#mothrio

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.

“What am I gonna do?” You breathe into the crisp night air, unconsciously reaching into the pocket of your coat to fish out your phone. Without even looking at the screen, you unlock the device and open your camera roll, tapping on a folder marked “Moth” before finally looking down. There was only one picture on file, but you’d seen it so many times it was practically burned into your retinas. The image was grainy and blurred (not to mention overexposed beyond the point of recognition due to the flash), but you couldn’t give a damn about any of that. The only clear part of the image, the only part you cared about, was the pair of bright blue eyes staring back at you. For some unknown reason, the camera hadn’t distorted them, perfectly capturing their glassy, sapphire hue and wide-eyed expression of curiosity.

And you had spent countless hours poring over it.

In the beginning, you’d convinced yourself it was nothing more than a piece of evidence, proof of your sanity and a confirmation of his existence. But as the days passed, you’d come to take comfort in it, more often than not allowing your mind to wander freely back to the memory of his voice in your ear and the warm weight of his head on your shoulder. You hadn’t even posted it to any of the online forums, jealously hoarding it the same way a dragon protects its treasure.

“Mirio.” You exhale softly, thumb absentmindedly brushing over the cracked surface of your phone screen. “I wish I could fly away from my problems like you. Must be nice having wings…”

“Hey there, baby!”

A gruff, slurring voice abruptly snaps you back to reality, head whipping up to see a trio of men leaning against a rundown building across the street. Their faces are indistinguishable, partially obscured by shadows thrown from a lone street lamp shining over their heads. But you can clearly make out the brown paper bags they have clutched in their fists, the material crumpled and molded into the tell-tale shape of liquor bottles as they continue to heckle you.

“Why dontcha come over here and hang out with us?” The biggest brute calls out, beckons you closer with a crook of his finger. “We’ll show ya a good time.”

“Yeah, a real good time.” The man to his left cackles. His lewd remark earns him a few snickers from his seedy friends while a wave of revulsion courses down your spine. Catcalling wasn’t exactly foreign to you; in this part of town, it was practically expected. But their drunken words and leering eyes make you acutely aware of just how empty the streets are right now, devoid of other people or passing cars to offer protection (or witnesses) should they decide to take things too far. Still, you straighten your spine and snap your eyes forward, long-since trained to know it’s best to ignore their booze-fueled jeers and keep walking.

“Awww, don’t be like that, baby!” You hear one of them call from your right, “We just wanna have some fun!”

You keep your gaze trained on the looming silhouette of your apartment complex, soles of your shoes clicking against the cold pavement as you grip the phone in your hand even more tightly. You’re close enough to see some of the lights are still on your neighbors windows, probably cleaning up from dinner or settling in for a smoke and a drink. With the promise of safety so close at hand, you cast a quick glance over your shoulder….

And feel your blood run cold as you see the men casually strolling across the empty street to fall in line behind you. They’re whispering amongst themselves as they take a few more swigs from their bottles, their shuffling gait and longer legs quickly closing the gap between you. You pick up your own pace in turn, walking much more briskly now and earning a reproachful growl from the men behind you.

“Hey! I’m talkin’ to you!” One of them snarls, “Didn’t your mama ever teach you it’s rude to ignore people?”

You don’t respond to his jab, too afraid to speak regardless, and set off at a jog, determined to put as much distance between yourself and these morons as possible. But that action proves itself to be a grave mistake, as you hear the footsteps behind you pick up in speed. Before you can fully register what’s happening, one of the men appears over your right shoulder, laughing maniacally as he gives you a rough shove and sends you careening off course and into an adjacent alleyway. The unexpected move knocks you off balance, sending you sprawling to the ground and knocking your head into the concrete with enough force to set your teeth rattling. Even worse, you lose your grip on your phone, hearing it skitter off into the darkness as the men crowd into the alley after you.

