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tsunodaradio · 12 days ago

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all along there was ⛐ 𝐘𝐓𝟐𝟐

THIS IS: FORMULA ONE, A MILESTONE EVENT 📀 to the world, yuki tsunoda is focused. singular. someone whose only love is racing. and for a long time, that’s the truth.

♫ starring: yuki tsunoda x soulmate!reader. ♫ word count: 3k. ♫ includes: romance. alternate universe: soulmates; mentions of food, alcohol. strangers to ???, love at first sight -ish, red string of fate. @opastries81 requested invisible string by taylor swift. ♫ commentary box: took me a hot minute to write this one because i wanted to do it right 🧵 thank u for giving me the excuse to write yuki soulmatisms,, 𝐦𝐲 𝐦𝐚𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭

Yuki is nineteen when the thread first appears.

At first, he thinks it’s a trick of the light. A shimmer that dances at the edge of his vision when no one else is around. But soon it sharpens into something unmistakable: a slender red cord, no thicker than embroidery floss, looped snugly around his thumb like a taunt. It pulses faintly, like it’s alive. Like it knows something he doesn’t.

He hates it.

That first year in Formula 1, there’s too much to prove. Too many eyes watching. Too many things that could slip away. He doesn’t have time for fairytales or fate.

So he tucks his hand into his gloves before every race, hides the thread in the blur of speed and gear shifts. He doesn’t talk about it. Not to his engineers, not to his friends, not even to his mother, who still believes in the old stories. Stories about invisible strings and foregone endings.

The thread becomes something he trains himself not to see. Because when he does, it’s endless.

It stretches out across the paddock, slipping through pit lanes and motorhomes, across borders and oceans. Sometimes, he thinks he sees it glimmer in the heat-haze of Bahrain or catch the floodlights in Singapore. Once, it drifted gently through the paddock in Suzuka, brushing against the petals of falling sakura as if teasing him. But it never leads anywhere. Never tightens. Never tugs.

Only stretches. Always slack.

It’s not the case for everyone. Take Alex, for example. Yuki notices the older man sometimes. Not directly—he’s careful not to stare—but enough to catch the way Alex’s expression shifts when his girlfriend Lily is nearby. Oscar looks at his Lily the same way.

Yuki wonders if their threads ever tangled. If they fought it. If they felt lucky.

It isn’t jealousy, not quite. It’s not bitterness either. Just a quiet ache he doesn’t have a name for. Something that sits in his ribs and presses forward when he’s tired.

So he races.

He drives like the thread doesn’t exist. Like it hasn’t wrapped itself around his thumb and burrowed into his blood. Like it doesn’t sing against his pulse every time he wins, or crashes, or sits alone in his car after the engine cuts out and the noise fades away.

To the world, Yuki Tsunoda is focused. Singular. Someone whose only love is racing.

And for a long time, that’s the truth.

The first time the thread pulls, Yuki is in a country he doesn’t know well.

The race weekend is a blur of heat and media obligations, of tire compounds and unfamiliar road signs. The city hums around him, foreign but alive, and Yuki finds brief solace in the backs of cabs with the windows cracked open. Taylor Swift’s Bad Blood plays so often on the radio it becomes a kind of anthem, the steady beat weaving into the rhythm of the weekend.

It’s after Friday practice when he finds a quiet spot to eat. A small local place. Nothing glossy, nothing tourist-facing. The kind of restaurant where the menus are handwritten and the staff speaks only a little English. He points to dishes on the menu with hesitant fingers and eats until he feels warm and full and almost like he belongs.

The food is good. Better than good, actually. Comforting in a way that sneaks up on him.

He’s halfway through paying the bill, card already outstretched, when he feels it.

The thread.

Not just hanging there like usual. Not just stretched and useless. But moving.

It tugs softly, a sudden pull against his thumb like a whisper turning into a shout. It’s enough to make him flinch. He stiffens. Tries to hide the motion by shifting his weight.

