ࿀ ᎔ ᎓ ᜴ ᜵ ᝪ ៚ ៳ ᠀ ᠉ ᤳ ᨓ ᭝ ᱺ ᳃ ◯ ◦ ◡ ◠ ⋆ ۬۟۬ ⑅ ꠴ ੭ જ ꞈ ⸝ ˴ › ≡ ࿔ ／ ଓ ઇ ઉ ᧙ ᥐ ៸ ૪ ೨ ␥ ■ ♧ ◇ ◈ ﹫ ꧔ ੭ જ ꞈ ⸝ ≡ ࿔ ଓ ઇ ઉ ᧙ ᥐ ៸ ໒ ː ՞ ᵎ ࿂ ﹆ ᰍ ִ𖧧 𖤠 𓄹 ﹅ 𝄪 ̟ ͜͝ ꯭ ̳ ֠ ⃝ ⃘ ⃕ ̸ ̶ ̲ ̅ ˙ ̣ ͘ ׄ ִ ◧◧◧⬕▦▬◤◣▃▄▅▆▇▏▎▎▅▍∞∴∵∭∬☽☾✜♥︎♠︎⚾︎⋆·˚ ༘ * 🔭 ⁽⁽ଘ( ˊᵕˋ )ଓ⁾ (୨୧ᵕ̤ᴗᵕ̤) ✩°｡⋆⸜(ू˙꒳ ˙ )･:*˚:✧｡ . .ıllı. ✩ ✼　｡ﾟ･　☆　° ｡ㅤ→ ༄ ‧₊˚ 「」 ⇢ ๑ ◞♡° ⸙͎ ˀˀ ♡⃕ ◡̈ ꒰ ⌦ ✗ ⌜ ⌝ ⌞ ⌟ ↳ ❝❞ ➤ ↲ ۪۫❁ཻུ۪۪ ⎧ ୧⋅ ..⃗. ┊ೃ ╰► ꒱ ➛ ↴ ❱ ✿•˖* ℘ ﹋﹋ ❛ ╯ ❲ ❳ ∞ ‹ ∅ ┊ ➹ ੈ♡‧₊˚ ↱ ᵕ̈ ↷ ೃ ╲ ╱ 彡 ✥ ❥ Ꮠ ➜ ᎒ ☈ ❁ ⊰ 「❀」 . .⃗ . ༉‧₊˚✧ . ˚ ⚘ ˏ`୭̥*ೃ *ૢ✧ ཻུ۪۪ ೫` ⃟ ཹ։❀ ፧ ੈ✩‧₊ ૪'ރ፧ ࿐ °↳ ��ׂૢ༘ ۵`⚘݄⿴݃*₊˚꒰:: ≡ ෆ┊. ,! ۰ ۪۪۫۫ ❬ヾ︿︿،، ♡ ⏧·₊̣̇. ❵ ﹏﹏﹏❅ೃ ∞. ; ‹⌇ ✩✼　｡ﾟ･　　ﾟ･ミ ೃ ‧₊˚ ˗ˋˏ ˎˊ˗ ⊱⋅ ⋅⊰ ❴ ❵ ೋ ❥• ➥ ೃ❅,. ˚₊· ͟͟͞͞➳ ↻↺۬◦۪۪̥ ✿ - ̗̀ ❳ ︸〞 ꜜ ͎ ╰ ╯╱╳╲ ⸗ =͟͟͞͞: 〣 ꞋꞌꞋꞌ ҂ ˘˘˘ ⸝⸝ ￤﹆ ꜛ ꜜ ⸃⸃ ⸗ ▾ ˖ ︴ ↻ ⇁ ﹏゛ ⇢ ﾞ ⁾⁾ ଽ ୭̥ ➶ ↻ ✘ ┈ ₊̇°˟̫ː ៸៸ ｡ ٬٬ ␣ ❪ ￣ ҩ ✕ ͝ ۫ ۪۪۪۫ ” ᵎ 〇 ,, ㅤ ❫ ٠ِ٘ٓ ℮ ▪ ❬ ❭ ❨ ❩ ⸂ ᵎ , ⃕ ➘ α ❴ ⟨ ⟩ ︵─┊-˚̩̥̩̥)❫ෆ∞ೃ❅≡〈〔＜ㄑ(ㄥ=三=＝《￣￣￣（丶／＼.