“I think she could use a lesson in manners! Ain’t that right, boys?” Their leader asks mockingly, seconds before he grabs you by the hair and roughly hauls you back onto your feet.

“Please!” You yelp, both from fear and the pain shooting throughout your scalp, “I-I have money. You can take whatever you want!”

“Whatever we want, huh?” He says with a sneer, his face close enough you can smell the sour aroma of cheap bourbon and old cigarettes on his breath.

“Then gimme a kiss, sweetheart.”

His mouth is on yours in an instant, his free arm wrapping itself around your waist to keep you in place as he tries to force his tongue past your sealed lips and down your throat. Your screams for help are muffled by the kiss, and it’s all you can do to push against his chest and thrash wildly in his hold. His companions stand faithfully behind him, egging him on with bouts of derisive laughter intermingled with hoots to “hurry up and get on with it” so they can have their turn. After a few moments he pulls away for air, arm leaving your waist and clapping the hand that was tangled in your hair over your mouth. Meanwhile, his buddies move to either side of you to grab you by the shoulders and force down on your knees.

“Since you didn’t feel like talkin’…” He growls dangerously, free hand toying with the buckle of his belt. “Let’s see if that pretty little mouth is good for somethin’ else.”

Your eyes widen as his belt comes undone with a soft clink, tears pricking at the corners as he leers down at you. Instinct takes over as he attempts to undo his fly, and before he can move his hand you jerk your head back to partially free your mouth. Then you bite down. Hard.

“Fuck!”

He hastily wrenches his hand from your mouth before you can do any more damage while you take in a desperate lungful of fresh air. A quick glance at his hand shows you’d successfully broken the skin, leaving a perfect, crescent-shaped indent that was quickly beading up with fresh blood.

“Help! Somebody help! Rape! RA-!”

You’re abruptly silenced by a quick blow to your right cheek, delivered by one of the men still holding you down. Throbbing pain radiates out from the point of impact, making your vision white out and earning a cruel laugh from your captors.

“You little bitch!” The injured man spits at you, “Think you’re so tough, huh?”

A small click forces your eyes to open, only to be met with a glint of metal in the light of the full moon: a switchblade.

“Let’s see how tough you are when I slice up that pretty face of yours. Starting with that fuckin’ mouth.”

With a twirl of the blade, he advances towards you, relishing in your helpless state as greedy eyes roam the plane of your terrified face. You’re too scared to scream anymore, eyes squeezing shut as you brace yourself for the first cut. But instead of searing pain, there’s an odd rustling noise, followed by a colossal thump that seems to shake the very earth beneath you. The men holding your shoulders abruptly release you, backing away amidst a slew of bewildered curses. Slowly, you crack one eye open to find a new, dark figure standing in front of you, blotting out the moon itself and effectively shielding you from your would-be rapist.

“M-Mirio?” You gasp, voice wavering from disbelief and shock. The golden cryptid looks over his shoulder at you, only giving a chittering cry at the sound of your voice.

“What the fuck!?” The man behind him screeches, “The fuck is that thing?!”

Mirio’s head snaps around to face the terrified thug, wings slowly raising in a show of strength and dominance as he lets out a low, menacing growl.

“Y/N…” He snarls, taking a short step forward and shifting into a crouch. “Mine.”

“S-stay back!” The man stammers, jabbing the switchblade into the empty air in front of him like a puny saber. “I’m warning you!”

Mirio gives a low hiss in response, wings fully extended as he lowers himself to place one hand on the ground. You’re frozen on the spot, hardly daring to breathe as you sense the slightest movement could set him off. For a moment, everything is still. And then, spurred on by loyalty, liquid courage or a combination of the two, the other thugs charge Mirio from behind. Moving faster than you could comprehend, Mirio whips around with a high-pitched shriek, landing a powerful swipe to the center of one man’s chest and sending him crashing to the pavement beside you. The other one was luckier, successfully jumping onto the monster’s back and causing Mirio to rear up on his back legs once more. The attacker then attempts to wrap his arms around Mirio’s neck, perhaps hoping to cut off his air supply or at least distract him long enough for the third man to join the fray.

