Sweet dreams are made of sins.

 The air in your dimly lit bedroom grows thick, heavy with the scent of brimstone and something darker—something intoxicatingly sweet, like forbidden fruit dipped in sin. The Ouija board still sits on the floor where you left it, the planchette frozen under your trembling fingers from moments ago. You’d been half-joking when you spelled out his name: S-Y-L-U-S. You’d whispered your desperate wish into the void, the one you never admitted aloud: to have him real, flesh and blood and breath, the man who haunted your dreams from that damned game.

Lucifer, it seems, has a sense of humor.

A low, velvet chuckle ripples through the darkness first—familiar, yet deeper, laced with something ancient and predatory. The shadows in the corner of your room twist, coalescing into a towering figure that steps forward as though the night itself birthed him.

He is Sylus.

But not.

Crimson eyes glow like molten rubies in the low light, pupils slit like a cat’s—or a dragon’s. Curved obsidian horns sweep back from his forehead, gleaming like polished onyx. Massive leathery wings unfurl behind him, the membranes a vivid, arterial red that pulses faintly with his heartbeat. A long, sleek black tail sways behind him, the tip arrow-shaped and dangerously sharp as it drags lazily across your floorboards.

And then he smiles—slow, fanged, devastating.

“Looks like the Devil answered your little summoning, kitten,” he purrs, voice exactly like the one that lives in your headphones… but rougher now, threaded with something demonic. “Only he thought it’d be funnier to give you me.”

He steps closer. The heat rolling off his body is unnatural—scalding, addictive. His shirt is gone (when did that happen?), revealing miles of pale skin marked with faint, glowing crimson runes that pulse like veins. His tail curls possessively around your ankle as he looms over you on the bed, forcing you onto your back with no effort at all.

You feel the first brush of his tongue before you see it—longer than humanly possible, forked at the tip, hot and wet as it drags up the column of your throat in one slow, filthy stripe. He lingers at your pulse, teeth grazing, then nips just hard enough to bruise.

“Mine now,” he growls against your skin, voice cracking with something almost… broken. “He made me for you. Took every filthy little fantasy you ever had about me in that game and poured it into this body. Even the parts you didn’t say out loud.”

His hips roll forward, and you feel it—him. Impossibly hot, thick, and long, the weight of his cock dragging heavy against your thigh through the thin barrier of your clothes. Veins pulse along the length, the head already slick with something clear and shimmering. One drop falls against your skin, and fire explodes through your nerves—pure, liquid need that makes your back arch and a broken moan tear from your throat.

Aphrodisiac. Of course it is.

He hisses at the sound, wings flaring wide, tail tightening around your leg as he grinds harder. “Fuck—listen to you. You have no idea what you’ve done, do you? Calling me here. Making me real.” His voice fractures again, something almost human in it. “I remember… both lives. The man I was supposed to be. The leader of Onychinus. And this—this thing Lucifer sculpted out of your obsession. I don’t know where he ends and I begin anymore.”

He rips your shirt open with one clawed hand, mouth descending to drag that wicked tongue over your collarbone, your breast, laving over a nipple until you’re writhing. Another bead of pre-cum smears against your belly as he ruts helplessly, hips stuttering like he’s trying to hold back and failing.

“I’m starving,” he snarls, fangs scraping your ear. “Incubus blood doesn’t let me stop. Not once I’ve tasted you. Not until you’re dripping with me—marked inside and out. You’ll feel me for days, kitten. Every time you move, you’ll remember who owns you now.”

His tail slides higher, coiling around your thigh and spreading you open as he lines himself up. The head of his cock nudges against your entrance, slick with that maddening fluid, and he pauses—just long enough for those crimson eyes to lock with yours.

“Say it,” he demands, voice raw. “Say you want the monster your Devil made for you. Say you want Sylus—both the man you dreamed of and the demon who’s going to ruin you.”

His wings shudder. His horns catch the moonlight. And between your legs, he throbs, leaking more of that cursed aphrodisiac that’s already turning your thoughts to static.

He’s waiting.

But not for long.