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changelog:

removed ground news (uses AI to summarize articles)

removed unroll.me (sells your data)

removed proton mail and drive (AI assistant feature, claims of CEO Andy Yen supporting Trump, please DM if you have proof I can add here)

removed NCH suite (only has very basic free features, puts watermark on anything saved)

notes:

this post blew up while I wasn’t looking (the end of my semester was hellish, and i recently came back from a 3-week family vacation). thanks so much for all the suggestions! <3

i included Ecosia because of their financial transparency. It’s physically impossible that they plant a tree for every search, but their profits still go towards projects including reforestation and solar energy. i view their actions as a net-positive

feel free to add more alternatives, resources or advice in the reblogs or replies, and i'll add them to the main post <3

At first, you assumed they were meant for someone else, but they're always in books you've handled, always referring to work you've done. Your mysterious night-shift colleague is paying attention to your work, and somehow that makes the daylight hours feel less solitary.

You start looking forward to finding them. There's something about his handwriting—precise but with an almost Victorian flourish to the capital letters—that makes you imagine the kind of person who would take time to leave encouraging notes for someone he's never met. Someone thoughtful. Someone who notices details.

One night, while processing a box of donated books from a retired English professor, you find a note that makes you stop completely:

Your marginalia in the damaged copy of Neruda's poetry was beautiful. I hope you don't mind that I preserved it before sending the book to repair. The observation about light and longing particularly resonated. —M

You remember that book. It had come in with water damage, and you'd spent your break trying to salvage it, getting lost in the poems and absently jotting thoughts in pencil along the margins—a habit from your undergraduate days that you'd never quite shaken. You'd been mortified when you realized what you'd done to a library book, even one destined for repair.

But he'd read your thoughts. Found them worth preserving.

That night, you leave your first note back.

Thank you for saving my accidental marginalia. I was embarrassed about defacing library property, even accidentally. Your notes always brighten my day. —Day Shift

You tuck it into a biography of Virginia Woolf that needs re-cataloging, hoping he'll find it.

He does.

I prefer to think of it as collaborative scholarship rather than defacement. your insights illuminated aspects of the text I hadn't considered. I hope you don't mind the presumption, but I've started a small collection of books I think you might enjoy. You'll find them on the reserved cart by the processing table. -M. (Night Shift)

The reserved cart becomes a regular exchange point. He leaves books for you; poetry collections with passages marked with translucent post-its, novels with subtle notes about themes and symbolism, non-fiction works on topics ranging from etymology to astronomy. You leave books for him in return, along with notes sharing your thoughts, asking questions, and building on his observations.

Your notes grow longer, his responses become more personal.

I've been working at the library for six years, and I've never had a colleague who understood the poetry collection you do. You're note about Adrienne Rich's use of metaphors kept me thinking long after my shift ended.

I keep meaning to ask: do you ever feel like you're living in the margins of other people's stories? Working days among all these books full of other people's adventures and romances and grand declarations, but feeling separate from it all. Sometimes I wonder what my story would look like if someone wrote it down.

Your story would be beautiful, I bet. Anyone who reads with as much insight and empathy as you do must have depths worth exploring. I hope you know that your presence has made this job feel less like exile to the empty hours, and more like a discovery of what I love about the night. - M.

You find yourself rushing through your other tasks to get to the note exchanges. You start staying a few minutes past your shift, hoping to catch a glimpse of him arriving, but the timing never works out. You generally leave at five PM; he must arrive at seven or eight, after the building has been closed for a while.

One afternoon you're running late; a group of graduate students had all come in looking for texts that had been added to the catalogue but hadn't been processed yet, and getting them ready to be checked out had thrown off your whole day. You're processing a cart of returns when you hear the front door chime. Someone else is in the building, which is odd since the library closed to students an hour ago.

You grab a sticky note and write quickly: Running late today- sorry if I left things messy. I keep hoping we'll overlap one day. I'm curious about the person behind all these thoughtful recommendations. - Day Shift

You stick it to your computer monitor and gather your things, but as you're heading toward the exit, you hear something that makes you freeze.

A soft, rhythmic sound. Almost like fluttering.

You turn around and see him.

He's tall and lean, probably in his early thirties, with dark hair that looks soft despite being slightly disheveled. But it's not his human features that stop you in your tracks— it's the wings.

Enormous moth wings extend from his shoulders, deep brown with intricate patterns that seem to shift in the library's fluorescent lighting. They're moving gently, unconsciously, the way someone might tap their fingers when they're thinking. Beautiful and otherworldly, and completely, obviously, inhuman.

He's standing by the circulation desk, reading a note you'd left there earlier, and he hasn't noticed you yet. The late afternoon light from the tall windows catches the subtle colors in his wings— not just brown, but deep amber and silver and hints of purple that remind you of sunset.

He looks up from the note and sees you. For a moment, neither of you moves. His wings go completely still. There's something vulnerable in his expression, like he's been caught doing something he shouldn't.

"You're Day Shift," he says, and his voice is softer than you expected, even for someone who works in a library.

"You're M," you reply.

He nods, and one wing twitches nervously. "Magnus. My name is Magnus."

"It's nice to finally meet you, Magnus." You take a step closer, then stop, unsure of the protocol for meeting your mysterious note-writing colleague who happens to be a giant moth. "I… wasn't expecting…."

"The wings?" His laugh has a self-deprecating edge. "Most people don't. It's why I work nights. Fewer awkward explanations."

You think about all his notes, the careful handwriting, the thoughtful book recommendations. The way he noticed your marginalia and saved it instead of erasing it. The growing sense of connection you've felt with someone you'd never met.

"Fair, but also I'm just surprised to finally see you. I was beginning to despair and think our paths would never cross." You smile. "I've been hoping we would, though."

His wings flutter slightly, and you realize it might be the equivalent of a surprised blink. "Really?"

"Your notes have been the best part of this job. I look forward to them every day," you gesture toward the reserved cart. "And your book recommendations are always perfect. You somehow know exactly what I need to read."

Magnus's posture relaxes slightly. "You make it easy. Your responses tell me so much about how you think, what moves you. I've never met anyone who reads with such empathy."

There's a pause where you both seem to be calculating the strangeness of the situation. Months of written correspondence with someone you've never met, building a connection through marginalia and book recommendations, only to discover that he's not entirely human.

