#meow writes

[oceanwithouthermoon]

OKAY im posting this crappy wip kubosai one-shot because ive been lagging severely on writing... sorry if its cringe, its completely unedited rn</3

this is roughly 1800 words.. the actual wip is about 4000 LOL but i skipped a couple parts so this is about half the wip i guess..

Kusuo was sitting at his desk with his legs curled to his chest, glaring at nothing, when his phone dinged next to him. Already not in the best mood, he sneered as his eyes snapped over to the device. The noise had disturbed one of his favorite pastimes; being moody for no reason and doing nothing, and the bright light was equally disturbing. When he looked over, it also shone the time as "1:36am" which ruined his blissful unawareness of how long he'd been brooding. His unusually accurate internal clock could have told him that, really, but Kusuo would never pass up an opportunity to be mad about something stupid.

His eyes softened significantly when he caught sight of what the notification actually was. A text from contact name "Kuboyasu Aren" with no contact picture. Yeah, that was how Kusuo kept all his contacts. Super boring and super normal.

He clenched his teeth, trying to bring his anger from before back after realizing how much and how easily his mood lifted just reading his classmate's name.

His phone had gone back to a black screen before Kusuo could read the actual contents of the message, so he begrudgingly unfurled himself from his position with a heavy sigh. He planted his feet back on the floor just a bit too aggressively and swiped up his phone as he stomped over to his bed to flop himself down on it.

When he finally turned his phone back on, the notification read “3m ago” and he clicked on it.

The message read, “hey princess when u wake up do u wanna hangout ??!? could i come overrr tomorrow please”

Annoying lack and misuse of punctuation, but Kusuo has learned that this tends to be the norm in texting, especially with other teenagers. In all fairness, the way Kusuo texts isn't very conventional either. He made fun of Toritsuka’s severe overuse of emojis once, and then immediately got ganged up on by all of the self proclaimed ‘PK psychickers’ because he tends to overuse emoticons in the same way. He doesn't know how else to express himself over text, alright? He learned to text only from his mom, Akechi, and Aiura and this is just how it turned out.

And for your information, the stupid princess pet name was just some silly thing Kuboyasu had gotten in the habit of doing lately. Trust Kusuo when he says it's much more embarrassing when he says it out loud, especially at school, than when he texts it, though knowing that his name in Kuboyasu’s contacts was “My Princess :)” was probably even worse.

Anyway, Kuboyasu had clearly made the assumption that Kusuo would be sleeping at this hour. Well, usually he would be. Kusuo LOVES getting his sleep in, but he just so happened to have taken a very long nap earlier that day, so he had a late dinner, and subsequently a late dessert. So, his usually abnormally fast metabolism hadn't quite been rid of all the sugar and caffeine he'd consumed not long ago. A series of unfortunate events, really, which culminated in him not being tired enough to sleep yet. At least he got to get in his usual ‘angrily staring at nothing for no reason’ time that he accidentally skipped because of his nap, although that did just get interrupted too.

So finally, he responded to Kuboyasu with, “I'm awake. (-.-;) Sure, I guess.”

Kuboyasu read the message and began typing unnervingly quickly after it was sent. “really ?!?!? also y r u awake lol i thought u would be asleep hours ago”

The poor guy probably wasn't expecting him to say yes immediately. Kusuo usually would argue about it for a bit before giving in to the teasing and pleading of his self proclaimed friends. It was way too late (/early) to play that game right now though, he knew he would just say yes in the end anyway. It had nothing to do with him actually wanting to see the dumb former punk who he had been unusually close with lately.

The taller boy just GOT him in a way other people never did. His undying loyalty and honesty was a refreshing contrast from many of the other people the psychic was often forced to be around. Loyal, honest, strong, romantic, protective. Not that those last few things affected the way he interacted with Kusuo or anything…

Kusuo replied again, “Yes. And I usually would be, but… too much caffeine. (￣^￣)”

Another quick response, “lol thats totally something u would do.. since ur up, r u down to call right now ?”

“To call? It's almost 2am. ಠ_ಠ Why are YOU awake anyway?”

“lol i know i know but im so bored… i just cant sleep.. we can be quiet on the call, but id like to hear ur voice right now :)”

Good grief, ew. How disgusting. “Hm… okay. ∩(｡-_-｡)∩”

(Don't you dare ask Kusuo why his internal monologue is so different from what he actually replies with. It's definitely not because he's an unreliable narrator who doesn't want to admit to himself or anyone that he actually wants to talk to a boy. Why would that be the case? Don't be dumb.)

Kusuo forgot to turn his ringer off before Kuboyasu could call him, so despite entirely expecting the phone call, the loud ringing startled him into dropping his phone on his face. How embarrassing, all-powerful psychic drops his phone on his face at almost 2am.

He scrambled to pick it back up and answer it so that the noise wouldn't wake up his parents. It would be really easy for him to just lull them back to sleep with his telepathy the second they wake up, but it would be inconvenient and his dad might complain in the morning. About either remembering waking up or just about not getting a good night’s sleep.

He finally clicked the answer button, luckily before his parents could wake up, and held back a sigh as he held the phone up to his ear.

“Hey, princess!” Kuboyasu was speaking in a whisper yell, probably also a room away from his sleeping parents.

“Hello.” He tried to speak in a way that wouldn't give away the fact that he was recovering from a smack to the face. Phone calls were a bit awkward for Kusuo, since microphones didn't pick up on his telepathy so he had to use his actual voice to speak over the phone. He always just hoped people wouldn't notice the extra rasp to his voice, but the late hour might work in his favor in this situation.

“So what have you been up to?”

“Nothing.”

“Nothing? Up at 2 am and you're just sitting there, doing nothing?”

“Yes, that's exactly what I've been doing. What else is there to do at 2am?”

“Well, I've been making the most of MY time, personally.”

“And how have you been doing that, exactly?”

“Thinkin’ about you.”

“...”

“...”

“... *snort*” Okay, how could that NOT make him laugh? He took the phone slightly away from his face and laughed into his hand.

“What?? It's true!” The idiot couldn't hold back his laughter either.