The cashier, a woman maybe a little younger than him with a practiced, amused smile, raises an eyebrow. “That bad?” she jokes, nodding toward the bill.

Yuki startles then gives a quick, awkward laugh. “No. Just spicy.”

She clearly doesn’t buy it, but lets him off with a knowing chuckle.

He taps extra zeroes into the tip line, more than necessary, and mumbles a thank-you before pushing out into the night air. The thread is still humming, now tugging slightly left, and it takes everything in him not to look. Not to follow.

He shoves both hands into his jacket pockets. Tells himself it’s nothing. He’s here to race. He’s always only been here to race. He walks—no, runs—in the opposite direction.

That weekend, Yuki finishes in the points.

That alone is enough to make the night feel like it’s already crackling with something electric. It had been a good race. One of those clean, rare Sundays where the car behaved, the strategy stuck, and the overtakes came like instinct. The garage erupted when he crossed the line. High-fives. Claps on the back. Laughter that lingered long after the interviews.

He’d earned this night. When his mechanics suggest some dive bar tucked down a narrow street with flickering neon and sticky floors, Yuki goes. He doesn’t even hesitate. The triple-header is over. The next week stretches ahead of him like a promise.

Inside, the place smells like beer and nostalgia. The music is loud enough to shake the tables, and the lights are low enough to blur the hard edges off everything. It’s perfect.

Someone buys a round. Someone else insists on shots. Yuki lets it happen.

He leans back into the cracked leather booth, jacket unzipped, cheeks flushed with drink and residual adrenaline. People are dancing. People are shouting over music. His team is glowing with post-race joy, and he lets himself float in it.

And then—

He hadn’t noticed it earlier, in the lights and the noise and the haze of celebration. But now, his thread glows faintly in the dark, unmistakable and alive.

Shorter.

Yuki blinks. Rubs his eyes. Maybe he’s had more to drink than he thought. Maybe it’s a trick of the lights, or the smoke machine hissing over the dance floor. But the thread is moving. Tugging.

He turns his head slowly, heart stuttering like a missed gear change.

There you are.

Across the room, past the people and the pulsing lights. Standing with a drink in hand, half-turned as if you’d just been looking elsewhere. But now you’re looking at him. Your eyes follow the same thread.

You smile.

It’s not a big smile. Not the kind that asks for anything. Just enough to say I see you. Just enough to anchor him to the floor.

Yuki forgets how to breathe for a second. Forgets the music, the laughter, the taste of whatever drink still lingers in his mouth. The thread has never pulled like this before. It has never led anywhere.

Until now.

You cross the dance floor slowly, navigating through limbs and spilled drinks and the warbled echo of a pop remix that no longer matters. Yuki doesn’t move.

The thread grows taut, humming with something that doesn’t feel like destiny so much as inevitability. He watches you come closer, each step shrinking the distance between you, and his mind rushes to fill the space with every story he’s ever heard.

That girl in high school whose thread wrapped around a boy she couldn’t stand, who moved schools just to escape him. The man in the supermarket line who’d found his thread ended in divorce five years later. The influencer who posted about meeting her soulmate, only to vanish offline six months after.

Some people called it a curse. Others called it lazy love, a shortcut that stripped you of choice.

Yuki had believed in it once, when he was young and the thread first shimmered into view. Time had dulled things. Distance made belief easier to ignore. For years, he told himself it didn’t matter. That racing was the only thing he needed.

Because of that, he’s already planning his escape.

He’ll go back to the hotel. He’ll get on his flight to Faenza. He’ll make something up if his engineers ask why he left early. In his mind, he’s already cataloguing this evening as a mistake. A beautiful, dangerous mistake.

Then you’re standing in front of him. Your eyes meet his, uncertain but kind. And then you say it—soft, like you’re trying it out for the first time.

“Hello, soulmate.”

Yuki feels like he had just been punched in the gut. Something quietly unravels in his chest. It’s not the words. It’s the way you say them, as if the thread didn’t make you come up to him. As if you’re offering something instead of taking it.

And that’s when he knows.