˙˙．〝！？冫人｜!i＾iゝ〔〔〕〉 ⵢ◞⃕ ◡̈ ꒰ ⌜ ⌝ ⌞ ⌟ ཻུ۪۪۪۫ ⎧ ..⃗. ꒱ Ꮠ ⊰ .⃗ ༉‧ ⃟ ˚◦ ˬ̽. ̽ ⋆≿⁞ꜜ₊̣﹏﹃﹄「」₊｡ﾟ➶︾〃･﹢ ̼ ⌁⌔⌕ ⌮┊★ $ ◟̽◞̽ ꒷꒦✞▃▃▅▆ ✿゛✎ ✄✩ ✼　｡ﾟ･　☆　° ｡ㅤ→ ༄ ‧₊˚ 「」 ⇢ ๑ ◞♡° ⸙͎ ˀˀ ♡⃕ ◡̈ ꒰ ⌦ ✗ ⌜ ⌝ ⌞ ⌟ ↳ ❝ ❞ ➤ ↲ ۪۫❁ཻུ۪۪ ⎧ ୧ ⋅┊ೃ╰► ꒱ ➛ ↴ ❱ ✿•˖ ℘ ﹋﹋ ❛ ╯ ❲ ❳ ∞ ‹ ∅ ┊ ➹ ੈ♡‧₊˚ ↱ ᵕ̈ ↷ ೃ ╲ ╱ 彡 ✥ ❥ Ꮠ ➜ ᎒ ☈ ❁ ⸙͎۪۫ ⊰ 「❀」 . .⃗ . ༉‧₊˚✧ . ˚ ⚘ ˏ`୭̥*ೃ *ૢ✧ ཻུ۪۪⸙͎ ೫` ⃟ ཹ։❀ ፧ ੈ✩‧₊ ૪'ރ፧ ࿐ ° ↳ ׂׂૢ༘ ۵`⌧. →× ︵︵︵︵︵︵︵︵︵︵ ⚘݄⿴݃*₊˚꒰:: ≡,!ヾ︿︿،، ♡ ⏧·₊̣̇. ❵ ﹏﹏﹏❅ೃ ∞. ; ෆ┊¡ ⸼۰ ۪۪۫۫ ❬“= ‹⌇ #⃞ ＠ ﹫ ₍₎ ᥲᥱℎ ; ♡⋆.ೃ࿔* 𓂃 ☯︎ ꒰꒱ ᝰ ılı.lıllılı.ıllı. ೄྀ(^‿^✿) ʚĭɞ 𓆝𓆟𓆜 ོ ʚ ᨳ ପ ꒦꒷ ꩜ 𖦹 ᜊ ★ ☆ 𖤐 ☻(:̲̅:̲̅:̲̅[̲̅:☆:]̲̅:̲̅:̲̅:̲̅) ᡕᠵ᠊ᡃ࡚ࠢ࠘ ⸝່ࠡࠣ᠊߯᠆ࠣ࠘ᡁࠣ࠘᠊᠊ࠢ࠘𐡏 ּ ⑉⑉⑉⑉⑉⑉⑉⑉⑉⑉⑉⑉⑉⑉⑉⑉ ७ ८ १ ९ ४ ५ ॽ এ ৎ ১ ৫ ৶ ੭ ઽ ૮ ૭ ૦ ଓ ଘ ଙ ଽ ୦ ୨ ୧ ୪ ୬ ୭ ఽ ౨ ౿ ೨ ഽ ໒ ໑ ༺ ༻ ༾ ༿ ᗀ ᗁ ᗂ ᗃ ᗢ ᗣ ᘍ ᘊ ᘝ ᘞ ᚙ ᜊ ᜑ ៙ ᪤ ᱪ ᱖ ᱕ ᳁ ᳂ ᳃ ⊙ ⊚ ⊰ ⊱ ⊲ ⊳ ⋕ ⋮ ⌂ ⌔ ⌕ ⌗ ⌘ ⌙ ⌦ ⌧ ⌫ 〈 〉 ⌾ ⍝ ⎈ ⎓ ⎙ ⎚ ⏙ ⑅ ┆ ┇ ┊ ┋ ★ ☆ ☓ ♡ ♥︎ ⚯︎ ⚢︎ ⚛︎ ⚝︎ ⚹︎ ⛧︎ ⛮︎ ⛻︎ ⚠︎ ⚘︎ ⚣︎ ✦ ✧ ❍ ❑ ⟃ ⟄ ⟅ ⟆ ⟡ ⟲ ⟳ ⦾ ⧉ ⧾ ⩀ ⩇ ⩉ ⩊ ⩋ ⭑ ⭒ ⭗ ⭘ ⭙ ⭚ ⭛ Ⱶ ⲷ Ⳋ ⵂ ⵌ ⸦ ⸧ ⸮ 〄々〆〩ぁあのを龱 ꀯ ꃳ ꆪ ꈊ ꈔ ꌦ ꎺ ꏳ ꏿ ꐑ ꐚ ꐧ ꐪ ꑘ ꒰ ꒱ ꔪ ꔛ ꔡ ꔵ ꕃ ꕀ ꔷ ꔮ ꕊ ꕕ ꕤ ꕪ ꖏ ꖘ ꖴ ꗃ ꗏ ꘎ ꘫ ꜔ ꞝ ꠶ ꠷ ꢏ ꢾ ꣑ ꥟ ꩜ ꩐ ꫢ ꫪ ꯱       ﹅﹆ ﹟ ﹠ ﹗ ﹖ ﹢ ﹫ ﹪ ＃！＋￮ � 𐀏 𐁇 𐂂 𐂐 𐄹 𐇵 𐌎 𐌆 𐐂 𐐒 𐐗 𐐘 𐐜 𐐪 𐐺 𐐿 𐑀 𐝡 𐨀 𐪔 𐪆 𐪇 𑁘 𑁙 𑁚 𑁤 𑁥 𑁦 𑁨 𑁩 𑁬 𑁭 𑁯 𑂗 𑄻 𑊂 𑐛 𑑙 𑑛 𑑑 𓂁 𓂂 𓂃 𓂅 𓄹 𓄼 𓆇 𓆩 𓆪 𓆠 𓇷 𓇸 𓈀 𓈅 𓊌 𓊔 𓋭 𓋰 𓋱 𓏲 𓏳 𔒅 𔔀 𔔤 𔔦 𔖢 𔗨 𔘓 𔘜 𓈈 𖠘 𖠇 𖠛 𖠗 𖠣 𖠚 𖣠 𖣯 𖦹 𖧖 𖧗 𝄄 𝄜 𝇋 𝇌 🜲 🜸 🜽 🝕 🝙 🝯 🝩 🝱 ❀ ✿ ✩ ✫ ✧ ✦ ㅤ ㅤㅤ ───────────────────── ⿻ ⠂ ˇ ᕱ ⑅ ᕱ ⿴݃ ⎗ ꧔ ᵕ̈﹫ ຳ ⌕ ତ ⊹ 𓍢 ଓ 𖧧 ๑﹆﹅ ᨳ᭬ ° ｡ ⸼ ˴ ✦ ♥︎ 𓎆 ՙ ˒ ﹟. ◠ ֊ ᭡ ∩ ！𓏲 𓂃𓏸 ៸ • ɤ ’ : 𐑡 ≀ 𓄼 · 𓄹 `— ୨୧ 𝆬 𓏸 ・ ପ ♡ ⎙ › ⍝ ᕬ 。 ִֶָ ᘏ ◑ ▭▬ 𖥻 ⌗ ៹ ꗃ 𓈈 𖥦 ░ ᨒ 𓂅 ⬪ 𖣂 ᝰ ⨾ 𓈒 ׂ⏧ ㅓ 𓍼 哈伊 ‘ ⋄ っ ⌯ ゛ ৲ ✉︎ ៸៸ ᶻᶻᶻ ▞ ⌀ ࣪ . ⧉ ✫ ✰ ✶ ⋆ ৲ ˒˒ ‹ ๑ — · ៸ ‣ ˒ ◠ ⎙ ⬪ ২ ⩩ ♥︎ ᯽ ໑ ❑ ❒ ﹆ ໑ ⬩ ⍉ ʚ ੭. ✶ ›⭒ ⋆ ˴ ᤴ ੭ꞈ ᠀ ⸙ ຯ ତ ° ｡ ⸼ ✰ ♡ ﹫ # ✧ ⋆﹙ ⟅﹟ ☆ ‧ֺ․۬‧˖ ★ 𖤐 ✦ ⭑ ⸝ ✩⌇˒༣ ˎˊ˗ 𖥨 ۪𓍢݂ ͑ꜝ᜔ ⭒ ꒹ ꒰ ⌜ ⌝ ﹋﹋ ❛ ╯ ❲ ❳ ∞ ‹ ︿،، ➩✐ ✎❝❞ˀˀ ♡⃕ ◡̈ ⌦ ⡪჻ ✰ ★ ☆ ⭒ ⭑ ✧ ✦ ⊹ ❍ ◐⠀⬪ 𖧷 ٭ ᪥ 𖣔 ❁ ✿𝆬 •᷄ɞ•᷅ •́ ₃ •̀ •᷄ࡇ•᷅ ᴖ ᴈ ᴖ ᵕ̈ ˃̵ᴗ˂̵ ᵔᴗᵔ ･᷄-･᷅ ˶ᵔ ꈊ ᵔ    𐇵  ↻ ‣ › ˒ ⋅ ٠ • ː﹕ˇ · ، ؛ ❛ 〃 ⇢ ⤼ ﹫ ، ७ ˒៹ 𓏲 ˙.