"Can I ask..." you start, then stop. "Sorry, I don't want to pry."

"You can ask," he says gently. "I know moths aren't as common as some other types."

"Do you... are there others like you in the area?"

Magnus nods. "A few. There's a whole community, actually—moths, butterflies, some beetles. We tend to stick together, especially those of us who are nocturnal. There are support groups, social events, that sort of thing."

You think about how he's been working nights for six years, how his notes sometimes carried an undertone of isolation that you'd attributed to the solitary nature of the job.

"Is that why you've never tried to meet me before? Because you weren't sure how I'd react to meeting a moth?"

His wings droop slightly. "Partly. Night shifts work well for my kind, but it does limit social opportunities with day-shift humans. And partly because I... I've gotten attached to our correspondence. What if we met and it was awkward? What if the dynamic changed?"

"I understand that fear," you almost laugh in relief. He gets it. "But Magnus, your notes have been the highlight of my day. You've shared books with me that changed how I think about things. You saved my embarrassing marginalia because you thought it was worth preserving. Why would meeting you change any of that?"

He looks at you for a long moment, and you can see him processing this. His wings are moving again, not nervously this time, but in a slow, hypnotic pattern that's almost meditative.

"Would you..." he starts, then stops. "I know you've just finished a full shift, and you're probably tired, but would you like to get coffee? There's a place that opens early, about a block from here."

You should be tired. You've been at work all day, and you have an evening class. But the idea of continuing this conversation, of finally talking to Magnus face-to-face, is more appealing than going home.

"I'd like that," you say.

The coffee shop Magnus leads you to is small and warmly lit, the kind of place that caters to afternoon coffee drinkers and evening commuters. Magnus chooses a corner booth, and you notice how he angles himself so his wings aren't visible from most of the other tables. A practiced gesture.

"Tell me about the books," you say after you've both ordered. "How do you choose what to recommend?"

Magnus wraps his hands around his coffee cup, and you notice his fingers are long and elegant, with calluses that probably come from years of handling books. "I watch what you choose for yourself. The poetry you return to, the novels you spend extra time with. And your notes—they tell me so much about what you're thinking about, what questions you're wrestling with."

"It's like you're curating a personal reading list for my soul."

He smiles, and it transforms his whole face. "That's... that's exactly what I'm trying to do, actually. I've never had anyone understand that before."

You find yourself leaning forward, drawn into his orbit. "What made you become a librarian?"

"Books don't care what species you are," he says simply. "And I've always been nocturnal anyway. It seemed like a natural fit."

"Do you like it? The night shift, I mean?"

Magnus considers this. "I did. I do. But it's been lonely, until..." He trails off, looking suddenly self-conscious.

"Until?"

"Until your notes started appearing. Suddenly it felt like I had a partner instead of just... occupying the same space in shifts."

There's something in the way he says it that makes your chest warm. Partnership. Collaboration. The sense that you've been building something together, even without meeting.

"I felt the same way," you admit. "I started looking forward to work in a way I never had before."

Magnus's wings flutter slightly. "Really?"

"Really. Your recommendations, your insights about the books... it felt like having a conversation with someone who really understood not just what I was reading, but why I was reading it."

You spend the next hour talking about books, about the library, about the strange intimacy of written correspondence with a stranger. Magnus tells you about growing up different, about learning to navigate social expectations as a nocturnal creature in a largely diurnal world. You tell him about graduate school, about finding meaningful work, about how his notes made you feel less like you were just going through the motions.

"Can I ask you something?" Magnus says as you're both finishing your second cups of coffee.

"Of course."

"What did you think when you saw me? When you realized I was a moth?"

You consider the question seriously. "I was surprised, but not in a bad way. I've met a few other insect-types before, but never a moth. If anything, it explained things."

"What things?"

"The way you write about literature. There's this perspective in your notes that's... I don't know how to explain it. Like you're seeing things from a different angle than most people. It makes sense now."

Magnus is quiet for a moment, his wings moving in that slow, meditative pattern. "I've never had someone react that way before."

"How do people usually react?"

"Curiosity, mostly. Sometimes there's an adjustment period when humans aren't used to working with insect-types. But you're looking at me like I'm just... a person you're having coffee with."

"Aren't you?"

"I..." Magnus stops, and you can see something shift in his expression. "Yes. I suppose I am."

Outside the coffee shop windows, the afternoon is getting later. You should go home, grab dinner before your evening class. But you don't want this conversation to end.

"Would you like to do this again?" you ask. "Maybe next week, after my shift?"

Magnus's entire posture changes, wings lifting slightly. "Yes. I'd like that very much."

"Good." You gather your things, then pause. "Magnus?"

"Yes?"

"Thank you. For all the notes, all the book recommendations. For making this job less lonely."

"Thank you for writing back," he says. "I was starting to think I was just talking to myself."

You're almost to the door when you turn back. "One more question."

"Anything."

"The marginalia you saved from the Neruda book—do you still have it?"

Magnus nods, looking slightly embarrassed. "I... may have laminated it. And kept it in my desk drawer."

"Can I see it sometime?"

"If you want. Though I should warn you, I've added some notes of my own to your observations."

"I'd like that too."

That evening, you dream about wings and whispered conversations in library stacks. When you wake up the next morning, you're already looking forward to your shift that day, knowing that somewhere in the building tonight, Magnus will be working through his own tasks, probably thinking about books to recommend, maybe writing another note.

The thought makes you smile.

Your next shift feels different. You know Magnus is there now—not physically present during your hours, but real, no longer just a mysterious note-writer but an actual person. Someone with careful hands and thoughtful eyes and wings that flutter when he's nervous. The library feels less like just a job and more like a shared space.

You find today's book recommendation on the reserved cart: a collection of essays about liminal spaces, with a note tucked inside.

I thought you might appreciate these reflections on existing in the spaces between categories. The essay on page 73 reminded me of our conversation about living in the margins of other people's stories. I keep thinking about what you said, and I wonder if maybe the margins are where the most interesting conversations happen. —M

P.S. I enjoyed our coffee yesterday more than I've enjoyed anything in a very long time.

You spend your break reading the essay he mentioned, and he's right—it's beautiful, all about how the most profound truths often exist in the spaces between defined categories. In the margins. In the overlap between night and day shifts.

