Like a Moth to a Flame- Pt. 2
It’s been way too long since I’ve been motivated to work on this piece. But at last… at long last… part two is ready for takeoff! Once again I thank/blame @miscellaneous-bnha for inspiring this piece of monster fuckery (even though there’s no fuckery in this story… yet).
Enjoy!
Part 1
•••••
You become more distracted and nervous than usual over the next week or so. The slightest sound nearly makes you jump out of your skin and you keep making careless mistakes at work. Even your boss checks in with you to make sure you aren’t sick or losing your grip on reality. You assure him everything is fine and blame your poor performance and skittish nature on a made-up relative’s failing health. In truth, you can’t go for more than a few minutes without thinking about the blonde beast, his beautiful yet terrifying presence seeming to loom over you wherever you go. But you don’t dare tell any of your friends or coworkers about what you saw.
Who would believe you? At best, they’d think you were telling a bad joke and at worst they’d try to cart you off to the nearest mental hospital. So you keep your thoughts private, suffering in silence and staying up late to research who or what you saw that night.
And it's during one of your late-night Internet searches that you stumble across a forum dedicated to winged, humanoid creatures known as “mothmen.” 
While the stories mainly originate from the Eastern United States, there have also been purported sightings as far as Japan. And though details may have varied slightly, the key features of the monsters always remain the same: massive height, glowing eyes, and of course the moth-like wings. You’d spent hours poring over your laptop that night, reading the information and accounts posted by other “mothman survivors.” Some stories were rather nice. One woman claimed the mothman she encountered was gentle, bordering on intelligent. She wrote about the gifts and trinkets it brought from time to time and it’s attempts at communication. But the majority were horrifying, with several people posting tales of the beasts attacking without provocation, leaving them injured and afraid. Someone even posted a picture of the deeply scarred claw marks on his chest and arms, claiming them to be the work of a particularly savage mothman. Regardless of their validity, one thing was for sure: the mothmen were unpredictable.
By the end of the second week, you’ve grown so desperate to stop the near constant waking nightmares that you decide to take a proactive approach to the matter. It’s a simple plan: set a trap, wait for the monster to reappear, and collect photo evidence. Even if it’s only to soothe your own self-doubts, you need to have definitive proof of its– of his existence.
On Friday night, you come home late from work, so late the sun has just barely set over the horizon. After a hot shower and a quick meal of instant noodles, you grab a shallow bowl from the cupboard and fill it with lukewarm water. One of the contributors to the website claimed that mothmen like sugar water, much like the insects they resemble. Another had proposed they might even enjoy the taste of cloth or fiber, but you weren’t about to sacrifice one of your favorite sweaters on a wild hunch.
You spoon in a generous amount of sugar into the bowl, mixing well to create a saccharine slurry before heading for the farthest living room window. Unlike the one you’d spotted the mothman from, this one is partially obscured by a rickety fire escape, the metal encrusted with decades worth of rust and snaking up the side of the building. Opening the window and leaning out of it, you place the dish of bait on one of the steps before hauling yourself back inside. You shut the window and settle yourself on the couch, a blanket and book in your lap and your phone’s camera at the ready. Hours tick by, the waning moon slowly creeping by in the night sky as you hold your silent vigil. As you wait in suffocating silence, you start to feel foolish and begin to think your “mothman” might have been nothing more than a product of an overactive imagination and one too many late nights in the office. Even with all your research, all you had to go by was a few wild stories posted by Internet strangers and a missing frying pan. You finally nod off around two in the morning, unable to keep your heavy eyelids open.
•••
WHAM!