໑ㅤ೨ㅤ𓂃𓏸 ࿔ ꗃ ⠀。̊· 𖥾 ⋆ ⿻ ❒ ❏ ᨳ ʚ 𖧧࣪ ๑ ໑

➜ KAOMOJI !!

(´っω=`) ₍ᐢ× ༝ ×ᐢ₎ ₍ᐡ-᷅ ·̫ -᷄ᐡ₎ ₍^⸝⸝> ·̫ <⸝⸝^₎ (´,,>ω<,,`)♡ ฅ՞•ﻌ•՞ฅ (´っω=`) ₍ᐢ× ༝ ×ᐢ₎ ₍ᐡ-᷅ ·̫ -᷄ᐡ₎ ₍^⸝⸝> ·̫ <⸝⸝^₎ ₍ᐢ> ̫<ᐢ₎ (´･ω･`): ( ;´꒳`;) ₍ᐡඉ ̫ඉᐡ₎ ᐡ ⸝⸝> ̫ <⸝⸝ᐡ ₍ᐡ-᷅ ·̫ -᷄ᐡ₎ ⸜(ˊᗜˋ)⸝ (ヾﾉ･ω･`) (๑´`๑)♡ ˃̣̣̥᷄ ᴖ ˂̣̣̥᷅ ‎ᐡ ᐧ ﻌ ᐧ ᐡ (⸝⸝º ^ º⸝⸝ ) ( ˊᵕˋ ; ) ( ᴗ ̫ ᴗ ) (๑♡⌓♡๑) ⸜(｡˃ ᵕ ˂ )⸝ ₍ᐢ˶• ˔ กᐢ₎ ૮₍ ˃̵͈᷄ . ˂̵͈᷅ ₎ა ₍ᐢ•ﻌ•ᐢ₎ ᑦ(੭・㉨・)ᐣ ( ´͈ ᗨ ͈ ) ๑´ ³)ﾉ ଘ( ິ•ᆺ• )ິଓ ꒰˘꒳˘๑꒱ ໒(＾ᴥ＾)७ ◟꒰◍ ´꒳` ◍꒱◞ ˘ ᵜ ˘ ( •ω•ฅ) ʕ·ᴥ·ʔ (๑´ㅂ`๑) (๑•́ ₃ •̀๑) ต( ິᵒ̴̶̷̤ ﻌ ᵒ̴̶̷̤ )ິ ฅ՞•ﻌ•՞ฅ (´๑•_•๑) Ꮚ˘ ꈊ ˘ Ꮚ ₍˄·͈༝·͈˄₎◞ ̑̑ (ㅅ´ ˘ ) (˃ ⌑(´っω=) ₍ᐢ× ༝ ×ᐢ₎ ₍ᐡ-᷅ ·̫ -᷄ᐡ₎ ₍^⸝⸝> ·̫ <⸝⸝^₎ (´,,>ω<,,`)♡ ฅ՞•ﻌ•՞ฅ ₍ᐢ> ̫<ᐢ₎ (´･ω･`): ( ;´꒳`;) ₍ᐡඉ ̫ඉᐡ₎ ᐡ ⸝⸝> ̫ <⸝⸝ᐡ ₍ᐡ-᷅ ·̫ -᷄ᐡ₎ ⸜(ˊᗜˋ)⸝ (ヾﾉ･ω･`) (๑´`๑)♡ ˃̣̣̥᷄ ᴖ ˂̣̣̥᷅ ‎ᐡ ᐧ ﻌ ᐧ ᐡ (⸝⸝º ^ º⸝⸝ ) ( ˊᵕˋ ; ) ( ᴗ ̫ ᴗ ) (๑♡⌓♡๑) ⸜(｡