You write back:

The essay was perfect. I've been thinking about margins too—how they're not empty spaces but places where different worlds meet. Maybe that's what we've been doing all along, creating a conversation in the space between your schedule and mine. And I enjoyed coffee too. I'm already looking forward to next week. —Day Shift

P.S. I'd still like to see that laminated marginalia sometime.

The week passes slowly. You find yourself paying more attention to your handwriting, crafting your notes with extra care. Magnus's recommendations continue to be perfect—poetry that speaks to exactly what you're feeling, novels that seem chosen specifically for your current mood.

But more than that, his notes become more personal.

I've been thinking about our conversation about feeling disconnected. I realized yesterday that I haven't felt that way once since we started corresponding. Even when I'm alone in the building at night, I feel accompanied by the possibility of your response to whatever book I'm processing.

I dreamed about flying last night for the first time in months. I think talking to you reminded me that my wings aren't just something that makes me different—they're something that makes me who I am.

The biology section got a new field guide to moths and butterflies. I spent longer than necessary reading about wing patterns and flight behaviors. It felt strange to see my own species categorized and explained, but also oddly validating. Like proof that creatures like me are real and worth studying.

Your own notes grow longer in response.

I've been thinking about dreams and flight. I spend my days grounded, obviously, but there's something about the way you describe wing movement that makes me want to understand what it would feel like to navigate three dimensions instead of just two.

I looked up moth symbolism in the folklore collection. Did you know you're associated with transformation, intuition, and attraction to light? It seems fitting for someone who helps people discover books they didn't know they needed.

Sometimes I catch myself wondering what your wings feel like. Are they soft? Do you feel air currents differently than I do? I hope these questions aren't too personal.

His response to that last note makes your breath catch:

They are soft, softer than most people expect. And yes, I feel air currents constantly—temperature changes, pressure shifts, even the movement of people walking past. It's like having an extra sense. I'd be happy to answer any other questions you have. I've never had someone show genuine curiosity rather than just staring.

P.S. If you're curious about texture, I wouldn't mind if you wanted to find out for yourself sometime.

The possibility hangs between you for the rest of the week.

Your second coffee date happens on a rainy afternoon, the kind of weather that makes the warm coffee shop feel like a refuge. Magnus arrives a few minutes after you, shaking droplets from his wings in a gesture so natural you almost don't notice how remarkable it is.

"How does rain feel?" you ask as he settles across from you. "On your wings, I mean."

"Heavy," he says, stretching one wing slightly. "Like wearing a wet sweater, but across my whole back. I usually try to avoid being out in it."

"But you came anyway."

"I wasn't going to miss this because of weather."

There's something in the way he says it that makes your pulse quicken. An intensity that suggests these coffee meetings mean as much to him as they do to you.

"I brought something," Magnus says, reaching into a messenger bag you hadn't noticed. He pulls out a small, laminated square of paper. "Your marginalia."

You take it carefully, recognizing your own handwriting alongside Neruda's poetry. Your penciled notes look so small and informal next to the printed text, but Magnus has preserved them as if they were important scholarly commentary.

"You added notes," you observe, seeing his careful handwriting in blue ink along the edges of the lamination.

"I hope you don't mind. Your observation about light and longing made me think of other places where Neruda uses similar imagery."

You study his additions—cross-references to other poems, connections to broader themes in Neruda's work, a small sketch of a moth near your comment about "creatures drawn to illumination."

"This is beautiful," you say. "It's like... collaborative scholarship."

"That's what I hoped." Magnus looks pleased. "I've never done anything like that before. Usually, academic commentary feels so formal, so removed from the actual experience of reading. But your notes felt like conversation."

"They were conversation. They still are." You trace the edge of the lamination with one finger. "Can I keep this?"

"I hoped you would."

You tuck it carefully into your bag, then look back at Magnus. His wings are moving in that slow, hypnotic pattern you're starting to recognize as contentment.

"Can I ask you something that might be too personal?"

"You can ask me anything."

"What does it feel like to fly?"

Magnus is quiet for a moment, his wings stilling completely. "Like the difference between reading about a place and actually being there. Everything else—walking, driving—it's all so... linear. Limited. Flying is three-dimensional freedom."

"Do you miss it? Working nights, being inside?"

"I did. But lately..." He pauses. "Lately I've been thinking that maybe some kinds of freedom are worth trading for other kinds of connection."

There's something in the way he's looking at you that makes the conversation feel suddenly charged. Like you're talking about more than just flying.

"What kind of connection?"

"The kind where someone reads your thoughts about a poem and understands not just what you meant, but why it mattered to you." Magnus's voice is soft. "The kind where you can spend months writing notes to someone you've never met and somehow feel more understood than you have in years."

Your heart is beating faster. "Magnus..."

"I know it's complicated. I know I'm not... typical. But I haven't been able to stop thinking about you since we met. Not just the notes, not just the intellectual connection. You."

You reach across the table without thinking and touch his hand. His skin is warm, his fingers longer and more elegant than yours, but unmistakably real.

"It's not complicated," you say. "I mean, it is, but not in the way you think."

"What do you mean?"

"I've been thinking about you too. Not just as my mysterious note-writing colleague, but as... God, this is going to sound ridiculous."

"Tell me."

"As someone I could fall for. Hard."

Magnus's wings flutter, then go completely still. "Really?"

"Really. The wings, the night schedule, the species difference—none of that matters as much as the way you see books, the way you pay attention to things, the way you made me feel less alone."

"I've never had anyone say that before."

"What, that they could fall for you?"

"That the things that make me different don't matter."

You turn your hand over so you're holding his properly, fingers intertwined. "They don't make you different in any way that matters. Different species date all the time."

Magnus looks down at your joined hands, then back at your face. "I... I think I'm already falling for you. Have been, since your first note back."

"Good," you say. "Because I think I'm already there."

The rain outside has intensified, drumming against the coffee shop windows. A few other afternoon customers come and go, but in your corner booth, it feels like you and Magnus exist in your own small world.

"So what happens now?" Magnus asks.

"Now we figure it out. The schedules, the logistics, all of it."

"And if people stare? If they think it's unusual for a human and a moth to be together?"