A noise from outside jolts you awake from your spot on the couch, followed by the sound of creaking, groaning metal. The whole apartment seems to shake and an unearthly screech accompanies the final creak as you hear the fire escape give way before clattering into the alleyway. Other tenants on all floors start opening their windows and doors, shouting and swearing about the noise and the landlord “not keeping this shithole up to code.” It’s utter chaos for a few minutes and then silence falls once more, your neighbors still grumbling as they retreat back into their homes. You scramble off the couch and to the window, gazing into the alley for any sign of life. The moon isn’t as bright as last time, but you can just barely make out the mangled remains of the fire escape and the faintest glimpse of gold. Throwing caution to the wind, you grab a well-worn hoodie, your phone, and the kitchen knife. You make your way down the three flights of stairs to the alley door, opening it cautiously should you encounter an angry cryptid on the other side. But there’s no one there, so you take a deep breath and head out into the apocalyptic looking alley. Metal is strewn everywhere, with part of the railing still clinging to the side of the building like a deranged centipede. Snapped metal bars jut out at odd angles, creating a maze of twisted, rusty spikes and sharp edges. You slowly pick your way over and around the wreckage, using your phone’s flashlight as a guide so you don’t end up tripping and accidentally impaling yourself.
“Hello?” You call into the darkness, “Mothman? A-are you there?”
Your call is rewarded with a shuddering groan and the sounds of scraping metal. You shine your light on the biggest tangle of steel, watching as something large moves underneath it. The pile of metal shifts upwards and falls away, while a large, dark figure rises from the shadows. They’re silhouetted against the dim moonlight but just as intimidating as before, hunching over as the appendages on their back shake and rustle. You turn the flashlight on and find yourself looking into a familiar pair of glassy, blue eyes. The mothman stares back at you, folding his wings against his back and cocking his handsome head from side to side.
“You- you’re real.” You breathe, feeling your heart jump into your throat as you surreptitiously pull up your phone’s camera. The monster chitters in response as he sniffs at the air, stepping over a piece of rusted debris to get closer to you. You quickly snap and picture... and the alley is suddenly lit up with blinding light.
You’d forgotten to turn off the flash!
The mothman blinks in response and lets out a groan, shaking his head and squeezing his eyes shut. You drop your phone and crouch down, knife forgotten as you cover your head with your hands and prepare for him to lash out. But no claws come to tear at your flesh nor are there any angry roars or shrieks. Instead the beast starts to emit low, rumbling noise, like a growl but far less sinister. You hear metal being dragged across the concrete followed by the sound of heavy footfalls. You cautiously open one eye to see a pair of clawed feet and muscular calves, only to squeak in alarm when his face abruptly appears in your field of vision. You fall backwards in surprise, landing heavily on your rump while the mothman squats mere inches from you. His eyes are fixed on the ground, gently running his nails over the now cracked screen of your upturned phone. Even in the dim lighting you can see his curious, wide-eyed expression and it suddenly dawns on you what that noise he’s making is: he’s purring. Or near enough to it.
“W-What do you want?”
The monster looks up when you speak, cocking his head slightly before turning back to paw at the phone once more. He’s more insistent this time, his swipes becoming bolder as the phone scratches across the concrete. He gives the device a few well-placed taps before making eye contact once more, his brow furrowed as he briefly switches from purring to a chittering cry. With a gulp, you gingerly set down the blade, reach across your body and flip the phone over, the still lit flashlight illuminating the alley once more. The beast’s eye’s blow even wider, enchanted by the light shining upwards into the starry sky. You sit in silence for a few seconds, the only sounds are your heavy breathing and the guttural purrs coming from the mesmerized mothman. As your heart rate slows, you begin to notice more intimate details about the creature before you.
For one, his wings are covered in the same fur that rings his neck and, though it’s shorter and more fine, they look just as soft.
Second, he’s incredibly warm. A steady heat rolls off his body in waves that seem a stark contrast to what one might expect from a bug-centric cryptid.
But most noticeable of all is his smell.
It’s not a bad smell by any means; in fact, it’s downright pleasant. The odor is a cross between lemonade and petrichor, a soothing blend of sweet citrus and earthy musk. You find yourself unconsciously breathing more through your nose, feeling lightheaded as his scent floods your senses and making you relax into the cold pavement. As your eyes lazily drift over his naked form you see he’s holding something in his other hand, protectively clutching it against his chest. You tilt your head to get a better view, the subtle movement getting the monster’s attention and causing him to drag his eyes away from the light and focus on you again.