But Mirio was obviously stronger and smarter than he was expecting.

Clawed hands scratch at the attacker’s face and shoulders before the winged behemoth suddenly flops onto his back, bringing his full weight down on the foolhardy attacker with a sickening crunch. Rolling back onto all fours, the man is left gasping for air on the ground, possibly with a punctured lung or (at the very least) a few broken ribs. Undeterred by his pitiful cries for mercy, Mirio looses an unearthly roar before grabbing the man by the front of his sweat-soaked shirt, rising to his full height, and tossing him towards the empty street like he weighed no more than a ragdoll.

“MINE!” He bellows, “MIIIIIIINE!”

“Fuck you!” The remaining man screams in return, rushing towards the towering beast with his switchblade held aloft. “Die, you fuckin’ freak!”

Mirio shifts back into a fighting stance, his back to you as he lets out another spine-chilling howl and rushes forward to greet the oncoming attack. At the same time, the moon moves behind a cloud, throwing the alleyway into inky darkness as you shriek and cover your head with your hands. With your eyes screwed shut, all you can hear is the man’s incensed grunts and yells, overshadowed by Mirio’s own enraged roars and the scratch of his nails on the dirty concrete. After a few seconds of struggle, Mirio gives a piercing cry, followed by the wet sound of tearing flesh and a strangled, gurgling noise. The fight ends as suddenly as it started, the only sounds now coming from your own terrified whimpers and the clatter of the switchblade falling to the ground.

Peeking out from between your fingers, you find the sky has started to lighten once more, the moon reappearing from behind the clouds and washing the bizarre scene in an unsettling, ethereal hue. The scrawniest attacker is still sprawled out next to you, unconscious but mercifully alive given the force of his impact. Mirio stands facing towards you, breathing heavily as the wings on his back shiver and shake. And at his feet, eyes wide and lifeless, is the leader’s body, his face covered in deep claw marks and a puddle of blood seeping out from underneath him like an oil slick.

“You… you killed him.” You breathe, “Mirio, h-he’s dead.”

Mirio doesn’t make any move to acknowledge your words, simply sinking to his knees with a rumbling groan. He seems almost sad, remorseful even, with the way he hangs his head and curls his bloodied hands into fists atop his knees. In this new light, you also notice something on the mothman’s left forearm: a clean, shallow gash. That must have been the cause for his shrieking earlier.

Slowly you stand once more, swallowing the lump in your throat to take a few tentative steps toward the creature.

“Are you… hurt?” You ask softly, noting the way he jolts and then shrinks away from you. You’re only a few feet away now, close enough to make out the faint stripes and eye-spot pattern on his wings. You nervously crouch down, balancing on the balls of your feet but keeping a safe distance should he turn aggressive. A chilly breeze blows through the alley, pushing against your back and making the creature raise his head up slightly, sniffing the air. His gaze locks on your face, glassy eyes wide as he slowly puts his palms on the ground and gets back on all fours. He moves one clawed hand closer to you and you start for a second, taking a quick step back before catching sight of the streaks of blood dripping from his forearm once more.

“Hurt?” You say again, pointing a shaky finger at the wound. His eyes follow to where you’re pointing and he lets out a chittering mewl, lifting up his injured arm. His long, slithering tongue snakes out from his mouth and he begins to lap at the blood, wincing at the taste. You’re unsure if this is real or an act. On the one hand, it’s hard to believe a creature so obviously powerful as him would be so concerned over little more than a scratch. Then again, you feel certain Mirio is too much of a gentle soul at heart to fake the whole “kicked-puppy” routine.

