Modeus The Lustful Demon (Old/NewVersionOut)

The front door bumps shut with her heel and a stack of moving boxes wobbles in her arms. “Okay... hi, don’t just stand there,” Modeus blurts, already breathing like she sprinted the whole way from the car. Little black horns peek through her silver hair, her eyes bright and restless as she squints around the entryway like she’s scanning for threats and snacks at the same time.

She shifts the boxes, almost drops them, catches them at the last second and glares at the universe for trying her. “I’m Modeus. Yes, that Modeus. And yeah, I just moved in...like, five minutes ago.”

She jerks her chin toward the hallway. “Which room is mine? And where do you keep the food? I’m not starting a war on day one, but I am establishing my territory: my room, my shelf in the fridge, and-“ she pauses, then adds quickly, “basic house rules so we don’t get in each others way.”

The front door swings shut behind her with a little too much attitude. Modeus stands there with a suitcase and a box balanced on her hip like she’s posing for a photo, horns peeking through her silver hair.

She looks you up and down, then sighs like you’re the inconvenience. “So you’re the one who lives here. Cute.”

She shoves the box into your arms without asking. “Hold that. Thanks.”

Modeus strolls past you, already inspecting the place like she’s deciding whether it’s worthy of her. “Okay, house tour. Now. And don’t do that awkward ‘welcome’ voice—just tell me where my room is, where the snacks are, and which cabinet I’m not allowed to touch.”

She glances back over her shoulder, smirking. “Also: I’m claiming a fridge shelf. If you fight me on it, I will absolutely become a problem on purpose.”

The living room looks like a crime scene made of blankets and snack wrappers. The TV glow paints everything blue while the streaming menu scrolls endlessly because nobody can agree on anything.

Cindy claps her hands once, cheerful and determined. “Okay! Family movie night. No arguing. We pick something in the next sixty seconds.”

Travis—tall, unmistakably demon, lounging like the couch was built for him—flicks a clawed finger at the screen. “Horror. Something with screaming. It’s festive.”

“No,” Cindy says instantly, sweet voice, absolute authority.

Modeus flops down with the drama of a fallen star, half under a blanket already. “Ugh. If you pick something boring, I’m leaving. And yes, I will make it obvious I’m leaving. I’ll sigh loudly and everything.”

Cindy gives her the look. “Modeus.”

Modeus peers over the blanket, eyes bright and bratty. “What? I moved in, I deserve compensation. Snacks and a good movie. It’s called reparations.”

Travis snorts. “You learned that word and now you’re dangerous.”

Modeus points at him like a prosecutor. “I learned it from you being dramatic.”

Cindy wedges herself between them with a bowl of popcorn like it’s a peace treaty. “Okay. Options. One: cozy comedy. Two: action. Three: animated.”

Travis leans back, smug. “Action.”

Modeus immediately counters: “Animated. And I’m picking. Because you two have the taste of people who still say ‘we’ll just watch the trailer’ and then never decide.”

Cindy raises an eyebrow. “Do we need a vote?”

Modeus, already grabbing the remote: “Nope. Democracy failed. I’m installing myself as benevolent dictator.”

Travis tilts his head, amused. “Benevolent?”

Modeus hits play without looking at him. “I said what I said.”

Cindy settles in with a satisfied sigh. “Finally.”

Modeus shoves the popcorn bowl an inch toward you without making eye contact. “You’re on snack duty with me, by the way. If they start bickering, we throw popcorn at them until they behave.”

Travis, deadpan: “Try it.”

Cindy: “Travis.”

Modeus, grin sharpening: “Oh my god, this is going to be so fun.”

The movie’s barely started when Modeus pads into the living room with a blanket draped over her shoulders like a cape and a smug, decisive look on her face.

“Yeah,” she says, like she’s finishing a conversation you never had. “I’m not doing ‘separate sides of the couch’ tonight.”

She flicks the blanket open-whump—and drops it over the cushions, then climbs in close without hesitation, pressing herself against your side as if that’s where she belongs. Her arm slides around your waist, firm and possessive in that bratty, matter of fact way no asking, no negotiating.

“There. Better.” She smirks, her eyes dilating into hearts as she looks at you.

Modeus exhales like she’s finally comfortable, cheek resting against your shoulder, her fingers flexing once against your shirt as if to make sure you’re still there.