You squeeze his hand. "Then they think it's unusual. I've seen stranger couples around campus."

Magnus's wings flutter again, and this time you recognize it as happiness.

"There's something else I should probably mention," he says.

"What?"

"I've been thinking about requesting a schedule change. Maybe switching to evening shifts, so we'd have some overlap."

"You'd do that?"

"For this? For the possibility of this?" Magnus gestures between you. "Yes."

You lean forward across the small table, close enough to see the intricate patterns in his wing membranes, the way his dark eyes catch the coffee shop's warm lighting.

"Magnus?"

"Yes?"

"I'm still curious about what your wings feel like."

He's quiet for a moment, then extends one wing slightly toward you. "You can touch them, if you want."

You reach out carefully, letting your fingertips brush against the edge of his wing. The texture is indeed soft, like velvet or the finest suede, but with an underlying structure that speaks of strength and purpose.

"They're beautiful," you whisper.

"Even though they make me different?"

"Because they make you you."

Magnus closes his eyes for a moment, and you can see something shift in his posture. Relief, maybe. Or acceptance.

"I'd like to take you to dinner," he says when he opens his eyes. "Somewhere nicer than a coffee shop. Somewhere with proper lighting where I can see you better."

"I'd like that."

"And maybe... maybe you could come see my apartment sometime. I have a balcony. I could show you what the city looks like from above."

"Are you offering to take me flying?"

Magnus's entire expression brightens. "If you want. If you trust me."

You think about it—being lifted into three-dimensional space, seeing the world from a completely different perspective, held secure by someone who navigates by instinct and air current.

"Yes," you say. "I want that."

The rain is still falling when you both finally leave the coffee shop, but neither of you seems to mind getting a little wet. Magnus walks you to your car, his wing partially extended over both of you like a living umbrella.

"Same time next week?" he asks.

"Earlier," you say. "I'll stay late after my shift ends."

He grins, and again it transforms his whole face. "I'll bring more books."

"I'll bring more questions."

You're unlocking your car when Magnus says your name.

You turn back.

"Thank you," he says. "For seeing me. Really seeing me."

"Thank you for letting me."

You drive home through the rain thinking about margins and moths and the space between day and night shifts where something unexpected and beautiful has been growing. In your bag, the laminated marginalia feels like a promise—proof that two people can create something meaningful together, even when they work different hours.

That night, you don't dream about work or classes or any of the usual anxiety spirals that sometimes fill your sleep. You dream about flying, about seeing the city spread out below you like a constellation, held safe by someone whose wings span wider than your outstretched arms.

When you wake up the next morning, you're already planning what books to recommend to Magnus, what questions to ask, what observations to share. The library awaits, no longer just a job but full of possibility, full of connection, full of the promise of notes and books and someone who understands that the most important conversations happen in the margins, in the spaces between what's expected and what's possible.

You can hardly wait for your next shift to begin.

Two weeks pass in a blur of exchanged notes and anticipation. Magnus keeps his promise about dinner somewhere nicer than a coffee shop, choosing a small Italian restaurant with dim lighting and candles on the tables; atmospheric enough to feel romantic, but not so dark that you can't see each other clearly.

You arrive first, having spent an embarrassing amount of time choosing what to wear. You settled on a deep blue dress that brings out your eyes, and when Magnus walks in, the way his gaze lingers on you confirms it was the right choice.

He's dressed more formally too—a charcoal button-down that somehow accommodates his wings, dark slacks that make his long legs look even longer. His wings are held close to his back, but you can see the subtle shimmer of their patterns in the candlelight.

"You look beautiful," he says as he sits across from you, and there's something different in his voice. Less careful, more certain.

"So do you." The words come out before you can second-guess them, and you're rewarded with his incredible smile.

Dinner unfolds like the best kind of conversation—easy, meandering, full of discoveries. Magnus tells you about learning to fly as a child, about the feeling of catching thermals and riding air currents. You tell him about your graduate thesis on marginalized voices in literature, and he makes connections to books you haven't even thought to read yet.

"Can I ask you something that might be forward?" you say over dessert—tiramisu that you're sharing because neither of you could choose between it and the panna cotta.

"Please do."

"Earlier, when you mentioned taking me flying... were you serious?"

Magnus sets down his spoon, and his wings flutter slightly—that telltale sign of nervousness you've learned to recognize. "Completely serious. But only if you want to. I know it's not... it's not something most humans experience."

"I want to," you say without hesitation. "I've been thinking about it since you mentioned it."

"Tonight?" The question comes out soft, almost hesitant.

You check your watch. It's barely eight-thirty, and tomorrow is Saturday. "Tonight."

Magnus pays the check—refusing to let you split it despite your protests—and leads you outside. The evening is clear and cool, with just enough breeze to make you glad you brought a sweater.

"There's a park about two blocks from here," Magnus says. "More privacy, and enough open space to take off safely."

Walking beside him, you notice how his wings move differently when he's anticipating flight—more restless, more alive. There's an energy building in him that makes your pulse quicken.

The park is mostly empty, just a few joggers on the distant paths. Magnus leads you to a wide, grassy area surrounded by trees, far enough from the streetlights that you're wrapped in gentle darkness.

"Are you sure about this?" he asks, turning to face you.

Instead of answering with words, you step closer to him. Close enough that you can see the intricate patterns on his wings in detail, close enough that you catch his subtle scent—something warm and slightly woodsy, like cedar and old books.

"I'm sure," you say.

Magnus reaches for you carefully, one arm around your waist, the other supporting your back. "Hold on to me. And trust me."

You wrap your arms around his neck, feeling the solid warmth of his shoulders, the slight flutter of anticipation in his wings. "I do trust you."

For a moment, you're both still, standing in the grass with your bodies pressed together. Then Magnus's wings begin to move.

The first few beats are powerful, deliberate, lifting you both off the ground. Your stomach drops in the most exhilarating way, and then you're rising, the earth falling away beneath you. Magnus's arms tighten around you, secure and sure.

"Oh my god," you breathe, watching the park shrink below you.

"Are you okay?" Magnus's voice is close to your ear, warm breath against your skin.

"I'm perfect."

And you are. The fear you expected never comes. Instead, there's pure wonder as Magnus carries you higher, his wings beating in a rhythm that feels almost like music. The city spreads out beneath you, lights twinkling like earthbound stars, everything familiar made magical by perspective.