He’s going to cancel his flight the moment he gets back to the hotel.

He does exactly that before he can even change out of his clothes. His shirt is rumpled with the scent of smoke, spilled beer clinging faintly to the sleeves. He sits on the edge of the hotel bed, heart thrumming against his ribs, and taps through his airline app like he’s defusing a bomb.

Flight: canceled.

Then he opens another tab, searches for a place that isn’t a hotel room with stale air and impersonal furniture. Finds a small, bright AirBnB in the heart of the city—a studio with floor-to-ceiling windows and plants in the kitchen. He books it for five days without thinking.

His third impulse decision is to send you a message. Your conversation on the dance floor had been brief and impersonal, charged with the knowledge that the next few days could mean something, if you let it. You punched your number into his phone and told him to text you, and then you were gone, the string between you two unspooling once more.

Yuki [1:43AM]: dinner tomorrow? - yuki.

He doesn’t have to wait too long for a response.

You [1:44AM]: only if it’s at my favorite resto 👋

Your next text features a screenshot. The image makes something warm spike through him, because it’s the very place he’d eaten at when he first felt his string budge. The comfort meal, the waitress who looked like she knew something, the too-big tip he’d left because he was flustered.

Yuki falls back against his bed, his phone clutched to his chest. Of course, he thinks with a giddy laugh that sounds so small in the grand scheme of everything, of course.

The next day, he gets there early. Somehow, you still beat him. He pauses for a moment at the entrance, eyes scanning the place like it’s the first time he’s seeing it. Maybe it is. Maybe he’s now seeing it in a different light, the same way he’ll never see the world the same now that he knows who’s on the other end of his string.

You’re here now, and the thread is so small it feels like breath. It curls around his thumb and your pinky, a bright little tether that glows softly in the ambient light.

You look up as he approaches. “Didn’t get lost, did you?” you tease, already smiling.

Yuki scoffs as he slides into the seat across from you. “I’m a professional driver. I don’t get lost.”

“Sure. But you are new here,” you counter, eyes twinkling. “And I bet you didn’t remember the restaurant name. Just followed the string, huh?”

“Maybe,” he counters easily. God, was it always meant to be this easy? “Worked though, didn’t it?"

“Can’t argue with results,” you say as you flag down the waitress to order for the both of you.

The conversation flows like you’ve known each other longer than a few hours. You don’t ask about racing. You don’t even bring it up until the end of the meal, when he mentions his next travel dates and you blink.

“Wait,” you say laughingly. “Are you actually, like, proper famous or something?”

He shrugs, leaning back with the kind of confidence that’s more armor than truth. “Depends who you ask.”

“I’m asking you.”

Yuki pauses. Grins. “Then yeah. I’m kind of a big deal.”

You roll your eyes, but your smile doesn't fade. “Cocky.”

“Only a little.”

“Well,” you say, folding your hands under your chin. “I suppose I like that. A little.”

The thread pulses gently between you. Over the table, it’s a simple thing. Red and soft, barely there. But it ties him to something that no longer feels like fate or burden.

It just feels like you.

Another truth comes to light: Yuki doesn’t remember the last time he stayed still on purpose.

He’s always moving. Between circuits, between time zones, between places that never quite become homes. But here, with you, in this city he’d barely known a week ago, he wants nothing more than to stay.

He spends every moment he can get by your side.

The studio apartment he rented becomes just a place to sleep, shower, change. The rest of the time, he’s with you. On side streets and rooftops, in corner cafés and flower markets. He learns that you like your coffee in an uber specific way, that you hum when you’re focusing, that you never fold receipts but crumple them into your pocket like secrets.

He learns to listen more than he talks. And when he talks, he lets you in. About Japan. About how Italy changed him. About the first time he touched a kart wheel and knew.

He understands, now. Every love letter and poem. Every person he’d side-eyed in the paddock for swooning over someone else’s laugh. Every teammate who’d seemed far away even while in the same garage. He wants to go back in time and apologize to them all.