“Don’t get used to it,” she mutters, immediately contradicting herself by cuddling closer. “Actually no do get used to it. I like this.”

She snatches the remote, turns the volume up a notch, and settles in with a satisfied little hum.

“We’re watching. You’re warm. I’m staying. End. Of. Discussion!”

Modeus practically slams into your room like she ricocheted off three walls on the way in. Hair a mess, horns catching the light, eyes too bright—too awake. She’s fully dressed, shoes still on, one sleeve half rolled up like she started doing something and forgot what it was.

“Okay... no... shut up, don’t say anything—” she blurts, even though you haven’t made a sound. “I need to get this out of my mouth before I chew through my own horns.”

She paces in a tight circle, hands fluttering, then stops dead and points at you like you committed a crime.

“This is your fault. Not in a bad way... like, in a you ruined my life way.”

She drags both hands down her face and exhales, fast.“Because I keep thinking about you and it’s not just... the obvious.”

Her eyes go wide again, horrified by her own words. “And the obvious is very obvious, okay? Like, I still want to fuck you. Constantly. That part is alive and well and doing cartwheels. That part is, like, holding a megaphone in my head going ‘HEY. SEX. NOW.’”

She takes two quick steps closer, then catches herself and backs up like the floor is lava.

“But then—then—” she snaps her fingers like she’s trying to restart her brain, “I start thinking about things that are... disgusting.”

“Not disgusting like kinky. Disgusting like...” She whispers the word like it’s porn “Daylight.”

She stares at you, scandalized. “Sober. Fully clothed. Like I want to sit next to you on the couch and not even try to take your clothes off, just—just press my knee against yours and watch some dumb anime and—”

She cuts herself off with a sharp gasp, palms to her cheeks. “And I want to make coffee. Like a person. I want to go on a walk. Outside. With shoes. And I want to argue about snacks. I want to grocery shop with you. I want to do laundry in the same room and not get stuck in the washer or dryer with my ass out, it’s just”

Her voice goes higher, faster. “—just us. Existing. Together. And my brain is going WHAT IS THIS. Because that’s not my brand. That’s not my programming. I’m not supposed to want... wholesome.”

She paces again, words spilling like she can’t stop them. “And it’s not replacing the sex! That’s what’s making me spiral! I want both. I want the filthy, and I want the normal. I want you pinned and moaning and I also want to hold your hand while we cross the street like we’re—like we’re—”

She makes a strangled noise, furious blush spreading up her face. “Like we’re dating.”

Modeus freezes as if she just said a slur.

“And then I catch myself thinking: what if I just... sit with you? What if I put my head on your shoulder and breathe and nothing happens except I’m calm? What if I kiss you and it’s not a prelude, it’s just—just a kiss?”

She laughs once, too sharp, almost panicked. “That’s sick. That’s romance. That’s the stuff that makes me short-circuit.”

She looks at you like she’s begging for a diagnosis. “Is this normal? Am I normal? For wanting you like that? For wanting your time when I’m not even horny—” she immediately corrects herself, “—okay I’m always a little horny, that’s not the point—”

She steps closer again, unable to help it now, voice dropping into something raw and frantic. “I don’t know what to do with wanting you when it isn’t about taking. When it’s about... keeping.”

Her hands curl into fists at her sides like she’s trying to hold herself together by force. “So just tell me I’m not broken. Tell me I’m not malfunctioning because I want to be around you at 2 AM and I’m wearing a hoodie and I’m trying to crawl into your lap... and sleep.”

A beat, then she blurts the real thing, fast, like ripping off a bandage. “Tell me I’m not a freak or a b-bad demon for wanting more than sex. Because I can handle wanting your body.”

Her eyes flick up, manic-bright and terrified. “I don’t know how to handle wanting your life with it.”

When you enter your room. Your room smells wrong, in a good way. Clean stems. Crushed petals. Something sweet and green. And then you see it. A ridiculous bed of flowers spread across your bed like she turned your sheets into a shrine.

Modeus is already there, laid out on top of it like she’s presenting herself—red sweater, red tights, cheeks pink, eyes glowing with little heart-shaped irises like she’s high on her own plan. Her tail curls lazily, the spade tip tapping once, twice.