Magnus banks gently to the left, and you can feel how he reads the air currents, how he adjusts his wing angle to catch a thermal that lifts you both higher with less effort. It's like watching a master craftsman at work, except the craft is flight itself.

"There," Magnus says, gesturing with a subtle nod toward the university campus. "That's our library."

You can see it from this angle—the Gothic towers and tall windows that you've looked out of so many times, now lit from within like a beacon. From up here, it looks like something out of a fairy tale.

"It's beautiful," you say, but you're not just talking about the view.

Magnus seems to understand. He adjusts his flight pattern, gliding in wide, lazy circles that let you both take in the panorama without the urgency of going anywhere specific. This isn't about destination—it's about the experience of being airborne together, of sharing something that's fundamentally part of who he is.

"Thank you," you say after they've been flying for maybe ten minutes.

"For what?"

"For showing me this. For trusting me with it."

Magnus's wing beats slow, and you realize he's beginning to descend. The ground approaches gradually, gently, until you're both standing in the grass again. But he doesn't let go of you immediately, and you don't step back.

"Thank you for wanting to see it," he says. "I've never... I've never shared flying with someone before."

You're standing so close now that you can count his eyelashes in the dim light. His wings are still partially extended, creating a sense of shelter around you both.

"Magnus," you say softly.

"Yes?"

"I really want to kiss you right now."

His smile is slow and sure. "I was hoping you'd say that."

When he leans down to meet you, it feels like the natural conclusion to everything that's been building between you—months of notes and books and careful conversations, coffee dates and the leap of faith that brought you into the sky together.

His lips are soft, gentle at first, then more certain as you respond. One of his hands comes up to cup your face, thumb brushing across your cheekbone, while the other arm keeps you close against him. His wings curve forward slightly, not quite embracing you but creating a sense of intimacy, of being wrapped in his presence.

You can taste the sweetness of tiramisu on his lips, can feel the slight flutter of his wings that might be nervousness or excitement or both. When you break apart, neither of you moves away.

"That was..." you start.

"Worth waiting for," Magnus finishes.

You laugh softly. "I was going to say perfect, but that works too."

"Both," he says, resting his forehead against yours. "Definitely both."

Standing there in the park, held in the circle of his arms with his wings creating a private world around you, you think about margins again. About the spaces between day and night, between human and moth, between the careful friendship you built through notes and whatever this is becoming.

"So," you say after a moment. "What happens now?"

Magnus's wings flutter contentedly. "Now we figure out the rest as we go. Together."

"I like the sound of that."

He kisses you again, softer this time, almost reverent. When you part, he takes your hand and begins walking back toward the park entrance, his wings folded but still moving slightly in that way you've learned means happiness.

"One more thing," you say as you reach the sidewalk.

"What's that?"

"Next time you take me flying, I want to see the sunrise from up there."

Magnus stops walking and looks at you with such wonder that it takes your breath away.

"Next time," he says, and the promise in those words feels like the beginning of everything.

----*----

He eyed you. “You know that already.” he said this, adding on your name at the end. 

You lived across the hall from him. It was commonplace to receive some of his mail. That’s where the crush began. “Yeah well, nervous,” you chuckled, worried you had been caught.

He nodded, seemingly keeping his eyes down. 

“I’ve never been trapped in an elevator before,” you said, trying to start off the conversation. “I’ve always heard stories though!”

“Well, let’s hope this is the last time.” Lew pulled out his phone, tapping a few times at the screen before glowering at it.

You had never seen Lew smile, not once. Everytime you returned his mail or greeted him in the hallway he had such a sour, sour, angry expression. Which, for a big guy like him, wasn’t exactly doing any favors. 

“Is there service?” You asked, hopefully.

“No,” he grunted. “Tower must be down too.” He shoved his phone back into his pocket then slid down to the ground. “Might as well start the waiting game.”

You remained standing. You were wearing a sundress after all, and the elevator floor didn’t seem like a hospitable place to sit. 

“I wonder what happened,” you murmured, unable to stay silent for very long. “For the whole city to lose power. Do you think something bad happened?”

He sniffed. “The grid here is old as shit. One dog pissing on the wrong electric socket could knock this city out.”

You furrowed your brow. “Must be a very hydrated dog to do that.”

Lew scoffed, keeping his eyes down. He had tattoos on his arm, and his hair was put into a sloppy ponytail.

“What is there’s a kaiju attacking the city?” You said your daydreams out loud.

Lew brow creased deeper.

You moved your hands as you began telling the story. “Something is ravaging through the city, knocking down power lines and infrastructure. It started with the cell phone tower, ripping it out of the ground like a proverbial carrot!”

“Kaiju?” Lew scoffed.

“Yeah! Like Godzilla or Clifford.”

He finally looked up from the ground at you. “Clifford? The big red dog?”

“What?”

“He’s not a kaiju!” Lew scoffed. “He’s from a kid’s book.”

You turned to face him more. “He has all the qualifications of a kaiju. Just because he hasn’t destroyed Tokyo or something doesn’t mean he’s not.”

Lew shook his hand and scowled. “Then by that standard so is Barny.”

“No! Barny is a dinosaur, there’s a huge difference,” you scoffed, shaking your head. “Besides, Barny isn’t even massive like a dinosaur. That disqualifies him.”

Lew huffed, turning away again. “A kaiju attack doesn’t even make sense. Those things don’t exist so that’s not even in the running of what’s happening.”

You leaned back against the wall. “Maybe it’s a huge natural disaster. Like a sudden blizzard has frozen the whole town over.”

“Are you crazy?”

“I’m just trying to pass time and not overthink the situation.” You snap your hands to your waist. “What are you going to do?”

Lew rolled his eyes.

“That’s what I thought.” You huffed and pouted. “Man, I was really looking forward to this hair appointment.”

“No one is getting their hair done now.”

You frowned, of course no one was. He’s so grumpy! You look away and fiddle with the rings on your fingers.

More silence passed and then Lew sighed. “Why don’t you sit down?”

You wiggled your hips to show off the skirt of your dress. “I don’t have anything to sit on.”

Lew clicked his tongue. “Well, that makes better sense than Clifford being a kaiju.”