“Yeah, yeah, okay… whatever, you're such a pain…”

“Yeah? Am I?”

“Yes.”

“And yet, you're here talking to me at 2 am just because I asked you to? Admit it, you love it.”

“Tch. You really need to get over yourself, you know that?”

“Well. Humor me for a bit longer, will you?”

“You're desperate.”

“For you.”

Kusuo muttered into his hand, “Oh my god.”

“I wish I could see your face right now, I know you're blushing.”

“Yeah, right. Not like you can prove that.”

“You want me to?”

“What do you mean?”

“You want me to come over there and check?”

Kusuo could hear the smirk in Kuboyasu’s voice. The jerk knew Kusuo couldn't say no to him. They both knew this game. Kusuo would deny him just for show, even though they both know he wants to say yes, and Kuboyasu would tease the truth out of him. Well, fine. Kusuo could play this game.

“You want to sneak out of your house and into mine at 2am just so you can check how successful your teasing is?”

“Mhm. Not just that, I would do anything to see my pretty princess’ face right now. I'm bored, you're bored, the only solution is for the knight to rescue the princess from this ailment, obviously.”

“You're an idiot.”

“You want to see me, I know it.” And he did. Kusuo could hear shuffling over the phone. That asshole was probably already putting his shoes on, knowing Kusuo would say yes. “What, you scared to prove me right? You don't want me to see your pretty pink face right now?”

… Kuboyasu was good at this game. He knows that husky voice is fucking irresistible. To Kusuo, at least. “... Okay, okay. Only so I can prove you WRONG.”

He knew Kuboyasu was smiling, but then the mood settled a bit. “You serious, Saiki? I know I'm messing with you, but I won't pressure you if you don't wanna sneak me in. I mean, that's kinda a lot to ask now that I'm thinkin’ about it. I really wanna see you, but I wouldn't make you do that.”

“Yeah, yeah, shut up, I've already made up my mind. Are YOU sure? You realize how late and dark it is, yeah? You can't just stroll the streets at 2 am, you're gonna get hurt.”

“Awee, you worried about me, princess? No need, your knight in shining armor can protect himself just fine.”

"... Fine. Just stay on the phone with me."

"Hm? While I walk?"

He figured Kuboyasu wouldn't want to have a conversation over the phone in favor of paying attention to his surroundings, but... Kusuo couldn't help but be nervous about his friend's safety at this hour. He just wanted to make sure he was fine the whole walk.

"We don't have to talk, just... stay on the phone with me..."

Kuboyasu snorted. "What, you gonna miss me in those, what, ten whole minutes?"

Kusuo scoffed quietly. "Don't be so full of yourself. I'm just making sure you don't trip and fall or something at 2am on the way to my house. Wouldn't want the blame to fall back on me." He somehow still managed to convey snark in his almost monotone voice despite his whisper.

Kuboyasu chuckled softly, as he snarked back teasingly, "You know I can take care of myself. Can't believe you're still worried about me~."

Kusuo did know that. It didn't change anything. And he WASN'T worried, he just knew that his various nuisances tended to get into trouble when he wasn't there to monitor them. He was always getting them out of trouble even in broad daylight, so there was absolutely no reason to think that walking alone in the middle of the night would prove to be an exception.

"Just shut up and don't hang up, alright?"

He heard the quiet creak of a door closing and shutting, barely drowning out Kuboyasu’s attempt at muffling his laughter. "Alright, sweet boy. I'm right here."

-

EWWWW CRINGEE EW THEY HAVE COOTIES

[meow-writer-cat]

They thought they would hide... in the dark... in the gloom... between the rooting, yellow walls of the studio, inside the ink domain... but humans always find an enterance where they want to enter.

The fools entered the studio, obtaining the book of illusions - a book writen by man, but capable of destroying an entire society . The fools did what the book said, even if that could bring destruction to the world.

The kind of the Dark Puddles emerged from the darkness of the cage of cycles, emerging into the outside world. Spreading it's black roots among the city streets, someone managed to stop it with a ritual... but the people who absorbed it's ink remained so. Possesed by the wonderful taste of the king's black ink, they wanted more.

The town was possesed and the king hide back in his cage, in the chains. Fools still believe that the demon will come to them - he will free them from this world. Without realizing the danger, someone will one day wake up the demon king and thell him to fix it, restoring order of the world.

------

Bendy AU fanfiction comming on Wattpad soon

[heartswithinreach]

sylus always answers your calls. always. no exceptions.

he could be in the middle of a gun fight or a messy interrogation but when he hears the inside joke of a ringtone he set for you, he uses his evol to shackle everyone in place while he answers, calm and collected as can be.

“kitten, it’s late in linkon — you should be sleeping. no, i’m not busy at the moment.” a cold glare is the only warning his enemies get to stay quiet. “what do you need?”

some of the world’s most powerful and feared men have had their final agonizing moments prolonged by listening to the leader of onychinus sweet-talk you.

[mischievous-thunder]

When you meet someone so beautiful that you forget to utter proper coherent sentences

[foldingfittedsheets]

My nana maternal grandmother who taught me swears had one of the most ridiculous pet names for her cat when I was growing up. For reasons known only to her, she simply called the cat: Kitty Kitty Meow Meow. The creature in question was an absolute love bug and lived to be almost twenty.

When I was dating my last boyfriend Brendan we ended up living with his mom briefly before we moved up north together, and his sister lived at home too. One day I was sitting in the kitchen and heard Brendan call teasingly to his sister, “Okay, Miss Kitty Kitty Meow Meow!”

His sister laughed but my head shot up. “What did you just say?”

Brendan ambled over to me, “Oh, it’s an old inside joke. There was this one day I was riding the bus to Charlie’s house and I heard this girl on the bus say her grandma’s cat was named Kitty Kitty Meow Meow. It was so stupid I rushed home to tell my sister. It’s like naming a dog Doggy Doggy Bark Bark.” He was hysterically giggling just relating this story.

I stared at him.

I said, “Charlie and I were on the same bus route.”

He blinked, his giggles tapering down and slowly started to frown.

“That girl was me. That is the name of my nana’s cat.”