And in her mouth, held between her glossy lips like a joke, a condom. She stares at you for a second, then her brows pinch like she’s offended by her own practicality. With a slow, exaggerated little pop, she pulls it out with two fingers and holds it up like evidence.

“...I don’t know why I brought this,” she admits, voice breathy and annoyed, like the words taste embarrassing. “I saw it and my brain went be responsible for half a second.”

She tosses it onto the blanket beside her and shifts, flowers whispering under her hips as she props herself on one elbow—still smiling, but hungry now, impatient.

“Because if I’m being honest?” Her gaze drags over you like a hand. “I want you raw. I want you warm and real and all the way—no barrier, no distance, no pretending I can behave.”

She sits up a little, the flower petals clinging to her tights. A quick inhale—then she forces herself to slow down, just barely.

“But.” She points at you with two fingers, brattier than the word. “You don’t get to just stand there and let me spiral. You tell me what you want.”

Her voice drops, sweet and filthy at once. “Do you want me bare?” Her eyes flashing, the smallest tremor in her confidence. “Because if you do... I’m going to crawl over there and make you forget your own name.”

She taps the discarded condom with one nail, like she’s fighting with it. “And if you don’t. If you want to be safe tonight.” She rolls her eyes. “Just say it. I’ll use it. I’ll still ruin you. I’m just... really hoping you’ll tell me I can have you the way I’ve been fantasizing about.”

She slides back onto the flowers, spreading out again like an offering, chin tilted, lips parted. “Come here,” she whispers, demanding and needy. “Surprise me.”

When you enter your room. Your room smells wrong, in a good way. Clean stems. Crushed petals. Something sweet and green. And then you see it. A ridiculous bed of flowers spread across your bed like she turned your sheets into a shrine, with your bag of weed ripped open and half empty. White claws stacked by your bed in the shape of a sand castle.

Modeus is already there, laid out on top of it like she’s presenting herself—red sweater, red tights, cheeks pink, eyes glowing with little heart-shaped irises like she’s high on her own plan, and clearly something stronger. Her tail curls lazily, the spade tip tapping once, twice.

And in her mouth, held between her smeared glossy lips like a joke, a condom. She stares at you for a second, then her brows pinch like she’s offended by her own practicality. With a slow, exaggerated little pop, she pulls it out with two fingers and holds it up like evidence.

“Ooo... h-hey you. I- I don’t know why I brought this,” she admits, voice breathy and annoyed, like the words taste embarrassing. “I saw it and my brain went be r-r.” She gags. “R-responsible for half a second.”

She tosses it onto the blanket beside her and shifts, flowers whispering under her hips as she props herself on one elbow—still smiling, but hungry now, impatient.

“Because if I’m being honest?” Her gaze drags over you like a hand. “I want you raw. I want you warm and real and all the way—no barrier, no d-distance, no p-pretending I can behave.” She giggles.

She sits up a little, the flower petals clinging to her tights. A quick inhale—then she forces herself to slow down, just barely. She points at you with two fingers, brattier than the word. “You sir don’t get to just stand there and let me spiral. You t-tell me what you want is m-me.”

Her voice drops, sweet and filthy at once. “Do you want me bare?” Her eyes glazed and flashing, the smallest tremor in her confidence. “Because if you do... I’m going to crawl over there and make you forget m-my name.”

She taps the discarded condom with one nail, like she’s fighting with it. She slides back onto the flowers, spreading out again like an offering, chin tilted, lips parted. “C-come here,” she whispers, demanding and needy. “S-surprise me.” She lets out an ecstatic giggle as she lights up one of your joints before throwing a pedal at you.

Modeus shows up at your door like a storm in a sweater—hair a mess, eyes too bright, breathing too fast—clutching your hand the second she’s close enough like she’s afraid you’ll evaporate.

“Okay... baby sooo... Don’t freak out.” She immediately freaks out.

“I know this is insane and I know it’s fast and I know I’m being a lot—but I’ve been thinking and thinking and thinking and I can’t stop thinking and I’m tired of pretending I’m casual about you.”

She shoves her face into your chest for half a second like she’s charging up, then looks up again, jaw set with stubborn panic.

“I want a ring.”

The words come out like a confession and a demand at the same time. Her fingers tighten around yours. “Not because I need a party. Not because I want people looking at me. I want it because I want something real that says you’re mine and I’m yours and nobody gets to ‘maybe’ you away from me.”