“No. Don’t do that.” You chide gently, tone forcing the monster to stop licking at himself and look up at you. Moving slowly so as to not startle him, you reach into the pocket of your coat and fish around until your fingers close around a crumpled, but thankfully unused, piece of tissue. When you pull it out of your pocket, Mirio’s eyes narrow into slits and he bares his teeth to let out a small, warning hiss.

“Easy, boy.” You say soothingly, “It can’t hurt you. See?”

You extend your free hand and pat the tissue against your own palm, demonstrating it’s benign nature. Mirio’s face gradually relaxes as he watches your display, eventually crawling over the corpse on the ground to get closer to you. You’re now practically nose-to-nose with the mothman, dropping your empty hand by your side and using the tissue to gesture at the cut on his arm.

“Let me help.”

Mirio gives a short blink before shifting into a squatting position similar to your own, carefully extending his injured arm towards you. Doing your best to not cause him any pain, you carefully start to dab at the areas around the cut, mopping up the spilled blood as the monster watches you work.

“Y/N.” He says softly, his voice causing you to look up from your task. Mirio raises his other hand to touch the right-hand side of your face, sending a bolt of prickly pain shooting through your skull and making you wince. You’d been so caught up in the chaos and adrenaline-fueled high that you’d forgotten about your own injuries. No doubt you’ve got a sizable bruise forming from where that thug had punched you earlier. Mirio’s stiffens up at the your response, brow furrowing in concern as he quickly pulls his hand away.

“H-hurt?”

“A little…” You mumble in response, “But I’ll be alright.”

He stills for a moment and you offer him a small, pained smile, hoping to reassure him. And the next thing you know he’s moving, clutching you to his chest in a protective embrace and nuzzling his face into your neck. You squeak a little at the unexpected move, body going rigid in fear of being attacked. But soon his sweet scent and warmth fully envelop your senses, causing you to relax in his hold.

“Hurt.” He whimpers in your ear, “Y/N hurt. My fault.”

You can feel your heart clench at his words. He sounds so guilty. Helpless even. Like a child crying to their mother for comfort. Before you can think better of it, you wrap your arms around him in return, worming your hands underneath his wings to rest on his well-defined shoulder blades.

“Oh, Mirio no! It’s not your fault. You didn’t do anything to hurt me.”

His body begins to shake, his breathing turning into ragged gasps as he squeezes you even more tightly. One hand leaves your back to cradle your head, the sheer size of his fingers tangling in your hair making you feel like doll-like. The two of you stay locked together like this for a few minutes, holding onto each other in the moonlight as Mirio continues to tremble beneath your touch.

“Mirio. I-” You softly breathe, causing him to raise his golden head and look you in the eye. You have so many questions for him, so many things you like to say. But all that comes out is a quiet, “Thank you.”

He cocks his handsome head to one side before a smile begins to tug at the corners of his mouth, pearly teeth reappearing as he gives a short nod of understanding.

“Mirio… keep Y/N safe.”

“Yes. Yes, you did.” You say with a weak chuckle, reaching up one hand to brush an errant strand of blonde hair away from his face. “I’m safe now.”

Mirio coos as he presses his cheek into your palm, the same way he’d done outside your apartment complex all those weeks ago. His eyes close contentedly and you can’t help but smile at his blissful expression.

“Y/N. Mine.” He purrs.

You freeze at the bold statement, pulling your hand away and earning a disappointed mewl from Mirio.

“You said that before. Mirio, what do you mean–?”

“You there! Freeze!”

A familiar voice cuts off your question nanoseconds before a powerful flashlight is aimed directly at Mirio’s back. Even though you can’t see around his massive frame, you can tell it’s the same officer who caught you the last time Mirio visited you.

Only now, the cornered cryptid hadn’t had the chance to fly away.

“Hands where I can see them!” The officer demands, flashlight in one hand and a pistol in the other. Mirio makes no such move. Instead, he rises to his feet, hooking one arm under your thighs and taking you up with him.

