Stage Fright After Dark Presents…

Content Warning:

Due to the explicit nature of Stage Fright After Dark content, it is intended for mature audiences. 18+ only.

Noah Vance did not believe in monsters. 

He believed that bedtime stories were just that—stories. Pieces of fiction made up to scare children or teach them some arbitrary lesson. 

And yet, despite his disbelief, Noah had spent his fair share of time chasing more ghosts, urban legends, and so-called “true” horror stories than he could count. But it almost always came down to the same three things: bad photo editing, shaky videos, and locals who had a little too much fun stirring up nonsense rather than providing factually accurate accounts of what they’d seen or heard. 

That’s how he’d found himself here, in Point Pleasant, West Virginia, standing beneath a rickety old bridge with his video recorder in hand, daring the looming darkness to prove him wrong. To prove that his job wasn’t a total sham. 

This trip, in particular, had started as a joke. Noah had spent years working for paranormal blogs, spinning sensationalized nonsense into clickbait gold, but even he had limits. After his editor—an insufferable straight guy named Ross who still called Noah by his deadname when he was in a pissy mood—suggested a "spooky sexy exposé" on cryptid fan fiction, Noah decided to take it one step further.

"How about I get up close and personal with Mothman himself?" He’d joked. "Maybe he can give me a firsthand account of all the horny internet discourse."

And so here Noah was. Alone. In the dark. In the middle of nowhere. Probably about to get mauled by a bear or murdered by some backwoods psychopath, while following a lead on the infamous cryptid of West Virginia.  

A rolling wind lurched through the trees, sending leaves skittering and whipping Noah’s hair into his face. The night air was thick with the scent of damp earth and something else—something musky and electric that made his stomach twist and turn in a way that wasn’t entirely unpleasant.

Then he heard it. 

A low, throaty chittering sound. Not an insect. Not a bird or a bat. 

Something bigger.

Noah whipped around, the beam of his flashlight slicing through the inky darkness. 

But there was nothing there. Just the empty silence of an abandoned road. 

And yet, Noah knew—he felt—that he wasn’t alone. There was something out there, blending into the shadows like it was made of night itself. 

“You shouldn’t have come here.”

The voice startled Noah. It was eerie and inhuman, and it reverberated in a deep, layered way that made it impossible to pinpoint exactly where it had come from. 

Noah’s pulse quickened, but instead of terror, something darker, and more primal curled in his gut. Fear and attraction were close cousins after all.  

“I had to,” he finally said, steadying his breath and his nerves. “I wanted to see for myself if you were real. I didn’t believe it.”

Suddenly, the air shifted and a pair of searing red eyes blinked open, hovering just above the treeline. Then there was the flapping of wings, large and powerful, and a massive shadow, dark and strange, swept down to the ground.

Mothman stepped out of the shadows into the silvery moonlight. 

Noah had been expecting something gangly and grotesque, like some sort of skeletal bird-man hybrid. What he got instead was tall. 

Broad shoulders covered in sleek, dark fur gleamed as it caught the moonlight. Wings folded neatly behind him, their edges lined with something softer than feathers but just as inviting. Eyes burned like twin rubies in the darkness, and his lips—because, oh yes, Mothman had lips—curved into something close to amusement.

“Do you believe now?” Mothman questioned, stepping closer.

Noah stood still, unable to move, unsure what he wanted to do, and simply nodded. 

“You came looking for me,” Mothman murmured, stepping even closer. “And now you don’t know whether to run or beg.”

Noah exhaled sharply, trying to ignore the heat pooling in his belly. He should be scared. He should be backing away and running for help. But he wasn’t. He was rooted to the spot, barely suppressing the growing urge to step closer, to feel the softness of that fur between his fingers.

“I don’t run from a good story,” he finally managed, his voice shaky and breathless.

Mothman tilted his head, the red glow of his eyes intensifying. “No, you don’t,” he agreed, and before Noah could process what was happening, the creature’s wings snapped open, and suddenly, he was there, towering over Noah, impossibly warm. Impossibly real.

Noah released a shuddering breath, the intense heat of Mothman unfurling over his skin like the promise of a fever. “You’ve been watching me?” His voice was barely a whisper as his pulse hammered.

“Always.” Mothman’s breath was like a warm blanket falling over Noah, then hands—clawed, but surprisingly gentle—slid up his arms, tracing that fine line between danger and seduction. 

Noah gasped as sharp nails ghosted over the sensitive skin of his throat. “I—I should go,” he stuttered, and yet, he didn’t move.

“I won’t stop you,” Mothman breathed against his ear. “But I don’t think you want to leave.”

Noah didn’t. He really, really didn’t. 