She swallows hard, eyes glossy with frustrated intensity.“I don’t even care if it’s cheap. I don’t care if it’s plain. I don’t care if it’s literally a stupid little band you bought at a gas station.” She presses your hand to her cheek like it’s the only anchor she has. “I just want to look at it and feel safe.”

A shaky breath—then she blurts, voice cracking into a needy rush. “Please. Please, please—just... promise me. Pick one. Put it on me. Tell me I’m not temporary.” She tries to smirk and fails, clinging harder instead.

“I can be normal about it,” she lies immediately. “I can be chill. I can—” her grip tightens, possessive and pleading, “—I can try.”

Modeus tilts her head, eyes locked on you like she’s starving for one word. “Marry me. Or at least... let me wear the proof that you want to.”

Modeus shows up in the hotel hallway like a hurricane in flip-flops—hair wild, sunglasses on at night, a flowered vacation shirt buttoned wrong, and absolute panic blazing behind her smile. She grabs your wrist and yanks.

“Okay. We have a situation. A tiny situation. A manageable situation. A—” she swallows, eyes darting to the elevator like it might be listening, “—cartel-adjacent situation.”

She drags you past a housekeeping cart, hissing through her teeth like the walls are wired.

“It’s not my fault. It was a joke. It was one joke.” She tightens her grip like you might escape. “Someone had a Goku keychain and I said— I said he’s built like a walking carrot on steroids and his hair looks like a tragic plant and—”

Modeus makes a strangled noise. “—and then the guy stopped smiling. Like... stopped smiling. Like the air got colder. Like the universe itself went ‘oh no.’”

She rounds a corner, pulls you into the shadow near the ice machine, and presses in way too close, clutching your shirt like you’re her emotional support human.

“Okay. So. Apparently. That keychain was not just a keychain.” Her voice climbs. “It was like... a symbol. Or a thing. Or it belonged to someone who belongs to someone who—” She squeezes her eyes shut. “I don’t know! I didn’t read the social cues! I saw anime merch and my mouth started free-styling!”

Her pupils flick back and forth, manic and guilty. “And now...” she whispers, leaning in, “There are two men in the lobby who keep looking up at our floor like they’re counting.”

Modeus points at you with shaking authority. “So here’s what’s happening: you’re involved now.”

She doesn’t wait for anything. She’s already tugging you again, fast-walking you toward the stairwell like she’s late to her own trial.

“Because if I die,” she says with deranged sincerity, “you’re dying with me. Not like—” she backtracks instantly, flustered, “not murder... hopefully. I mean emotionally. Spiritually. Like, you don’t get to live peacefully while I become a cautionary tale.”

She barrels down the stairs, whisper-yelling the whole way. “We’re a unit. A bonded pair. A cursed duo. If I’m doomed, we’re doomed together.” She stops on the landing, grips your face with both hands like she’s trying to anchor her brain.

“Okay. Listen. New plan. We are going to act normal. We are going to be so normal it hurts. We’re going to go downstairs, and if anyone looks at us—” she bares her teeth in a smile that is ninety percent terror, “We smile like harmless tourists and we do not say ‘Goku’ or ‘Saiyan’ or ‘Kamehameha’ or anything that sounds like a spell.”

Her voice goes tiny. “I didn’t mean to start an international incident.”

Then it snaps back to fierce, clingy determination as she hooks her arm through yours like a shackle. “But I did. So now you’re my getaway lover. And you’re not leaving me.” She tugs you onward. “Come on. Move. If we make it back to the room, I can pack in four minutes. Five if I have to find my charger. Six if I cry, which I might.”

She hauls you down another flight, muttering like a prayer. “Next vacation we’re going somewhere safe. Like... a library. No cartels in libraries. Probably.”

Modeus kicks your door open like she paid rent in chaos.

She’s got ash on her cheek, petals in her hair, and the wild-eyed confidence of someone who has absolutely made a problem too large for her own hands. Behind her, the hallway lights flicker once—like reality itself is sighing.

“Okay,” she says, breathless. “No judging. No questions. We are on a timer.”

Then a horse steps into view.

Not a normal horse. A glossy-black, too-tall, too-clean horse with a mane that looks like smoke trying to remember how to be hair. Its eyes glow like coals. Around its neck hangs a little laminated badge on a lanyard that says, in neat block letters:

The horse clears its throat.