It turned out that while Brendan, a year younger than me, had never met me before we both graduated high school, he had apparently sat behind me once on the bus and turned a brief snippet of my life into a meme with his sister. Then a decade later we met through Charlie in college and went on to date. We were both flabbergasted by this coincidence.

But there was one more twist in store for me. I told my family about the way our paths had crossed before we ever dated and they thought it was hilarious.

Then a few weeks later I got a frantic call from my parents while they were in California visiting my paternal grandmother.

“Hey guys, what’s going on?”

There was weird excited static and thumps as the phone passed around and I heard my dad in the background urging my grandma, “Tell her!”

My grandma said ponderously, “You know my cats name is Kiki.”

“Of course, it’s a really cute name.”

“Your dad wants me to tell you the full thing.”

My eyes widened. I could not believe what was about to happen to me but I knew it was coming.

“Her name is Ki-Ki Meow Meow.”

I got it on both sides. Both my grandmas, in different states, with no contact, had named their cats the same silly ridiculous thing. I immediately ran to tell Brendan who laughed so hard he almost threw up.

[teddybeartoji]

18+ mdni; gn!reader

sometimes when toji fucks you, it's just so overwhelming that you go quiet. no loud moans or whines – the only sounds that manage to slip from your bitten lips are shaky gasps and a few mewls here and there. it's just too fucking good.

he doesn't pressure you to make more noise either – he knows you feel good without having to tell him so. he can see it and he can feel it; he reads your body like a book, he caresses your sides and kisses your neck – he knows your language better than anything else in the world.

your heels dig into his back as you pull him closer, deeper, while your hands press against his hot skin. you're pulling and pushing him at the same time, it isn't enough and it's too fucking much at the same time. your eyes cross and you can't think about anything else other than him; he's so fucking heavy on top of you and it almost feels like he's going to suffocate you. you want him to.

his lips are glued to your jaw and his hot breath fans your already hot skin; your eyes roll back inside your own head as your back arches off the bed and into his hold. toji uses the moment to slip his hand under you to keep you flush against him and it's all so fucking much. your breath gets stuck in your throat when he rolls his hips with precision, successfully hitting your sensitive spot over and over again.

"breathe, baby, breathe."

his voice has never been softer, more caring, than it is now. he whispers the words into your skin, he carves them right into your pulse point before pressing a kiss in the exact same place. it's intimate, you feel his love. he waits for you to do it; he slows his hips just a tad and waits. rough fingers find your warm cheek as he tilts your face to his, your noses brush and lips touch - he's everywhere.

you take in a shaky breath and he kisses away the tears of pleasure that trickle from the corner of your eyes as a reward. toji grinds his hips into yours without ever pulling out even an inch and he smiles to himself when you let out a quiet broken mewl. it's a silent cry, a tell-tale sign that he's about to get to watch you unravel in his very arms.

he doesn't stop pressing messy kisses all over your face as he rolls his hips against yours; as you cry out in his hold, as you tremble and twitch, as you whisper his name like it's your own personal mantra. you try to crane your neck to escape his overbearing presence but he doesn't let you – he moves his head with you, his eyes glued to your blissed out face, your furrowed brows and your parted lips, as he pumps you full of his seed. you're all he needs. your pleasure is all he needs.

[maskofredacted]

Batman AU where the batfam is an extension of Gotham’s will so they can’t leave the city without taking a piece of it with them

Bruce, ever practical, has a batarang made from a steel piece off the bat signal (not that he’d be able to throw it but it’s a backup nonetheless)

Dick, Jay, and Tim have made it Robin tradition to carry pebbles in their pockets (the justice league has come to associate the soft jingling of rocks with the arrival of the Dark Knight)

Steph finds pretty rocks and quartz to crack open and share with Cassandra- and they cycle through their newest finds (cass does keep a shiny piece of obsidian in her utility belt, it was the first one Steph gave her)

Duke keeps a corner from a road sign in his pouch, the reflective yellow paint matches his theme- (what better representation of the city than perpetual construction)

Damian reverently carries a piece of deep green sea glass from the harbor. The color reminds him of his mother, and he finds the beauty fitting. (The irony that the only way for him to leave his new home is an echo of the reason he’s there in the first place is not lost on him.)

EDIT: LOOK AT THE REBLOGGED VERSION WITH MORE CONTENT ITS WORTH IT I SWEAR

[vamp-bites]

My Vashwood trans headcanons in diagram form

Millymeryl version

[lazydayslivin]

recoil (with no context)

[xochimillilili]

Why are so many kitty posts about soft shy aloof kitties, where the fucking hell are the posts about needy clingy kitties who meow loudly.

Kitties who pounce on you once you come back home, rubbing themselves against you, scratching and pawing until you go to bed where they climb onto you. Kitties who know damn well what they want, teasing you the whole time as they grope at you

Putting their weight atop you as they bump their head against your face, sniffling you softly before licking and kissing and gently nibbling at your neck as they continue the collar of hickeys they've been working on giving you.

Kitties who whine and mewl and don't shut the fuck up, wanting and pleading for more with the biggest and cutely desperate eyes. Kitties who bap and scratch at you, caring for you with their shakey paws. Kitties who yes, enjoy themselves plenty alone, but adore to be around you.

Need more of kitties who wake you up with bites and kisses a bit too early, who you sometimes wake to find about to sit themselves atop your face. Kitties who do their best to keep your attention, who just want one more minute of play.

More of kitties who just want to be cared for, giving their all with love and energy, who will do their best to do the same for you while not shutting their mouth up the whole time

[shyjusticewarrior]

Jason: I'm gonna go hit Dick.

Barbara: Why?

Jason: For his attention.

Barbara: Literally just ask your brother to hang out with you. Why are you like this?

[i-dont-talk-for-days-on-end]

It is tempting to think that Sherlock Holmes was so emotionally repressed and secretive and obviously not great at handling the feelings of others (making Watson believe him dead or dying several times) because his own author did not love him enough. Childhood trauma. Deep in his heart he knew that all the time ACD spent with him he'd rather write about dinosaurs, and that turns a man bitter. And looking at some adaptions I think this is still ongoing - some creators still do not love Sherlock Holmes. They want his name, but they don't want him. Pleeeaaase let Sherlock Holmes be with creators who love himmmmm pleeeeaaaaaase my poor silly little guyyyyyyy

[meow-writer-cat]

I have idea on book, not from My AU.