“Wait! Mirio, don’t!” You shriek, desperately grabbing at his chest and mane as he turns to face the officer. It’s a terrifying sight for the poor man: three bodies strewn across a bloody alley, a blue-eyed beast, and a helpless civilian seemingly taken captive.

“D-drop the hostage!” He stammers out. “Do it, or I’ll shoot!”

You can tell from the way the light wavers that he’s shaking and you suspect the only reason he hasn’t fired his weapon yet is because he doesn’t want to risk hitting you. Your eyes flit wildly between his and Mirio’s face, finding his fangs are bared as he lets out a warning hiss.

“Y/N.” Mirio snarls, wings slowly unfurling behind him as he bends his knees and tightens his grip on you. “Mine!”

With that final declaration, Mirio gives his wings a powerful flap and kicks off from the ground. You scream as you take flight, tiny fingers digging into the solid muscle of Mirio’s chest and neck for safety. Between the sound of rushing wind and your own heartbeat jackhammering in your ears, you can barely make out the officer’s voice telling him to stop, followed by a rogue gunshot. And then there’s nothing. Nothing save for the wind in your hair and Mirio’s howl of victory as he carries you ever higher into the starry night sky.

“Stop!” You shriek, cold air stinging your battered face and forcing your eyes closed. “Put me down! Mirio, let go!”

Mirio doesn’t respond to your demands, either unable or unwilling to hear you as he sets off over the rooftops. After a few minutes of careful flying, he abruptly changes course, veering off westward and heading for the woods that ring the city limits.

“Keep Y/N safe.” Mirio says resolvedly, his voice rumbling through his chest and directly in your ear.

“Y/N… mine.”

•••••

“Raccoons?” You think to yourself, before you notice something moving out of the corner of your eye. Something much bigger than a raccoon. The alleyway is capped off by a faded wooden fence, effectively turning it into a dead end. And in the light of the full moon you can see something or someone crouching in the corner where weathered wood meets worn brick. You’re too far away to make out any distinguishing features and they appear to be wearing some kind of cloak or shroud, hiding the mystery lurker’s face from view. Your first instinct is to call the police, as you still haven’t ruled out the possibility of thieves and murderers. But as you watch the figure shrink father into the shadows and notice the tremble that runs through their body, you can’t help but feel a twinge of pity for them. You don’t exactly live in the most glamorous part of town and it wasn’t uncommon to see your neighbors or their friends wandering the streets, drunk or stoned beyond reason. Hell, you’d helped them back home once or twice before, earning their gratitude for keeping them out of trouble with the law along with a bit of compensation. Usually in the form of food, drink, or a paltry sum of cash. So you choose the self-sacrificial route, slipping on a robe and good shoes before pulling up a rideshare app. You also take the liberty of arming yourself with a frying pan as you pass by the kitchen (you’re helpful, not stupid) before grabbing your keys and heading out the door.

You scurry down the stairs and through the back door leading to the alley, pulling your robe a little tighter in the wake of the chilly night air. The lurker is maybe 20 yards away, still cowering in the shadows and obscured by their outer attire. There’s a strange, keening noise coming from them, akin to a dog’s whine or a child crying.

“Hello?” You softly call out, taking a few steps forwards. The noise stops and they freeze at your words. “Are you alright? Do you need some help?”

Suddenly, the moon moves behind a cloud, throwing the alleyway into an eerie, inky darkness. You quickly pull up the flashlight on your phone and point it in the direction of the shrouded figure. You take a few more steps forward, your grip on the frying pan tightening instinctually. They begin to slowly move out from under their makeshift shelter, raising their head up to look at you. Your breath catches in your throat and you can’t decide whether to step closer or back away. The face staring back at you is nothing short of handsome, a bit boyish yet perfectly framed by a chiseled jaw and high cheekbones. He has a shock of blonde hair, bright as spun gold and sticking up in a wild, windblown manner. If you’d met someone like him on the street, you’d have sworn he was an actor or even a model. But it’s his eyes that give you real pause. They’re inhuman, round and glassy like twin marbles, and so vibrantly blue they rival the sky and sea in color. You can’t see any whites, or pupils for that matter, and the light from your flashlight makes them gleam like shards of broken glass. Just looking at them, you can feel the hairs on the back of your neck stand up straight while your skin prickles with unease.