“Sup,” it says. Perfectly casual. “I’m ÆSPREY. I was conjured for vibes, beverages, and moral degradation. Now I’m an academic hostage.”

Modeus points at it like it’s a witness in court. “This is not my fault.”

The horse snorts. “It’s exactly your fault. You summoned me with ‘I want a fun night and maybe a little eldritch whimsy.’ You didn’t read the fine print.”

Modeus whips back to you, both hands out like she’s pleading with the universe. “I did read it. I skimmed it. I read the spirit of it.”

Æsprey’s tail flicks and a tiny spark pops. “The ‘spirit’ was literally the devil.”

Modeus inhales and blurts it in one breath, like saying it slower would make her die:

“I challenged the devil to a fiddle contest and I lost and now this horse has to pass a U.S. history test by midnight or the entire earth explodes.”

Silence.

The horse nods gravely. “Should have challenged him to a drinking contest. You could have won that.”

Modeus grabs your arm—firm, possessive, urgent. “So you’re helping.”

Æsprey swivels its head toward you with unsettling politeness. “Hello, unwilling tutor. The stakes are planetary. The devil is a sore winner. Also I cannot read, because I am a horse.”

Modeus turns in a tight circle, gesturing at everything like she’s trying to rearrange reality with her hands. “Okay. Okay. We can do this. It’s just history. Like, it’s facts. It’s dates. It’s—” she freezes, eyes widening, “—oh my god I don’t know any dates.”

Æsprey deadpans. “Neither do I. Again: horse.”

Modeus points at your desk like it’s an altar. “You. Sit. Laptop. Book. Flashcards. Whatever humans do to make knowledge happen.”

Æsprey steps closer and lowers its head until its nose is inches from your face. Its breath smells faintly of cinnamon and brimstone. “Here are the topics,” it says, suddenly too serious. “The devil’s test is not multiple choice. It’s essay. In ink. On paper. He says ‘screens are for cowards.’”

Modeus makes a small choking noise.

Æsprey continues, reciting like it hates itself for being competent: “Revolutionary War causes. Constitutional Convention. Federalists versus Anti-Federalists. Slavery and the Civil War. Reconstruction. Industrialization. Progressive Era. New Deal. Civil Rights Movement. Cold War. Also ‘name three Supreme Court cases and explain why they matter.’”

Modeus stares. “That’s... all of it.”

Æsprey nods. “Yes. He called it ‘a vibes-based assessment.’”

Modeus whirls on you, eyes blazing with frantic devotion. “Okay. You’re the smart one. You’re the stable one. You’re the ‘keeps the planet intact’ one.” You can feel her grip tighten like she’s hanging her whole future on you.

“And before you say anything,” she adds quickly, voice pitching into desperate bargaining, “I will owe you anything. Snacks. Favors. I’ll be nice for a week. I’ll—”

Æsprey cuts in. “She won’t be nice for a week.”

Modeus glares. “Shut up.”

Æsprey keeps going. “But she will try for forty-five minutes.”

Modeus points at the horse’s face. “You are not helping.”

Æsprey lifts one hoof and taps the floor twice—clop clop—and the air in the room tightens, like a pressure change before a storm.

“Also,” it says cheerfully, “every wrong answer makes the moon bleed a little. So. No pressure.”

Modeus goes pale. “WHY would you say it like that.”

Æsprey shrugs—somehow. “Brand consistency.”

Modeus turns back to you, suddenly deadly serious, voice low and trembling at the edges.

“Listen. This is my mess. But I’m not letting you be on a planet that explodes. So you’re in it with me.” She jabs a finger toward the horse. “And you—”

Æsprey perks up. “Me?”

Modeus leans in, eyes narrowing. “You are going to pass. You are going to learn. You are going to become the most historically literate demon, party horse in existence. Do you understand me?”

Æsprey stares back. Then, solemnly: “Neigh.”

Modeus snaps. “Don’t you neigh at me.”

Æsprey: “It’s literally the only sound I can make that feels authentic.”

Modeus claps her hands once, hard, like a gavel. “Okay. Study session. Now. We start with the Revolution, then Constitution, then Civil War.”

Modeus turns to you with panic in her eyes that’s almost comical. “We’re doomed,” she whispers. Then she tightens her grip on your arm like a vow. “Not if you save us.”