If I write it on Wattpad, would you read?

Something in it: War between humans and monsters, in 2252 year (my mom choose that) and... well, idk what to say more to not spoiler more and don't have anyone copy my idea... before I write the book...

[tsunodaradio]

love at first flight ⛐ 𝐘𝐓𝟐𝟐

what would yuki tsunoda be doing in economy, anyway?

ꔮ starring: yuki tsunoda x graduate student!reader. ꔮ word count: 5.4k. ꔮ includes: romance, humor, fluff. profanity, mentions of food, death (as a joke), flying-induced anxiety. reader is studying something statistics-adjacent. isack makes an appearance. loosely inspired by the statistical probability of love at first sight. ꔮ commentary box: tsunoda debut on tsunodaradio RAAAH 🦅🇯🇵 this is shamelessly inspired by the 2024 video of yuki flying economy. ilysb, my environmentally friendly king (lol). 𝐦𝐲 𝐦𝐚𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭

♫ kaiju no hanauta, vaundy. good company, sos. make a move, lawrence. shut up, greyson chance. drive safe, rich brian. call me up, daydreamers.

“You know, statistically, there’s a 0.10 fatality rate in commercial aviation.”

On the other end of the phone, your best friend sighs. It’s not particularly reassuring. 

“This isn’t a joke,” you hiss, panic rising in the back of your throat like bile. You weave through the LAX with your boarding pass clenched in your free hand. “What if this is one of those flights?” 

“It won’t be.” Your best friend’s tone is firm and no-nonsense. You would be appeased, but then, she goes on to give the most terrible platitude known to man: “What’s the worst thing that can happen?” 

The answer to that question turns out to be a seat transfer. 

You’re standing to the side of the plane aisle, red-faced and mortified over a mishap that was beyond your control to begin with. Your seat— the one you spent an absurd amount of time picking out— was broken. 

In your head, you’re already cussing out United Airlines and whichever higher power has it out for you. Outwardly, though, you stay perfectly calm as the flight attendant tries to find you a comparable seat.

“These are the only remaining options,” the attendant notes, perfectly apologetic as she leads you further down the row. 

An aisle and middle seat in a row of three. Your fingers flex around the straps of your hand-carry duffel bag. You’re already mentally drafting the strongly-worded review you’ll be writing for United. 

“I’ll take the aisle,” you say stiffly. “Thank you.” 

The attendant gives you a pitiful smile and promises you extra snacks later. It pales in comparison to the window seat you had originally booked, but you’ll take the small concession. 

You settle into your new seat with a heavy exhale. The nonstop flight is 12 hours long— barring any hitches— and so the only thing you can pray for is that whoever sits adjacent to you doesn’t have a crying baby or anything of that sort. 

The Universe gives you that, at least. 

“22T?”

You look up. The stranger isn’t talking to you, you realize; he’s more of mumbling to himself. You can appreciate that he’s dressed for comfort. A black sweatshirt with the Red Bull logo and a pair of washed out denim jeans. He has a headset hanging around his neck, too, indicating a readiness to spend the entire flight dead to the world around him. 

You must stare for too long, because you end up meeting the stranger’s gaze. He looks like he’s around your age, which is the exact type of story that would have your best friend squealing in your ear. 

It’s not that type of story. At least that’s what you want to believe. 

You give the stranger a tight-lipped smile. He nods in acknowledgement as he takes his seat. You turn back to your personal television, silently grateful that there’s an empty seat between the two of you. 

And it could end there, could just be your run-of-the-mill long-haul that’s largely uneventful, but you’re so obvious. 

You thought you weren’t. You thought you were blending in, acting completely normal. You’re not quite sure what gives it away, though it can be anything from the mindless nail-biting to your knee bouncing up and down.

It takes everything in you not to jump in your seat when the stranger addresses you. “First time?” he asks, the amusement evident underneath his heavily accented English. 

A sheepish grin tugs at your lips. You force your knee to still, your eyes flicking around the plane that’s slowly filling up. 

“Yeah,” you admit. “You?” 

It’s a stupid question, you realize later. Everything about the stranger showed that he was prepared for this— his easy countenance, the neck pillow he had in his hand. At the moment, though, he takes your query in stride. 

“Nah,” he says. “I’ve traveled quite a bit.” 

You nod absentmindedly; your attention is divided. The aisle is mostly clear by now with the exception of flight attendants marching up and down to check if everyone has their seatbelts on. 

“Will it be your first time in Japan?” 

You’re jolted to realize that the stranger is still conversing with you. He’s focused on his personal television, but he’s making small talk that would throw you off otherwise. 

As it is, though, you’ll take any diversion you can get. “It will be,” you respond, “my first time in Japan, I mean.”

Although you can only see the side of the stranger’s face, you catch a hint of a smile. “It’s a very beautiful country. I’m sure you’ll enjoy it,” he says benevolently. 

A closer look at his features gives you some idea of his ethnicity. You take a gamble. “Where are you from in Japan?” you ask. 

The stranger hums thoughtfully. It strikes you as odd, initially, until you realize he’s probably contemplating how much information he should give out. He caves anyway. “Sagamihara city, in Kanagawa prefecture.” 

“Ah.” 

“You’ve never heard of it, have you?” 

“... Sorry.” 

When the stranger laughs, you have a fleeting thought. He’s attractive, you think, with the way his eyes crinkle at the corners. 

“Didn’t expect you to know it,” he says. “It’s a pretty small place.” 

You wish you could offer better conversation to this polite stranger. You really do.

But the plane’s engine has rumbled to life, and you feel the vibrations to your fingertips. The flight attendants are going through the standard safety procedures— no smoking, staying seated while the fasten seatbelt sign is on— and you listen like your life depends on it. 