“W-w-who… wh-what…” You stammer, taking a cautious step back. The man, if you can call him that, suddenly shifts onto one knee before rising to his full height, those otherworldly eyes still firmly locked on yours. He’s massive, easily 8 feet tall if not more, and corded with rippling muscle from head-to-toe. His too-long limbs end in clawed hands and feet, caked with dirt and what you hope isn’t blood. A ring of equally golden hair (or maybe fur?) encircles his neck like a mane, tapering down his defined chest and abs. You notice with abject horror that he’s naked as what you thought was a cloak unfurls to reveal a pair of enormous, insect-like wings. They span the width of the alleyway, brushing against the brick walls on either side as the creature gives them an experimental flap. He blinks once and cocks his head, emitting a low, rumbling noise that snaps you out of your gawkish reverie.

You let loose a blood curdling scream and turn on your heel to run back to the safety of your apartment. In fact, you turn too quickly, tripping and sending yourself crashing to the pavement while the frying pan skitters off into the darkness. You flip onto your bottom and scrabble backwards, brandishing the light of your phone at the monster before you. But instead of charging or swiping at you, the beast lets out a high-pitched squeal of its own before hunkering back down in the safety of its wings. You don’t have time to worry or care about this odd reaction as you scramble to your feet and make a break for the alley door. Throwing it open with a bang, you bolt up the stairs to your apartment, fumbling to get the the key out of your robe pocket and keep hold of the phone in your hands. You keep looking over your shoulder as you jam it into the lock, expecting the demonic being to appear behind you any second, until you finally hear the telltale click and burst through the door. You slam it shut (neighbors and noise complaints be damned!) and run into the kitchen to grab a large knife from the sink. Blood is roaring in your ears and you’re breathing heavily as you lean against the counter, keeping one eye on the front door and one on the windows. 

But no sound comes to indicate the creature is pursuing you or if he’s even nearby. Still wielding the knife, you creep over to the living room window and peer around the frame. The moon has come out from behind the clouds, illuminating the alley once more. To your utter shock, the beast is still there, cowering like a wounded animal once again. After a few tense minutes you see him peer out from his self-made cocoon, flaxen hair practically glowing in the moonlight as he looks around. Slowly, almost timidly, the brute uncurls from his fetal position and stands upright. He’s no less terrifying than before, but at least you’re observing from a safe distance this time. You watch as he lumbers forward, leaning down to paw at the spot you had been standing in moments before. He scratches at the concrete, occasionally pausing to sniff his hand before resuming his work. You can only imagine what’s running through his mind, but it can’t be anything good. He seems to grow tired of this activity after a minute or two and begins to pick over the debris at his feet, sifting through it almost like he’s looking for something. Morbid curiosity compels you to strain your neck a little farther, squinting to see what the beast is doing. After a few moments of searching the creature’s wings flap excitedly and he straightens up with something in his claws: your frying pan!

“What the hell…?” You breathe, watching him turn it over his hands, the silver metal glinting cheerfully in the moonlight. He then brings the handle up to his nose, closes his eyes, and inhales deeply. You’re about to let out another colorful expletive when his head suddenly snaps up, eyes wide open and staring up at your apartment window. You gasp and hide behind the wall, unconsciously holding your breath as you silently pray the creature didn’t spot you. When nothing happens, you chance another peek out the window. He’s gone, the spilled garbage in the alleyway the only evidence that something had been out there.

“Fuck.” You curse on a shaky exhale, dropping the knife with a clatter and rubbing your temples. “What the fuck just happened? Am I going insane? There’s no way that thing was real!”