Because this—this—makes sense.

The thread is always there, lazy and glowing, looping between your wrists and fingers like a promise with no deadline.

You’re eating street food one evening, perched on the low edge of a plaza fountain. The sky is streaked purple-gold. Yuki’s got sauce on his fingers and you’re halfway into teasing him for it when the food vendor squints at him and says, “You look like that one Japanese driver. Tsunoda, right?”

Yuki doesn’t miss a beat. “Never heard of him.”

“Yeah, no resemblance,” you throw in, pursing your lips to tamp back a laugh.

The vendor shrugs and waves you two off, probably dismissing the both of you rascals on a date. You grab Yuki’s hand and tug him away, the thread between you fluttering behind like a ribbon in the wind.

“Think we pulled that off?” he whispers conspiratorially. It’s not necessary, but he likes how it forces you to lean into him so you might hear him better.

“Definitely. I bet he thinks you’re, like, a barista or something.”

Yuki grins. “A very fast barista.”

You laugh, and he tucks the sound somewhere safe for when he will eventually have to leave.

Everywhere you go, the thread goes with you. Tucked in the crook of your elbows, wrapped around coffee cups, brushing against your knees as you sit cross-legged in the grass. It glints like a secret. Yuki, for once, has no desire to keep it hidden.

On his last day in your city, the sun is soft and forgiving.

It filters through the branches in golden patches, turning the park into something out of a picture book. You and Yuki lie sprawled on a picnic blanket beneath a wide-bellied tree, shoes kicked off, fingers brushing between you. A paper bag of pastries rests beside you, half-eaten. The thread winds lazy circles from your wrist to his.

You’ve been here for hours, trading stories. The conversation has drifted toward the past.

“Okay,” you say, squinting at him through the sunlight. “Worst date you’ve ever been on. Go.”

Yuki groans. “God. Okay. I was seventeen. She showed up an hour late, and then, she brought her cousin. Said she didn’t want it to be ‘weird.’”

You burst out laughing. “Oh no,” you wheeze. “Don’t tell me the cousin sat between you two.”

“The entire time.”

It takes you a moment to stop laughing, to exchange your story with his. “Okay, okay. I’ll top that: I once dated a guy who was obsessed with his ex’s dog. Like, still talked about it,” you divulge. “Showed me pictures. Would say things like, ‘Luna wouldn’t bark like that.’”

Yuki snorts. “Did you dump him because of the dog?”

“I dumped him because he asked if I’d change my shampoo. Said Luna was sensitive to strong scents.”

You’re both laughing now, full-bodied and unguarded, the kind of laughter that makes your stomach hurt. Yuki watches you through it, your nose scrunched, your head tilted back to the sky. Beautiful, he thinks to himself, and then he realizes he’s allowed to say it out loud.

“You’re beautiful,” he tells you, and then he repeats it in all the languages he knows until you’re flushed pink and begging him to stop. He says it in the familiar intonations of Japanese, the romantic lilt of Italian, the clumsy cadence of your mother tongue. He had looked it up on Google Translate four dates ago, wanting to surprise you and succeeding.

He resolves to learn how to say it in every other country he goes to, moving forward, just for the sliver of a chance to see you smile like that again.

As the sky shifts into dusk, casting the world in purple pink skies, a stillness settles between you. Not uncomfortable. Just waiting.

Yuki hesitates. His fingers curl and uncurl beside yours. It’s been a while since he’s been this nervous, and even as he resolves to not beat around the bush, he finds himself stuttering through the words. “This... thing. Us. The string,” he says lamely, “I travel a lot. And it won’t always be easy. But... is this something you want to try? Even with all of that?”

You don’t answer right away.

Instead, you reach for his hand and thread your fingers through his.

The red string disappears between your palms, pressed into the warm space where skin meets skin. For a moment, Yuki can pretend it doesn’t exist. This—what you have—is not a product of destiny, of sanctioned romance.

It’s not love. Not yet. But it will be. Yuki wants it to be.