“You still thinking about that?” You snickered.

He sat up, grabbed the bottom of his shirt and pulling it up over his head. He then tossed it towards you. “There. Sit on that.”

Stunned was the start of covering your feelings in that moment. “You don’t have to take your shirt off!”

“I ain’t going anywhere once we get out of here. No point in it. I’ll just be heading back home.”

“Not that!” You smoothed his shirt out on the ground, still accepting his offer. “I mean…don’t you feel exposed?”

“I was gonna take it off anyways.”

You furrowed your brow at him.

“At the gym! I was going to the gym.” He huffed, crossing his arms against his impressive chest. 

“Thank you.” You said, trying to keep from staring. 

He grunted in response.

You sat there, looking around, getting a bit bothered by the red light. “Feels like a horror movie.”

“Yeah, I was noticing that too,” he sighed.

“Were you going to work out?” You asked.

He sniffed, looking as if he was contemplating even asking. “I work there. My family owns the place so I occasionally teach classes and stuff.”

“What do you teach?” You asked a bit excitedly.

Lew cut his eyes at you. “Well, uh…this and that.” he sounded unsure.

“Weight lifting?” You asked, hoping to open him up.

“Kind of? He rubbed the back of his head. “What were you going to get done to your hair?”

“Oh, just getting it tended to. Ends trimmed, fancy wash, scalp massage.” You touched the natural curls which were tied up in two big puffs. “More like a spa day than anything.”

He nodded. “I never know what to do with mine.”

That was obvious, it looked like he even struggled to put it into a ponytail.

“It would look good in a braid,” you offered. “As long as it is. Plus it would keep it out of your face.”

Lew glanced away, a grumpy pout on his face. “If I knew how.”

“I can do it!” You sat up onto your knees. “Come over here.”

He lurched, jerking away from your hands. His expression was wide and shocked, arm held up in defense. “It’s okay. I mean, here?”

You pulled your hands back to your chest. “What else are we going to do?” 

Lew scoffed, rubbing the back of his neck. “Sorry. I’m not one for being touched.”

“Oh, then I’m sorry. I just figured, you know, being stuck in here, we should do something.” You settled back down upon his shirt and tugged your skirt over your thighs. 

It was quiet again. Nothing but the glow of the red emergency light to give the elevator any sign of life.

“Getting your hair done for a date?”

You looked back at Lew. “Oh uh…no!” You fidgeted with your skirt. “Just getting it done because it needs it. I can’t remember the last time I had a date.”

Lew sniffed. “Yeah, same.” He rubbed the back of his neck then down to his shoulder. “Hard out there to find someone.”

“It is,” you chuckled along nervously. You were there. Right there. You could date him and he wouldn’t have to worry! You quieted your mind then. “I’ve just been reading romance books.”

He chuckled.

“They’re good!” You huffed then shuffled through your bag. You produced the paperback from inside. “Here. Try it.”

Lew arched his brow, smirking as he took in the cover. “The Orc’s Forbidden love?”

You frowned, wondering if you had revealed too much. “It’s a good book! Just because it’s romance doesn’t mean it’s corny or anything.”

Smirking, he took the book and looked it over. He opened it to a random page. “He took his large cock, placing it against the belly of his princess just to show her how deep she would be taking him. ‘I’ve never taken a cock like yours, sir.’ The princess mewled. ‘Well then love, just think of it as the only cock you’ll have from now on.’ The knight growled hungrily.” He was starting to laugh as he read.

“Oh sure! Open it to a sex scene and it’s weird.” You pouted.

“No. No. I get why you’d like these books.” His eyes darted on the page as he continued to smirk. “Since when are you going to find a guy who worries about making you cum over himself?”

“You don’t?” You huffed.

Lew closed the book. “I didn’t say that.”

You frowned, looking away. “I don’t just read it for the smut, you know? It has a really good plot and deep characters.”

“Sure.” Lew said teasingly. 

“Like you don’t watch porn or hentai?” You snapped at him.

He couldn’t hold back anymore and he burst out laughing. “Look, I ain’t arguing shit like that.”

“Then what?”

Lew was trying to regain his composure. “You’re cute when you pout.”

The regular light came on and the elevator started moving, going back up the way you came.

“Hey now!” Lew stood up from the ground. 

You were still stunned by what he said. 

“Guess we’ll see what’s happening in the world out there.” Lew huffed, shoving his hands into his pockets.

You stood, picking up his shirt. “Thanks.”

“No problem.” Lew took it, shaking it.

As the elevator doors opened you both walked into your familiar hallway, which was strangely cold. You both walked to the end of the hallway, where there was a window looking outside. Everything looked oddly normal.

“That’s disappointing,” he hummed. He started back towards his apartment, and you knew you had to jump.

“Would you like something to drink?” You blurted.

Lew looked back at you from his door. “Like what?”

You opened your mouth to offer coffee or tea and the power went out again. Lew cussed and you sort of gave up.

“I have a solar generator in my apartment,” Lew offered. “We can hook up a coffee pot or something to it. I’ll go hunt it down.”

A while later, Lew had the generator in your window with an extension cord to the coffee pot. You had candles lit and the ambiance couldn’t have been more enticing.

“At least we ain’t in the elevator,” Lew huffed, sipping his coffee.

You had changed into some comfy shorts and t-shirt. “Agreed.”

“Good coffee.”

“Thanks. My sister sent it to me.” You smiled at him, his visage illuminated by candlelight, making him appear all the more romantic. “Would you consider this a date?”

Lew choked and nearly spewed out his coffee. He gave you a look, somewhere between agitated and surprised.

You just smiled. 

“A date? What are you-” he wiped at his mouth. “I don’t…listen here!”

“What else can we do with the power out?” You purred suggestively. 

He was still flustered, his expression fluctuating between his usual angry pout and nervousness. “I don’t…you are…yes you’re cute but I’m not-” He then snarled, barring his teeth to you. “You want a date? Is that it?”

You nodded, smirking over your coffee cup. “I’ve had a crush for a long time. I figured it was now or never.”

“Well then,” he breathed. “Let me show you one of my regular dates. Set your coffee cup down.”

You did so.

He yanked your ankle, pulling you up fully onto the sofa. “I had a feeling why you put this shorts on.” He growled, yanking them down. “Showing off those sexy legs of yours.”