Even the demonstration demands all your attention. You watch like a hawk as an attendant shows off how to use the air masks and flotation devices. The attendant is bored because this is a routine she’s done hundreds of times before, and all the other passengers are disinterested as well. They ignore the attendant, shutting off their phones and examining the in-flight magazines. 

You never look away. In your peripheral, you think the stranger might be shooting you bemused glances. You could be imagining it, though, so you don’t point it out. 

When you grab the laminated safety instructions from the seat pocket in front of you— intent to review it, like there’s some kind of in-flight test to prepare for— the stranger actually has the audacity to laugh. 

“Sorry,” he huffs when you glance at him. “I’ve never seen anyone actually read one of those things before.” 

“Better safe than sorry,” you say dryly, but a corner of your lip has twitched into a smile. 

The stranger leans over the empty seat between you, his seat belt straining against his middle. You resist the urge to nag him about sitting back. 

“So,” he starts, “what’s your deal?” 

“Excuse me?” 

“I could have probably worded that better.” 

“Probably.” 

He shoots you a grin and amends, “Why are you heading to Tokyo?” 

The plane is starting to push back from the gate. You feel your stomach lurch, and your hands instinctively wrap around the armrests. 

There are numbers swimming in your head. 53% of aircraft accidents are attributed to pilot errors. There were 1,417 aviation crashes in 2024. 80% of all aviation accidents— 

“Hey.” 

The stranger’s voice is gentler, now. 

“I asked you a question.” He’s teasing, but there’s something almost kind underneath the mischief. You could cry with how grateful you feel for him in that moment. The realization that he’s trying to distract you. 

“An academic conference,” you manage. “I’m presenting something.” 

He lets out a low, impressed whistle. The plane picks up speed, barreling down the runway with a rush of noise. You’re tipped back into your seat as momentum beats out gravity, but the stranger stays surprisingly steady. 

His gaze on you stays, too. It encourages you to keep talking, to babble about your dissertation as the plane tilts backward. 

The plane’s wheels give a final bounce. Your breath catches in your throat when you realize you’re aloft, the change in pressure making your ears pop. 

The stranger, seeing the discomfort that crosses your expression, fishes for something in his pocket. “Should’ve offered this earlier,” he says, extending his hand to you. 

A packet of chewing gum. You take one wordlessly, and the two of you simultaneously pop a stick into your mouths. The pressure in your ear clears surprisingly fast. 

“Thanks—,” you start, faltering when you realize you don’t have a name to address the stranger by. 

There’s a flicker of something on his expression. Something you can’t quite place. It’s a mix of surprise and suspicion, softened by what looks a lot like relief. 

“Yuki,” he offers. “You can call me Yuki.” 

to: bestie 🤞 connected to in-flight wifi! wahooo! no untoward incidents at takeoff (got transferred tho, will explain everything later) but it’s too soon to say shit. 11hrs to go. stop jinxing me pls. from: bestie 🤞 LFGGG!!! Sorry you didn’t get your window seat bae ;( I hope you’re at least next to someone HAWT  to: bestie 🤞 ahahaha… about that… from: bestie 🤞 DON’T PLAY WITH ME RN.  to: bestie 🤞 he’s okay looking. he looks about as old as me. he was nice during takeoff and he has juicy fruit gum. that’s it tho.  to: bestie 🤞 do NOT say anything about this being like an emily henry book. from: bestie 🤞 THIS IS EXACLTY LIKE AN EMILY HENRY BOOK to: bestie 🤞 what did i say??? from: bestie 🤞 🤷 Your message came in late!! from: bestie 🤞 SOOOOO??? WHO IS HE to: bestie 🤞 his name is yuki.  from: bestie 🤞 Yuki????????????????????? from: bestie 🤞 What does he look like??????????????? to: bestie 🤞 japanese. from: bestie 🤞 No SHIT Sherlock to: bestie 🤞 why.  from: bestie 🤞 Can you ask him what he does for a living  to: bestie 🤞 why??? from: bestie 🤞 Do it for MEEE pls!!! This is life or death actually  from: bestie 🤞 And b let’s be real. I know you and I know you wanna know too 👀 Don’tcha

You do. Of course you do. 

But conversation with Yuki died a natural death when the seatbelt sign clicked off, forcing you to think of the perfect way to accomplish your best friend’s absurd request. 

The snack trolley offers you an opportunity.  

When the attendants go around peddling the vouchsafed flight snacks— a sad-looking bag of trail mix— Yuki catches the look on your face. He barks out a laugh as he tears into his own pack. 

“This is one of the better ones,” he tells you, popping a handful of the granola and dried fruit into his mouth. He chews through them with impressive speed, waiting until his mouth is no longer full before he adds, “I was once on a flight where the only snack was cheese spread and crackers.” 

“No way.” 

“Yes way.” 

Before Yuki can pop his headphones back on, your mind whirrs with potential segues. The words are past your lips before you can think of them. 

“You said you travel quite a bit,” you blurt out. 

Yuki’s eyebrows arch upward. “I said that over an hour ago.” 

“Yeah, well,” you stammer, “you still said it, didn’t you?” 

He snorts, the sound edged with amusement. For what it’s worth, he looks willing to indulge you. You push on, “What job do you have, then?” 

There it is again. The expression you weren’t quite able to nail earlier. He seems doubtful of your intentions, but when you don’t waver, he bites. 

“I drive,” he says, like it’s the most obvious, simple thing in the world. 

You blink once. Twice. “You— drive?” you repeat. 

“Yes.” Yuki almost smiles. It looks more like a smirk. “I’m a driver.” 

“Like a chauffeur?” 

Now that wipes the grin right off Yuki’s face. He stares at you like your words had been the equivalent of a record scratch, and then he laughs. 

It’s interesting, just how much you can learn about a person in an hour. You file away this little fact, too. Yuki, who throws his head back when he’s really laughing, his body shaking with mirth. The sound isn’t loud, isn’t the type that might have the person in the next aisle complaining, but it still fills you with an odd sense of triumph. 

“I guess you could say that,” he manages once his laughing fit has died down.

“In that case—” You gesture to his sweatshirt. “That makes sense.” 

He glances down at the Red Bull logo. His lips twist into another barely-there simper as he prods you, “What does that even mean?” 