“What’s that?” You ask softly, almost dreamily, and point to his chest. The mothman’s eyes follow your finger down to his right hand, pulling it away to reveal your (still remarkably intact) bowl. It’s largely empty of its contents, but some of the sugar water has stuck to his fur and cooled into sweet, matted clumps. He squeaks at the sight of it, almost like he’d forgotten about the bait and dives into it to eagerly lap at the ceramic bottom. When it fails to yield anything substantial he huffs and turns his attention to his dirtied mane. He dips his head as a long, pink tongue slithers out of his mouth and curls around the largest tangle, laving over the sugar-crusted mat before quickly retreating. He chitters in satisfaction at the taste, barely glancing up at you before diving back down for more.
“So you do like sugar.” You mutter under your breath, a small chuckle bubbling up in your chest on the exhale. The mothman pays you no mind, too engrossed in his work to notice how you shift your body into a more comfortable sitting position to watch. After a few minutes, the creature stops licking at himself and looks back up at you, eyes still wide and expression almost curious as he cocks his head to the side once more. Tentatively shifting his weight forward, he extends the empty bowl to you.
“I don’t have any more.” You whisper softly, confused yet intrigued by his gentle actions. The mothman grunts and takes another shuffling step, hand still outstretched and his brow softly furrowing. He seems insistent, almost annoyed that you won’t accept his generous offer. Not wanting to anger him, you gingerly extend your own right hand, pinching the rim of the bowl between thumb and forefinger before carefully pulling it from his grip. Holding the bowl against your own chest, you take a stab at what he wants from you and raise the ceramic dish to your lips to give a noisy, pretend slurp. You feel like an adult humoring a child in a game of “tea party,” offering him a cheesy smile and an “mmm” of satisfaction as you pull the empty bowl away from your face. The creature’s own face splits in a too-wide grin, wings flapping excitedly and chittering happily at your display. A quiet gasp is ripped from you throat as you finally get a good look at his teeth.
They’re practically perfect; two rows of pearly white, blunted incisors frames by sharpened, too-long canines on either end. And the smile he’s giving you is nothing short of exuberant, beaming like a drop of sunshine made incarnate. You find yourself returning his smile with a genuine one of your own, amazingly unafraid in the face of this otherwise inhuman beast. But your relief is short-lived as the monster suddenly shifts onto his knees and bounds towards you on all fours.
“Woah, woah, woah!” You squeak, scrabbling backwards and nearly skewering yourself on a jagged piece of wreckage in an attempt to get away. “Take it easy! Down, boy!”
The mothman stops with his face mere inches from yours, clawed hands planted on either side of your hips and still grinning from ear to ear. Carefully, he lowers his golden head to rest against your left shoulder, nuzzling into the sensitive flesh and purring softly in your ear. It’s an act of unbelievable tenderness, of affection, and it stirs something deep within your jackhammering heart. Moving slowly so as to not startle him, you relinquish your hold on the empty bowl and raise your right hand to his head, gently placing it against his temple. At the feeling of your fingers in his hair, the creature freezes for a second and you suck in a quick breath, prepared to pay the price for your boldness. But simply leans further into your touch, closing his eyes contentedly and pushing against your palm like an obedient pet as his purring reaches a fever pitch.
“Good… good boy.” You exhale slowly, thumb brushing across the apple of his surprisingly warm cheek. “That’s a good boy.”
You stay locked together for what feels like ages, the only sounds your own heavy breathing and the monster’s soft purrs of pleasure as you stroke him. Finally you finds your voice again and you softly stammer out, “Do you– do you have a name?”
His eyes open slightly at your question, briefly raising his head with a small chirp. Removing your hand from his face, you splay your palm across your chest and give it two quick pats.
“Y/N.” You say slowly, enunciating each syllable, “I’m Y/N.”
The creature cocks his head for a second and pulls away from you to get into a kneeling position. You pat your chest and repeat yourself once more. The mothman then takes one of his own massive paws and places it on his own chest, mirroring your movements.