“This is how you date?” You squealed, trying to play shy despite the excitement.

“I’m not touchy feely. But I can show a beautiful body my appreciation.” He tossed your shorts aside then knelt down, kissing up your legs to your thighs.

Your breath caught in your chest. “I thought you didn’t like being touched?”

“I don’t,” he growled. “But I don’t mind touching.”

You bit your lip, watching his head go up further between your plump thighs. “And this sort of touching?”

He chuckled, biting your inner thigh. “It’s my favorite.” His lips kissed your mound, followed by his tongue.

“Oh!” You gasped.

Lew chuckled against you, lifting up your legs as he went deeper with his tongue. It was warm and strong, finding folds to part then kissing your clit.

“You know what you’re doing,” you panted. “I see why your dates are-” Your voice cut off as he suckled your clit.

He lapped and moaned against you. You were gasping for breath, almost shivering. His mouth was skilled, but what about the rest of him?

Lew sat up, licking his tusks then wiping his mouth. “So, what do you think?”

You grunted in reply.

He laughed, taking off his shirt then unbuttoning his jeans. “Well then, princess, let me show you what else you can expect.” He pulled his cock out from inside his pants and laid it upon your soft belly. He smirked at you, waiting for your response.

Your eyes flicked up to him. “Teasing me?”

He chuckled. “I will say this, that book of yours inspired me.” He licked his tusk again. “I always liked it when you came to give me my mail.”

You held your breath for a moment as he moved his hips. 

“Especially in shorts.” He moaned as he pushed the tip of his cock at your folds. “Your beautiful skin. Soft-” he was breathing hard now. “Beautiful pussy,” he growled. “Condoms?”

You shook your head. “Birth control.”

“You sure,” he sounded desperate. 

“Should I not be?”

Lew chuckled. “Just making sure, princess. Now, let’s continue.”

You closed your eyes, waiting until he pushed. It was just the tip, then the shaft. You gasped as he stretched you, opened you up.

“Fuck,” Lew growled.

You let out a whimper, not because anything was wrong, but because of how good it was. It took your breath away, fulfilled a deep ache.

“Shit, princess.” He was breathless. “You’re so fucking wet.”

“Yeah?” You asked coyly. You caught his big grin as you opened your eyes.

“Yeah.” He surged deeper inside you. “It’s a good thing, princess.” He slowly began pulling out, teasing you, tempting you. He pushed back in suddenly, making you gasp. He did this again, picking up pace. Again and again, slow and sudden, a little faster each time. He was then thrusting deep inside you, harder, harder.

“That’s it princess,” he snarled. “Take me. Good girl.”

You covered your face, trying to hide your pleasure at being called a good girl. He snatched your hands away.

“No. I’m going to look at you. At everything.” He leaned over you, kissing you, pinning your hands above your head. 

You later found yourself bent over the kitchen counter as Lew drove in from behind you. Wetness seeped down your thighs, the harder he went, the more of a mess he made you. He was snarling and grunting, thrusting deep inside you.

“That’s it, yes. Oh fuck. Oh fuck!” Lew was growling.

That spark ignited inside you, your toes curled as they hung int he air. You moaned loudly, gasping, your body riveted by what was fast approaching. It was encompasisng you, inside and out, tingling from your core outward until it crackled and popped along each strand of hair.

“Cum on my dick,” he growled. “Cum for me! Cum on me!” He went harder, arching his hips and striking that spot over and over and-

Explosion. Eruption. That spark turned into a volcano that had you overflowing, pulsing, burning.

Lew pulled out his cock, moaning, heaving as he stroked and released upon your ass, your thighs. You had wished he had stayed inside, but there was time for all that.

You were both heaving, panting. Lew came and leaned against the counter, sweat dripping off his brow.

“Not how I expected today to go,” he sighed, wiping his hair back away from his face.

“Not at all,” you moaned. Your feet touched the ground and your legs were jelly. “You always hope for a good orgasm though.”

Lew scoffed in agreement. “Sorry if I was forward. I uh…well. I get nervous.”

“That was nervous?” You giggled as you stood up.

He shook his head. “It’s easier too…you know, fuck than show emotion.” He rubbed the back of his neck.

“I’m not complaining. But eventually I’d like some emotion.” You reached out to touch him but stopped. “Can I kiss you?”

He took your hand, placing it on his chest where his heart was beating wildly. He leaned down, taking your offered kiss and giving more in return.

The power flickered back on.

“Shower?” You offered.

After a bath, you and Lew both returned to the kitchen, naked and snacking on some cheese and crackers.

“I wonder what made the power go out?” You blew out candles.

“I’d like to thank it, whatever it was,” Lew chuckled, looking smug.

You scoffed. “I’m sure you would.” You returned to the kitchen, taking a piece of cheese from his hand to eat. “What’re you doing tomorrow?”

“You, hopefully.”

You gave him as mirk. “I think you should take me out to dinner first. And fancy dessert after.”

Lew frowned. “What’s fancy dessert?”

You winked at him. “To thank me for today. Obviously.” You watched his pout become shy and unsure. “You do want to thank me, right?”

“Of course,” he growled. “I just wasn’t sure what a fancy dessert entailed.” He cleared his throat. “I’ll make plans I guess.”

“You guess?”

Lew frowned, his cheeks turning a dark shade of green. “Look, give me some time here. I’m not all mushy.”

Yeah… maybe that kind of class wasn’t your jam, but you were decided to be a good neighbor… and maybe you just liked watching him walking around and smiling at people. He was just so freaking sweet and you wanted nothing more than to kiss the stupid grin off his face. But you couldn’t do that, so instead you lurked in the gym and kept going to the awful classes that were starting to make your days a lot harder because of how sore you always were.

And when you are just exiting one of the hellish class where every monster seems fitter than you, you find him. He looks as good as ever with his tight clothes and big smile, and your brain short-circuits for a second.

“Hey! How is it going, neighbor?” His sweet strawberry cheeks are back again and you have to squeeze your fists not to coo at him.

“Not going to lie, not a big fan of the classes. I think I’m not fit enough to follow them,” you tell him with a depreciating chuckle at the end. He frowns, instantly worried like the sweetheart he is.