“I don’t know. I always supposed drivers were one of Red Bull’s target audiences.” 

“Really.” 

“Really. 42% of energy drink consumers enjoy Red Bull. I’m not surprised you’re part of that.” 

Yuki gives a slight shake of his head. You wince, as if realizing you’re doing it again— spewing out numbers unprompted, trying to get percentages to clarify something that doesn’t really demand an explanation. 

Except he doesn’t seem to mind. He doesn’t poke fun at the habit. In fact, he sounds a touch awed as he muses, “You really like your stats, huh?” 

You raise your shoulders in a shrug. “Numbers are good.” The words sound weak even to you, so you double down. “They’re reliable and they give you a good picture of something.” 

“Numbers don’t lie,” he says. 

The statement is surprisingly profound. “Numbers don’t lie,” you echo, a pleased smile of your own beginning to break on your face. 

Yuki watches it, watches you, before seeming to make a decision. “This is— this is a bit hard.” 

You don’t have to wait too long to see what he means. In the next moment, he’s unbuckling his seatbelt and half-standing in a jerky motion. He carefully maneuvers towards you, landing heavily on the empty seat that had separated the two of you for the past hour and a half. 

Yuki doesn’t strap himself in yet. He just tilts his head to one side, his tongue poking the inside of his cheek. “I have questions about your dissertation.” His voice is surprisingly quieter even though he’s bridged the distance. You have to lean in a bit to hear him. “If you’ll entertain me, that is.” 

Something in your chest lurches; it feels a lot like how the plane had bounced during takeoff. “It’s a lot of numbers,” you say lamely. 

He looks unfazed. “What? You don’t think a chauffeur can handle data and statistics?” he teases as he absent mindedly toys with the buckle and retractor resting on his thigh. 

This wasn’t the plan. You had hoped to spend your first ever plane ride watching a movie, maybe reading a book. Snapping photos of cumulonimbus clouds and complaining to your best friend the entire time about one thing or the other. 

Instead, you find yourself telling Yuki, “Ask away, then.” 

He clicks his seatbelt into place.

to: bestie 🤞 [Sent an image.]  to: bestie 🤞 meal time.  from: bestie 🤞 Yum yum yummm  from: bestie 🤞 Speaking of yum 🤤…  to: bestie 🤞 have some tact pls. he’s a chauffeur.  from: bestie 🤞 Oh.  to: bestie 🤞 oh?  from: bestie 🤞 Are you SURE that’s what he said to: bestie 🤞 yes??? from: bestie 🤞 Okay okay I’ll stoppp  from: bestie 🤞 What would yuki tsunoda be doing in economy anyway LMAO  to: bestie 🤞 who?  from: bestie 🤞 Do you remember the tate mcrae tiktoks I sent u  to: bestie 🤞 ohhh. that lando guy. from: bestie 🤞 My loml 🧡🧡🧡 but yes, there’s a yuki on the grid to: bestie 🤞 you’re delusional.  from: bestie 🤞 I hope you choke on ur dry ass airplane food actually❤️Love ya!

“Have you been driving for long?” 

Yuki pauses halfway into devouring his mid-flight sandwich. For the past two hours or so, the stream of conversation between the two of you has flowed rather easily. But it’s also mostly been about you— Yuki asking all the right questions to have you going on 15-minute rants. 

Some of it tangented the moment that food started getting served. You find it hard to believe that you’re already hour four in the air. 

Eight more hours to go.

You might as well try to get to know Yuki, too. 

“About— four years, give or take?” he responds after a beat, as if he’d needed to do some mental math. “I started in 2021.” 

“How did you get into it?” 

“I always knew I wanted to.” 

“Be a chauffeur?” 

You realize immediately just how snooty you sound. “I’m sorry,” you say in the next breath, horrified at your indiscretion. “That was— uncalled for.” 

Gracefully, Yuki doesn’t look offended. He’s got a lopsided grin on his face, like the blunder has amused him. He finishes off his sandwich before putting you out of your misery. 

“Driving,” he clarifies. “I’ve always known I would do something with driving.” 

You perk up a bit in your seat. “Why is that?”

He hesitates, his lips quirking to one side as he— once again— seems to contemplate just how honest he should be. You make a mental note to take his words with a grain of salt. 

“Have you ever heard of kart racing?” he says. 

There’s a glint in his eyes that tells you this, at least, won’t be a lie. 

It’s his turn to talk. You don’t think he notices, but every so often he’ll use a Japanese word or phrase that you don’t understand. You make no effort to ask for clarification. It’s enough for you to see the sheer enthusiasm radiating off him as he tells you about karting as a child, and how he’d even done things under big names like Honda. 

“I can’t believe you started karting at age four,” you say, half-teasing and half-awed.

He gives a vague hand gesture that attempts to communicate nonchalance, but he looks far too smug to pull it off. “Driving has always been a part of me,” he concludes. “I don’t think I’ll ever be without it.” 

It’s a commitment you recognize. You’re just about to ask something else about him being a racing kart kid when your conversation is interrupted. 

“Yuki.” 

Even if it’s just Yuki being called, you can’t help but glance as well. There’s a guy hovering on Yuki's side of the aisle, eyeing the two of you with mild interest. 

“We figured out the seating problem,” the newcomer tells Yuki. His English is accented, too. You think it might be French. “You can move up to the front now, if you like.” 

“It’s not the ‘front’, Hadjar,” Yuki shoots as he leans back into his seat. He addresses Hadjar with an easy air; you gleam that they’re probably friends. “It’s ‘first class’.” 

“Front, first class, whatever.” Hadjar gives a dismissive wave of his hand. “You’ve got your seat.” 

“Only took you four hours,” Yuki grumbles, and you laugh under your breath. 

The soft sound seems to remind Yuki of your presence. His gaze flicks over to you, and he tenses a bit. A full second ticks by. And then another. And then— 

Hadjar clears his throat. “Any time now, Yukino.” 

You had seen how different it was in first class. More space, better seats. The food would probably be nicer, too. You busy yourself with your personal television, trying to keep at bay the slight swell of disappointment in your chest at losing your seatmate. 