˃ ᵕ ˂ )⸝ ₍ᐢ˶• ˔ กᐢ₎ ૮₍ ˃̵͈᷄ . ˂̵͈᷅ ₎ა ₍ᐢ•ﻌ•ᐢ₎ ᑦ(੭・㉨・)ᐣ ( ´͈ ᗨ ͈ ) ๑´ ³)ﾉ ଘ( ິ•ᆺ• )ິଓ ꒰˘꒳˘๑꒱ ໒(＾ᴥ＾)७ ◟꒰◍ ´꒳` ◍꒱◞ ˘ ᵜ ˘( •ω•ฅ) ʕ·ᴥ·ʔ (๑´ㅂ`๑) (๑•́ ₃ •̀๑) ต( ິᵒ̴̶̷̤ ﻌ ᵒ̴̶̷̤ )ິ ฅ՞•ﻌ•՞ฅ (´๑•_•๑)Ꮚ˘ ꈊ ˘ Ꮚ ₍˄·͈༝·͈˄₎◞ ̑̑ (ㅅ´ ˘ `) (˃ ⌑ ˂ഃ ) ₍⑅ᐢ..ᐢ₎ ૮₍•᷄ ࡇ •᷅₎ა૮₍´˶• . • ⑅ ₎ა ૮ • ﻌ - ა⁩ ૮⍝• ᴥ •⍝ა ૮₍ ´• ˕ •` ₎ა ૮₍ ˶ᵔ ᵕ ᵔ˶ ₎ა₍ᵔ•ᴗ•ᵔ₎ ૮₍ ´˶• ᴥ •˶` ₎ა ૮₍ ˃̵͈᷄ . ฅ ₎ა ૮₍ ´• ˕ •` ₎ა •᷅ࡇ•᷄ ૮₍ • ᴥ • ₎აʕ•̫͡•ʔ. ₍ᐢ › ̫ ‹ ᐢ₎ ᐢ..ᐢ ૮₍´˶ᵔｪᵔ˶`₎ა ₍ᐢ·ᴥ·ᐢ₎ ૮ ・ﻌ・ა ˘ ᵜ ˘૮₍´｡ᵔ ꈊ ᵔ｡`₎ა ₍˄·͈༝·͈˄₎◞ ૮₍ 𝁽ܫ𝁽 ₎ა ₍ ᐢ..ᐢ ₎˂ഃ ) ₍⑅ᐢ..ᐢ₎ ૮₍•᷄ ࡇ •᷅₎ა૮₍´˶• . • ⑅ ₎ა ૮ • ﻌ - ა⁩ ૮⍝• ᴥ •⍝ა ૮₍ ´• ˕ •` ₎ა ૮₍ ˶ᵔ ᵕ ᵔ˶ ₎ა₍ᵔ•ᴗ•ᵔ₎ ૮₍ ´˶• ᴥ •˶` ₎ა ૮₍ ˃̵͈᷄ . ฅ ₎ა ૮₍ ´• ˕ •` ₎ა •᷅ࡇ•᷄ ૮₍ • ᴥ • ₎აʕ•̫͡•ʔ. ₍ᐢ › ̫ ‹ ᐢ₎ ᐢ..ᐢ ૮₍´˶ᵔｪᵔ˶`₎ა ₍ᐢ·ᴥ·ᐢ₎ ૮ ・ﻌ・ა ˘ ᵜ ˘૮₍´｡ᵔ ꈊ ᵔ｡`₎ა ₍˄·͈༝·͈˄₎◞ ૮₍ 𝁽ܫ𝁽 ₎ა ₍ ᐢ..ᐢ ₎

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