“Oh, that’s too bad… But maybe another kind of class? I was going to suggest you joining my self-defense class if you are up for it.” He seems weirdly shy about it and you want to grab his weird tentacle-hair and pull down until you can kiss him senseless.

But because that wouldn’t be acceptable, you just answer a quick: “Oh! Yeah, I’d like to try that.” The smile he sends your way is enough to make your panties damp.

And that’s how you find yourself on your back, with a big as a tower alien pressing you down into the ground as he explains something out loud that you are not processing because your ears are ringing and your clit is pulsating at the same tempo as your heart. You can’t take your eyes away from him.

He asked you to volunteer, and you were more than happy to let him manhandle you from one side to the other as you acted as you were trying to break free. But in reality you were almost edging yourself at that point. You were enjoying his touch and the warmth of his body way too much, but nobody could stop you, could they?

With every change of movement, your body jiggles and he caresses absentmindedly your sides, explaining everything to the rest of the class as you completely miss everything. But you don’t care, you never spent such a good time in a gym before.

And when the class ends, he grabs your wrist softly. “Hey, can you stay a few more minutes? I think you need some adjustments to your position and it would be easier if I taught you myself. Is that okay?”

“Yeah, sure!” You try not to show your nerves because sure as hell you know nothing about positions or adjustments or anything relating personal defense.

He directs you back to the mat and manhandles you once again until you are in front of him and he’s showing you how to turn around and kick your attacker. “So your posture was a bit off, you need to throw your weight more to your hip and then twist and… OH, FUCK!” You hit him in his alien balls.

With your knee.

Full force.

He falls to the ground cradling his jewels as you stare in disbelief for a couple of seconds before reacting. “I’m so sorry. Oh my goddess. I’m sorry. I’m sorry. What can I do? Oh goddess…” You are panicking as he squirms on the floor and holds his balls with both hands, face contorted in pain. “What can I do? How do I help? Do you want some ice?” You kneel next to him, hands hovering over his body.

“No. Ugh, fuck. No. It’s okay.” He tries to sit up and falls back, breathing hard still. “I’m okay,” he repeats. He looks too pale and the veins in his neck look about to pop. He’s definitely not well.

“You don’t look okay,” you tell him, fussing over him without touching, not really knowing what to do. You just kicked your chance with your neighbor… Could your luck be any worse? You knew signing up for the gym was a bad idea. Nothing good comes from sports.

He stares at you for a couple more seconds, obvious to your inner turmoil, and then he deadpans: “You could kiss it better.”

You gasp, staring down at him with eyes big as plates. “What?” Does that mean he wants you to suck his dick? I mean, you could… You even wanted to. But it’s a bit forward to just ask you like that, wasn’t it? He doesn’t seem like that kind of alien.

He realizes a tad too late what you thought he said. “I- I mean the mouth! My mouth! Fuck, I’m messing it up, aren’t I?” He cups his face with his hands and groans in embarrassment, his whole body getting a sweet strawberry color indicating how flustered he is. You find it so adorable you can’t stop grinning, to the point your cheeks hurt.

You softly pull his hands away, cupping his cheeks and leaning over his too big frame. “Are you asking me for a kiss?” You ask with a smirk that you hope he understands as a hell yeah.

“Ye- yes,” he stutters, his eyes traveling from your eyes to your lips.

You smile once again before leaning down and softly kissing his alien lips. He whimpers lightly and you can’t do anything but to deepen the kiss. He lets out a choked groan, and then you feel his hands grabbing fistfuls of your hair as he angles your head just right to devour your mouth.

You make your like teenagers for a while, him on his back and you leaning over him, still on your knees. At some point he pushes his upper body up and your back hits the mat with a soft thud. He’s over you without breaking the kiss, completely consuming your mouth as his long tongue explores yours. This time you are the one moaning as your hands grab his hair, desperate to get him as close as possible.

When you broke apart, your breath mixes in the space between your lips as he rests his forehead against yours. “So this was all a plot to get me to kiss you?” You whisper, your grin enormous.

“Ye- No!” He stutters, looking flustered again. “I just wanted to get you alone so I could ask you on a date,” he mumbles in a soft voice, a tiny smile playing at the edge of his mouth, showing his fangs and making him look dangerous in the most adorable way.

“You are adorable,” you let out as you trace the blush on his cheeks.

“Is that a yes? To a date. A yes to a date?” He stutters as you smile at him fully. He’s looking really flustered again, and you are barely holding yourself back from kissing him once more.

Fuck, you’re getting aroused again. He sniffs, looking down at you with a renewed interest. “You like this, baby? You like having my knot in your sweet mouth?” You moan around him, and he grunts, rolling his hips and releasing down your throat again. “Fuck, that’s so good. You are so good.”

You moan around him, and without thinking, you start sucking around him slowly. The moan that leaves his mouth is nothing but whorish and it makes your pussy clench. You reach down and start rubbing your clit over your panties, probably making a mess but not caring about it. You can’t do much, you can’t move, and he can’t do anything aside from moan and hold on tightly to your hair. Fuck… this is the most erotic experience of your life.

You rub harder and he praises you, your brain short-circuiting as you start to roll your hips on your hand. “Fuck that pretty pussy for me, get it wet and ready for me. Once I’m done with your mouth I’m going to knot your pussy, and you’re going to take it like a good whore, right, baby?”

You can’t nod, but you suck around him, pulling your panties to the side and pushing two fingers inside yourself. You ride your hand as best as you can as he pulls at your hair, still coming down your throat. Your jaw hurts, and your knees start to ache, but fuck, you’re so close…

“Come for me, baby. Come with my knot in your mouth like a good little whore,” he whispers. Fuck if it doesn’t make your brain go completely fuzzy as you do exactly that. You can’t scream, but you moan around him, sucking absently as you ride your orgasm out.

You can see his tail wagging behind him as he moans again, another shot of his come spurting down your throat as his dick throbs inside your mouth. You know what that means, that means it feels so good his knot’s going to stay big for a while longer. You sit back on your heels and try to get comfortable, feeling sleepy after your own orgasm.

So you stay like that, accidentally cock-warming him and his big knot as he keeps filling your tummy with shot after shot of come. Your brain starts to turn fuzzy, your eyes half closed as he caresses your hair. You enter such a trance of a state that when he pulls out you barely know where you are.