Except Yuki doesn’t move. 

“I think I’m good, man,” Yuki says to Hadjar. 

Yuki, too, is pointedly avoiding looking at you. He’s trying to be casual about passing up his first-class upgrade, about the way Hadjar is snickering. 

You can’t ignore the way your pulse stutters. The way it damn near stops when Yuki says, his voice so deliberately even, “I’ve got pretty good company right here.” 

to: bestie 🤞 okay, fine from: bestie 🤞 ??? to: bestie 🤞 he’s hot.  from: bestie 🤞 EXACTLYYYYYYY from: bestie 🤞 I USED TO PRAY FOR TIMES LIKE THESE 🙏🙏🙏 to: bestie 🤞 be normal. i’m just appreciating him ok. from: bestie 🤞 Wtvr you say LOVERGIRL  from: bestie 🤞 WHAT ARE YOU DOING NOW?! to: bestie 🤞 ? nothing. watching a movie from: bestie 🤞 okayyyy movie date  from: bestie 🤞 mile high club 🔜 to: bestie 🤞 this conversation is over. 

It occurs to you that you could probably just search it up. 

If you really, really wanted to scratch the itch of whoever the hell ‘Yuki Tsunoda’ was— you could just Google it. The in-flight WiFi was working swimmingly. It’d take one search, and you’d confirm whether the guy to your left has been lying to you or not. 

In the end, you find that you don’t really care. 

The cabin lights have been dimmed. When you crane your neck to check the few windows, all you see is inky darkness. 

“We’re probably still over the Pacific,” Yuki says. 

He pitches his voice lower, probably out of respect for the snoozing passengers in the rows you’re sandwiched between. You’re left with no choice but to lean into his personal space. 

Your knee presses into Yuki’s. 

You don’t apologize. 

He doesn’t pull away.

The warm overhead glow of the seatbelt sign is your only source of light. Yuki’s dark hair falls into his eyes, but you have a feeling he’s still watching you with that scrutinizing gaze of his. It’s like he’s holding his breath; for what, you’re not sure. 

“How do you feel about the ocean?” you ask, because there’s five more hours before you’re in Tokyo and you never have to see this man ever again. 

You figure you could be anyone you want to be. You could be honest; you could lie your ass off. You could ask all the hard-hitting questions and come away unscathed, knowing this was a one-off in a liminal space that barely even feels real. 

Yuki’s lips quirk to one side. He seems to be thinking the same thing. This is a safe place to land, a one-act play.

“I hate it,” he answers without missing a beat. “Sharks.” 

You have to tamp back a laugh. “Sharks?” 

“They’re evil and scary.” 

“There’s only a five-year average of six unprovoked, shark-related fatalities per year.” 

“Oh?” 

“Yeah. Cows are worse.” 

“Cows?” Yuki’s eyebrows knit together. “Like— mooo?” 

“Like mooo,” you say solemnly. “Cows kill about 22 people per year in the United States alone.” 

“Holy shit.” 

“Right?” 

“You’re—” Yuki falters with a shake of his head, as if he’s banishing the thought that had just come to his mind. 

You can’t have that. Playfully, you knock your knee against Yuki’s. “Don’t back out on me now,” you jab. “I’m…?”

He sucks in a breath through his teeth. You see the moment he decides fuck it, the way his eyes flash and he just pushes out the words that’d been at the tip of his tongue. 

“You’re cute,” he says, “when you talk numbers.” 

This time, you can’t fight the laugh that escapes you. It’s a little too loud; the person in the seat in front of you actually twists around to glare at you. You mumble an apology and lean in closer to Yuki, who doesn’t protest the way you’re practically leaning on his arm rest. 

“‘Cute’ isn’t usually the word people would use to describe my nerdiness,” you joke, even though your palms suddenly feel a lot more clammy than it did a couple of minutes ago. 

Yuki shrugs, feigning coolness. “I was actually going to go for ‘hot’,” he admits, voice barely above a whisper, “but I didn’t want to scare you off.” 

It occurs to you that this is flirting. Yuki’s hitting on you, throwing the ball in your court, and it’s your turn to say something just as smooth. 

But then the plane jolts, straining your seatbelt against your form. Your fingers immediately find purchase at your armrest as the overhead seatbelt light blinks on. 

“Ah, fuck,” Yuki grunts as he sinks back into his seat. “Turbulence.” 

You would consider it a bit of a saving grace, if it weren’t for the forceful jolts that make you feel like your heart is in your throat. You know it’s not something to worry about— the pilots are trained professionals, after all— but the numbers all still glaring in your mind, like neon signs in their own right. 

A breathing exercise. You should do a breathing exercise, you think. Or think happy thoughts. You squeeze your eyes shut as the turbulence rocks the plane a little more forcefully, jostling everyone on this flight.

Think about your itinerary in Japan, about a little Yuki go-karting, about sharks and cows, about— 

There’s a hand on top of yours. 

The neon signs in your head fizzle out. 

You don’t open your eyes. You don’t have to. 

Yuki doesn’t say anything either. He just carefully, slowly strokes your white-knuckled grip with his thumb. His palm is surprisingly warm, and it grounds you enough to remind you, Right. Inhale, exhale. Inhale, exhale.  

You don’t know how long the turbulence lasts. It ends, by the Universe’s grace. You hear it first— the seatbelt light switching off. 

It’s your turn to hold your breath. 

You’re scared to move, scared to open your eyes. You think that if you do either, you’ll have to face the gentleness of Yuki’s touch, the kindness you don’t know what to do with. You’re scared he’ll stop, pull away, if you look at him.

And so you keep your eyes closed, and you keep on doing your breathing exercises despite the steady rise and fall of your chest. 

And Yuki keeps on holding your hand. 

You don’t know when you fall asleep, but you do. It’s a fitful sort of rest borne from the crash and burn of adrenaline. You stir some two hours later with a crick in your neck, your hand still under Yuki’s, and your head lolling against his shoulder. 

The moment you realize how closely you’d gravitated to him during your nap, you’re peeling away from his side. He rouses as you do, his hands rubbing the sleep out of his eyes. 