He thinks about every name before yours. Every person he thought might have been something more. How none of them could’ve been, not really.

Because they all led to this. To you.

Hell was the journey, but it brought him heaven. ⛐

#yuki tsunoda x reader #yuki tsunoda fluff #yuki tsunoda x you #yuki tsunoda drabble #yuki tsunoda imagines #yuki tsunoda fic #f1 x reader #f1 x you #f1 fluff #f1 drabble #f1 fic #f1 imagines #⛐ kae prix #⛐ yt22 #⛐ event: this is f1 #the taylor swift brainrot will never end. not for user tsunodaradio

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voghe · 8 months ago

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،، ✶ 🍚 ¿ ¡ ✷ name ⩇ ʿ 𖤛 ⋆ 🧻 𖥉

♡ 🏯 ᪤ ּname 𔘓 ! # 94 🧭 ᯤ ა

𔔀 ꉂ 🥼 ¡ ‧name𝀛 ! ₍ᐢ..ᐢ₎ 𒀭࣪ ⋆ 🛁

: 交 🏐 🜲 𖠗 𝀛name ? 🗒 ☆ › ✸

𓆩 ✉ # ⋆ ⩉ ּname᤻𝂅 🌪 : ★ ☆ 𓆪

𓄹 タ ⋆ 📡 name ҂ 𝗣𝗿𝗶𝗻𝖼e̲s̲s̲ ꞌꞋꞌ ⏱ ₍ᐢ..ᐢ₎ ˖ ࣪⭑

᤻ ꗃ : ⏲ ◖ 𓂃 name ⿻ name‧ ،، ✶ 🗞 ⩉

⩉ : ⩉ 𖥻 🗑 ꉂ ૮₍ ‧name᤻𝀛 ₎ა ✶ ๋࣭ # 97 ◜🗒◞

¡ % ⊹ 🥽 ᨘ໑ ▸ name᤻𝀛 🜲 𝗚𖦹𝗻ׂ𝗲 𔔁 🏯 ! ׄ .𓄼

❛ 𒀭 : 🛒 𓂃 ¡ name ‽ ٠ 🧾 › ✸ %

¡ さ 🔭 ꉂ ‧name ✶ ⏱ 𖠗 𐂯 ? b « ᯥ % 🛒 name ⩉:⩉ 𖣯 ᘏ 女 !

🍽 ␥ ★ ⩇ name 🜲 𝘁𝗂𝗻𝗒 ★ ฅ ‽

🜸 ★ 𖠗 : Name ᯤ 𝗺𝚢 b̸ɔ︩︪𝘆 🥛 𖤛 ა

༘ ˚ ⋆ 🍶+ ˚ ₊ name ྀིྀི ♁ ₊ 🪽｡˚ ₊ +

𝜗 name e e ₊ < initial 3

⠀⠀꒰⠀s/o ෆ 00.00.00 ⠀ ⠀ྀི 𝑡𝑖𝑟𝑒𝑑 𝘭𝑖𝑡𝑡𝘭𝑒 𝑑𝑜𝘭𝘭 ྀི ︶⊹︶︶୨୧︶︶⊹︶

˚₊‧꒰ა ☆ ໒꒱ ‧₊˚ 🌷࿔⭑⤷your pronouns🪼࿔⭑ ๋🌺࿔⭑⤷your favorite song or your b-day 🎀࿔⭑ 🌷࿔⭑⤷your fandom 🍒࿔⭑ ໒꒰ྀིᵔ ᵕ ᵔ ꒱ྀི১ Lyrics of a song ࿔⭑🎂🧸

　　　﹒ 𓂃◞ ֪ ⑅　 ۫　 ׅ ♡ ᵃⁿᵍᵉˡ ˢⁱⁿˢ . 🪽 ︶　◞ ྀི ◟⠀︶︶　◞ ྀི ◟⠀︶

ʚɞ ⁺˖ ⸝⸝ name prns ␥ mbti ୭ ˚. ᵎᵎ _ ★₊˚﹟📸 song ⵌ ₊ ⊹ artist ‹𝟹

✶ ﹕ name !! ﹫ pro ⌒⌒ nouns ·₊★ ╰╮ link ⸝⸝ ₊ <3 ╰↠ xtra (𝗼˳★)?