Without thinking, he dropped his flashlight and recorder then curled his fingers in the dark fur of Mothman’s chest, testing the impossible softness while feeling for what he knew must be strong muscle underneath. 

The scent of Mothman—heady and electric, like the musk of wet earth and charged ozone—clouded Noah’s senses, sending him spinning in the best way.

Mothman pressed in, crowding Noah’s body until his back met the cold metal of one of the bridge’s support beams. He was trapped. But instead of panic, desire licked up his spine as heat pooled low in his stomach, like the intoxicating warmth of whiskey. 

“You’re…hotter than I thought you’d be,” Noah admitted, blinking up at those mesmerizing red eyes while squeezing his thighs together, seeking some sort of friction. 

Mothman chuckled, the sound reverberating through Noah’s chest. “And you’re braver than I expected.”

Noah swallowed, his breath hitching as those clawed fingers traced lower, teasing the hem of his jacket. “I do my research.”

“Good.” Mothman leaned in, the barest brush of his lips against Noah’s throat sending a shiver through him. “Then you know what happens next.”

Noah tilted his head back, baring his throat in a gesture that was part surrender, part challenge. “I—I’m not sure I do,” he exhaled with a shudder. “Why don’t you show me?”

In an instant, Mothman had Noah pressed harder against the cold metal of the bridge support, his body a wall of heat and fur and muscle. The contrast made Noah’s breath hitch. He was burning where Mothman touched him, but the chill of the night kept him shivering. Or maybe that was just the anticipation.

“You smell different from others who’ve sought me out,” Mothman murmured, pressing his face into the crook of Noah’s neck, inhaling deep. “Sweeter. Earthier.” His tongue—long, hot, and impossibly soft—traced a line up to Noah’s jaw.

Noah let out a strangled sound. “I—I don’t know if I should be flattered or concerned that you’re sniffing me like I’m your next meal.”

Mothman chuckled, the sound low and resonant. “I told you. I’ve been watching you for a long time. I’ve been curious—wondered what it would be like to breathe you in.”

“Like a stalker,” Noah managed, his voice wavering as those claws traced lower, over his chest, teasing at the buttons of his shirt. “Creepy.”

Mothman’s lips—soft and surprisingly human—brushed against Noah’s ear. “And yet, you’re trembling for me.”

Noah exhaled sharply as Mothman deftly flicked open the last of his buttons and sliced through his thin t-shirt, exposing his bare chest. The night air bit at his skin, but Mothman’s hands were quick to warm him as reverent fingers dragged over his top surgery scars, tracing the curves of his body like he was something precious.

Noah’s breath hitched. He hadn’t expected this—this kind of care. He’d imagined rough hands, frantic desperation, and the barbarity of something half-human half-beast and full of need. But Mothman wasn’t rushing. He was worshiping.

“Beautiful,” Mothman murmured, lips dragging over Noah’s collarbone as his claws ghosted lower, teasing at the waistband of his jeans. “All of you.”

Noah let his head fall back against the metal beam of the bridge, hips tilting forward as Mothman’s hands found the button of his pants, unfastening them with an ease that sent another pulse of heat through Noah’s core. He was wet already, aching, and when Mothman slid a hand between his thighs, he groaned.

“Fuck,” Noah breathed. “You—God, you have big hands.”

Mothman huffed a laugh against his skin, nipping lightly at the junction of his neck and shoulder. “Is that a complaint?”

Noah shuddered, a breathless laugh escaping his lips. “Not even a little.”

Mothman’s claws traced tender paths down Noah’s sides, his touch reverent and steady, building heat between them until it was nearly unbearable. Noah leaned into it, into him, letting the warmth of Mothman’s body and the weight of the moment carry him beyond thought. They kissed again, slower this time, deeper, as hands explored and their bodies moved together in a rhythm that said everything words couldn’t.

When Mothman finally lifted Noah into his arms and carried him deeper into the woods, wings folding around them like a curtain, the world faded away.

Later, when they lay tangled in the grass, Noah traced lazy circles against Mothman’s chest, marveling at the way his skin—fur?—shimmered in the moonlight.

“So,” Noah drawled, breath still uneven, “do you think I can get an official interview, maybe a recording, or…?”

Mothman huffed a laugh before wrapping a wing around Noah’s body to cocoon him in warmth. “You still care about writing the article?”

“Not really,” Noah admitted, pressing a kiss against Mothman’s jaw. “But I do think my editor’s gonna lose his mind when I tell him I fucked an actual cryptid.”

Mothman’s wings trembled slightly, his eyes gleaming with amusement. “Just don’t tell them everything.”

“Don’t worry,” Noah smirked. “What happens in bed—er, in the woods?—stays in the woods.”