“Sorry,” you mumble. 

Yuki is heavy-lidded as he offers you a hint of a smile. “What for?” he prods, his voice raspy with sleep. 

You’re not sure, you realize. You’re sorry for falling asleep on him. You’re sorry for letting him hold your hand. 

You’re sorry this flight will have to end.

You shrug.

“Then don’t,” Yuki says with surprising firmness. “Don’t apologize.” 

His fingers twitch like they’re itching to reach out again. But he doesn’t, and so you only nod in response. 

“What should I eat when I get to Tokyo?” you ask for the lack of a better thing to start with, and Yuki lights up like it’s a question he was born to answer. 

from: bestie 🤞 YOU’RE LANDING SOOOONNNNNN <333  from: bestie 🤞 Congratulations on surviving your first flight my darling dearest 🧑‍✈️ to: bestie 🤞 💋 love ya. going on airplane mode. i’ll text once i’m omw to my hotel.  from: bestie 🤞 Please do!! from: bestie 🤞 Don’t forget to give your seatmate a little goodbye kiss :)  to: bestie 🤞 do you want to die.  from: bestie 🤞 💋💋💋💋💋💋💋💋💋💋💋💋💋💋💋💋💋💋💋💋

Landing is infinitely worse than takeoff. 

As the plane begins to descend, you fight down the vague brush of panic. Not so much for the landing itself, but for what begins and ends because of it. You wrap your hands back around your armrests, your gaze fixed firmly on the personal television charting the flight’s progress. 

Yuki doesn’t say anything. You realize you don’t know what type of person he is, not really. Would he joke around with you, if you were more than just two people stuck next to each other on an eight hour flight? Would he comfort you; would he tease you? 

You’re struck with a sudden thought. A question you’d been meaning to ask. Now or never, it seems. 

“Why didn’t you move up to first class?” you ask suddenly. 

Yuki lets out a sound— something between a chuckle and a groan. He answers your question with one of his own. “Have you been thinking of that this entire time?” 

“Not the entire time,” you shoot back. 

He clicks his tongue. For a moment, you’re sure he’ll field the question, but he gives in. What does he have to lose, anyway, when you’re landing in less than 15 minutes? 

“You’re good company.” The way he says it— like it’s as certain as the numbers you keep count of. 

It’s that. The same thing he told Hadjar. 

Nothing more, nothing less. 

There are worse ways for this story to end, you decide, as you give a low hum of approval and brace for impact. 

“You were pretty good company, too,” you say. 

You’re sure that the two of you haven’t been entirely honest with each other this flight— the illusion of choice, of reinvention, just a little too alluring to ignore— but you hope Yuki knows that much, that one, is true.

So many first-time fliers have had terror stories about their experience, about the people with them. This was not one such case. 

You don’t want to be sappy about it. You don’t have to, really. Not when Yuki is fighting back a smile, his own hands resting at his arm rests.

Your elbows squeeze against each other as the plane’s wheels hit the ground, and you take it as the last ‘accidental’ touch you’ll ever get from this virtual stranger. 

This funny, handsome, kind stranger. 

You wish you were the type of person to ask for someone’s Instagram handle, to secure a phone number. Instead, you’re the type to duck your head and avoid Yuki’s gaze as he takes a suspiciously long amount of time packing up his own things. 

He stands up to go as you linger in your own seat, middlingly tugging at the duffel bag underneath the seat in front of you. 

Don’t say goodbye, you nearly say. I’m not good at those. 

“Thank you for flying with Yuki Air,” he says instead, doing a poor imitation of the pilot. “We hope you enjoy your stay in Japan!” 

You laugh at the sheer absurdity of it all. He tacks on something you don’t understand, something in Japanese— sabishiku narimasu ne— but you don’t have the time to ask for a translation. 

“I’m going to go meet up with my friends.” He shoulders his backpack, eyeing the slow-moving aisle on his end. “Don’t forget my food advice.” 

He had been particular about the must-get dishes. “Motsunabe and seafood pasta,” you say, and he nods with approval. 

A final smile. That’s all he offers you as he starts to step away. 

Yuki didn’t seem to like goodbyes much, either. 

Your fingers tighten around the strap of your duffel bag. 

“Hey, Yuki!”

He’s already a couple of paces away, but his head whips around to look back at you. There’s something on his expression; it looks a lot like hope. He’s stuck in the line, though, and you know you can’t stall for too long.

“Drive safe,” you blurt out, immediately feeling stupid about those being your parting words. 

You have no idea. You have no idea just how perfect it is, how there’s no phrase that would have left a better impression.

“I will,” he says with that treacherous, treacherous smile. 

And then he’s gone. 

Approximately 27 minutes later, you’re in the back of a cab staring slack-jawed at a billboard for the upcoming Japanese Grand Prix. Front and center, the country’s home driver. 

The boy you’d sat next to for 12 hours. 

You do the only logical thing. You call your best friend to apologize and say she was, in fact, not delusional. 

She’s screaming in your ear as you rummage through your duffel bag in search of your printed out hotel booking. 

“I can’t believe you were next to Yuki fucking Tsunoda,” your best friend screeches, “and nothing came out of it!”

“Ha-ha,” you say dryly. “You know I’ve got, like, zero game, right?”

“Don’t give me that! You could totally pull if you tried!”

Your best friend is caught between extolling your virtues and catching you up on Yuki’s lore as a driver when you find your booking. You pull it out— 

Except it’s not your booking. It’s one of the tissues from the in-flight meal. It’s a bit crumpled and torn at the edges, but your eyes focus on something else instead. 

Handwriting. Scratchy and shaky, like the person who had been scribbling couldn’t do it properly. Maybe because they had a head on their shoulder. 

There’s a string of numbers, and then a note: 

What’s the statistical probability of me getting a text? 

-YT ⛐

[mischievous-thunder]

Oh, Wade! You shouldn't antagonise an already feral kitty!

[cookiedough77]

pet peeve with miraculous fandom is that whenever there is something they dont understand they dont take time to think about in universe logical explanations, they just chalk everything up to "bad writing" when this show can actually be cool if you think about stuff