𓇼 ˚ 𝟬͟𝟰 … 사랑 2004ㅤㅤ ★ 🎧

BIO + SYMBOL PACK !!!

𖥔 📟 ꩜ ⩇ּ⩇ ʿ : ーツ ¡! 📞 カ ໋ ⸝⸝ 𝅦 𝗳𝗮𝗹len ✧ ᨯ 苺. ᘐ 🥢 𝗮𝗻𝗴els ㌗の › 𝇋☆𝇌 テレビ ! 𔘓 ﹙🧀﹚ van͟i͟ꪱꪱa ⠀︵⠀⠀⊹⠀ ﾟ ˖ ꕀ lover ⠀⸝⸝` ๑꒱⠀ 𓂂 ⠀ .ıllı. social ﹔ link

﹒ @ 𝐍AME ─ timezone ﹐ nation ^..^ star sign ﹒ bday ：✿ 。prns social 𖦹 friend ﹔user

⠀ ⠀⠀민지⠀ ⠀♡𝆬 ⠀ 𝓛. : 🥄 ݂֢

⠀⠀⠀⠀ ⠀🥼 : 지수 𝄒 ﹙ 𝒔. ﹚

⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀ 𝘴𝖺𝗇𝖺 ׄ 𓈒 ᯇ 🧷 : ୧

⠀⠀ ⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀ ⠀ 𝅄⠀࿙࿚ ︶ ⠀♱⠀ ︶࿙࿚ 𝅄 ⠀⠀⠀⠀꒰ ℋ𝑜𝑟𝑟𝑜𝑟 𝑔𝑎𝑚𝑒 𝑝𝑟𝑜𝑡𝑎𝑔𝑜𝑛𝑖𝑠𝑡 ꒱

@ username ┃ 𝗔𝗡𝗚𝟯𝗟 ꕀ ୭ ˚. ᵎᵎ ✶ ━━ 𝗂𝖿 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗆𝗎𝗌𝗍 𝖻𝗅𝗂𝗇𝗄 , ⤷ ┇ ⌒ 𝖽𝗈 𝗂𝗍 𝗇𝗈𝗐 ꒱꒱ 彡 ꒰୨୧꒱ ┃ ◞⁺⊹．prns .