“M-Mir…” He chokes out, voice raspy but surprisingly human, like he hasn’t used it in a long time. “Mir… io. Mirio.”
“Mirio?”
Hearing his name fall from your lips elicits another bright smile from the mothman, wings giving a single flap as he curls his hand into a fist atop his sternum.
“Mirio!” He says more boldly, giving his chest two hearty thumps for emphasis.
“Mirio.” You repeat softly, “That’s a nice name.”
His eyes soften at your words, almost as if he understood the compliment. He opens his mouth once more, but before he can speak, a new voice cuts through the night air.
“Hey! What’s going on over there?”
You whip your head towards the source of the noise, moments before you feel a rush of cold air accompanied by a sharp hiss. Someone is picking their way through the wreckage to your location, their own flashlight sweeping over the heaps of rusted metal until it lands on your startled face. Squinting into the light, you can barely make out the silhouette of a man and you feel a bolt of panic shoot through you. You turn back to face Mirio only to find him gone.
“Mirio?” You speak into the darkness, as if uttering the word might make him reappear. But there’s only empty space and silence, punctuated by the heavy footfalls of the stranger coming ever closer to you. It’s only when he’s within a few feet that you can make out the telltale flash of gold on his chest: an officer’s badge.
“Are you alright?” The man asks of you, still shining the flashlight directly into your face. “Are you hurt?”
“Huh? Oh! Yes. I’m fine, sir.”
“Are you sure?” The officer asks quizzically, extending a hand for you to take. You graciously accept his offer, retrieving the forgotten bowl and phone from the concrete with your free hand before hauling yourself back onto your feet.
“Y-yes I’m sure.” You stammer out, “I just, uh… I heard a noise outside my apartment and came to investigate.”
“Awfully late to be investigating strange noises in an alley.” He says incredulously, cocking one eyebrow and shining his light over the ruined fire escape at his feet for emphasis. “Especially in this part of town.”
His light catches on something glinting at your feet and your eyes follow it to land on the forgotten kitchen knife on the ground. His own eyes snap back to you and narrow suspiciously, free hand slowly moving towards the holster resting against his hip.
“Are you alone out here?”
“Yes, sir!” You squeak back automatically, “I swear it’s just me. I live in this apartment complex.”
You gesture to the brick-fronted side of the building to your right as proof of your innocence, praying to all the powers that be that he buys your story. The officer narrows his eyes at you, muttering a quiet, “Huh. Could’ve sworn I saw someone…” before clearing his throat and straightening his posture.
“Well in any case, you should probably head inside now, miss. There have been reports of criminal activity in the area as of late and I wouldn’t want you getting hurt. What with all this rusty metal lying around.”
“Yeah, no use getting a tetanus shot over nothing!” You say jokingly, giving a nervous chuckle as the officer nods solemnly. You don’t dare go to pick up the knife, deciding it’s better to lose another kitchen utensil than land yourself in any more hot water. With a few more parting words, and a declined offer to let him walk you back home, you quickly skirt around the remains of the fire escape and into the safety of the stairwell door. Your mind and heart are racing as you plod up the stairs to the third floor, buzzing with questions without answers as you finally enter and lock the door to your one-bedroom sanctuary. Exhaling a breath you don’t know you were holding, you walk silent over to the living room windows and cast a final glance into the alleyway below. You can see the officer’s flashlight bobbing along as he makes his way around the scattered remains of the fire escape, only to switch off once he reaches the end of the alleyway and resumes his patrol of the neighborhood. But you still wait by the window for a few more minutes, wondering (and perhaps hoping) if you’d catch a final glimpse of flaxen hair or hear the steady beat of wings.
Silence reigns above all, the soft glow of the moon your only companion now.
With a heavy sigh, you peel your eyes away from the wreckage and plod off to your bedroom, stripping off your hoodie and sweatpants as you go. Curling up under the covers, you grab the pillow closest to you and hug it to your chest. If you close your eyes, you can almost believe you can still feel the warmth of his face on your neck, or smell the aroma of him lingering on your skin.
“I hope you’re alright… Mirio.”