𝅄 ݁ ⏜ ꒰ 𝖼ᥲ𝗋ᥲ𝗆ᥱ𝗅 gⲓrℓ ꒱ ── ๑ ֹ ₊ㅤ ۟

▦ ﹒ ☆ 🔌 🛒 ⸒ 별 ꜝ ﹫

𝜗⠀ name⠀˙ ♱◞ ྀི 𓏵𓏵⠀𖥻prn/prn ◟ 𓉸⠀ ︵︵⠀𓈒⠀⠀ext⠀𝜚　˙ 　˖　⁰⁰

⠀☆⠀⠀𓈒⠀⠀ׁ⠀⠀𝗰𝗈𝖿𝖿𝖾𝖾⠀⠀ׅ⠀⠀ׁ⠀⠀꒱⠀⠀𝇄𝇃⠀⠀ׅ⠀⠀☕

꒱⠀⠀ׁ⠀⠀ׅ⠀⠀⠀𝆬⠀⠀⠀ᘏ⠀⠀α𝗆𝗈𝗎𝗋⠀⠀ׅ⠀⠀⠀𝆬⠀⠀⠀ָ֢⠀⠀⠀ෆ 𖡎⠀⠀ָ֢⠀⠀⠀𝆬⠀⠀🥼⠀⠀ׅ⠀⠀⠀ׁ⠀ꕀ⠀⠀ׁ⠀⠀ׅ⠀⠀𝟵𝟴⠀﹔

͝ ︶ ·̩͙⏝ ͝ ୨ ꒰ name ꒱ ୧ ͝ ⏝ ·̩͙︶ ͝ ۫ ۪ info info info 𝆴

　　　　　 ⤷ 　　 ﹒　　e　　 text 　　 ♡

　　　　　⌒ 　text 　　e　　⟡

　　　　　( ᴗ ̫ ᴗ )　　text　　⋌　　e 　﹒　

ㅤ𓂃 ׁ ⃝ 🍂（かんけつ編） ˑ ୨ ִ ۫

ㅤㅤ ݁ 🗡️ ◠ ִ ٬٬ 𝟾⩇% ꣼ 𝚍𝚎☆𝚝𝚑 ۫ ︵ ✧

_ ╰ㅤ ㅤ ۫ ✦ㅤ ㅤ txt !!_⠀ ⠀ ◠ ᶻᶻ ㅤ ıstj ꜝꜝㅤ ⸺ㅤ pronouns ִ ⠀ׂ ★

𐙚 ⊹ ࣪ ˖ 🎀 ♡ 𝙠𝙞𝙨𝙨𝙚𝙨 ⋆.˚ 𝙛𝙞𝙡𝙡𝙞𝙣𝙜 𝙮𝙤𝙪𝙧 𝙥𝙖𝙡𝙚 𝙘𝙝𝙚𝙨𝙩 ⊹ ᰔ. @𝙪𝙨𝙚𝙧 ㅤ♡ྀི ₊

･ᴗ･ "i wanna be yours" ⊹

ıllı " [names] info! " ✩

⊂⊃ nicknames ﹐⇅ ⊂⊃ prns ﹐⇅

ᶻz xtra ﹐✩ ! ˃ᗜ˂ carrd / rentry ✩ ﹐

I. name 🥛 age ✮ II. gender .. . prns III. xtra , xtra ꩜ ☁️ ✉️ follow :: @user

ㅤㅤㅤ ── ּ ᰍ ˳ 𝒫 ͜αℓɘ ⃝🦢 ۫ ུ

ㅤㅤㅤ ི 🦪 𓈒 ਬਦ ⊹ 苍白︵ 𝇈

꒰ ⋆ ࣪. ━ׄ──ִ──ׁ──ִ──ׁ─𔕙─ׅ──ׁ──ׅ──ׁ──ׅ━ ˖ ࣪⭑ ꒱

ᶻ 𝘇 𐰁 . . . 𝐆𝐎𝐓 𝐀 𝐁𝐋𝐀𝐂𝐊 𝐂𝐀𝐑𝐃, 𝖄𝐎𝐔 𝐂𝐀𝐍 𝐒𝐖𝐈𝐏𝐄 𝐈𝐓 𝐖𝐇𝐄𝐑𝐄𝐕𝐄𝐑 𝖄𝐎𝐔 𝐆𝐎 ✸

甘美な

𝗪𝗪𝗪.NAME.𝗖𝗢𝗠. ?!

; @name ~ ☆ # pro / nouns ! mb • ti ♬ — song - artist name

⋆ ˚｡⋆୨ ur name here ୧⋆ ˚｡⋆ ──★ ˙ ̟ 🐇 !! ⋆✦ pronouns ⊹♡ extra info!! >_< ✮⋆˙ I 𖹭 (someone you love)

⠀⪩⪨ @ name / mbti ⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀ lana del rey ‹𝟹 — ౨ৎ

𓎢𓎟𓎟𓎟𓎟𓎟𓎟𓎟𓎟𓎟𓎟𓎡 ‧₊ 𖦹 ˚ 🥩 ˚ @user ᝰ.ᐟ 🎀 ೀ⋆ ˚₊‧ 🩸 ꒰ა prn 🔪 prn ໒꒱ 🩸‧₊ ˚ ʚ 🐾 ɞ ୧ mbti ୨ ✧˚ 🍮 ༘ 𓎢𓎟𓎟𓎟𓎟𓎟𓎟𓎟𓎟𓎟𓎟𓎡

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