Chapter Text
Evan Buckley lay sprawled across his bed, arms folded behind his head like he was posing for the world's saddest magazine cover. The ceiling above him stared back, blank and uncaring, much like most people in his life, come to think of it.
Eighteen. Technically an adult. Practically… still invisible.
He huffed a breath. The house was quiet, the kind of quiet that didn't feel peaceful but empty, like a soundstage after the crew went home. Down the hall, his parents slept, like in a separate universe. Buck doubted either of them even remembered what day it was tomorrow.
If he was lucky, he'd wake up to a card. Maybe a grocery store cupcake. Maybe a weak pat on the shoulder and a muttered "happy birthday, Evan".
Evan.
He hated how small it felt inside his head. Even his own name didn't fit him when his parents called him that.
At least he had his friends. Sort of. Honestly, none of his friends would remember until at least lunchtime tomorrow that it was his birthday. When they did, it would be with emoji texts and dramatic misspellings, the kind that pretended closeness without actually having any. 'Buck', as they called him, was the guy who made everyone laugh, sure, but only because laughter was better than being ignored. If he didn't make himself loud and ridiculous, people tended to forget he existed.
Kind of like his family did, really.
He swallowed, throat tight. He tried not to think about Maddie, his sister with the warm smile and the soft voice, living all the way in Boston now. She was happy, he hoped. Busy, definitely. Too busy to call, probably. Too far away to be here.
The clock on his nightstand ticked toward midnight. Buck watched the red numbers change, the room lit in a light crimson.
11:59:30
11:59:50
11:59:57…58…59
00:00
Buck exhaled, a whisper of a laugh slipping out, equal parts dark humor and resignation.
"Happy birthday to me," he murmured to himself, because someone had to say it.
Silence answered.
For a moment, he let himself imagine the world pausing just for him. That maybe turning eighteen would mean something. That maybe tomorrow he'd wake up and feel less like a spare thought in his own family's life.
But the universe, predictably, did nothing. No fireworks. No sudden revelations. Just…
A faint shiver in the air.
Buck frowned. That was new. The room felt… wrong. Like the temperature dropped a few degrees, or like someone had opened a window.
He pushed himself upright, heart thudding. "What the…?"
Another breath of cold swept across his arms, raising goosebumps.
Suddenly, Buck no longer felt quite so alone…
Then a sound came, low and resonant, like a wobble in the air mixed with faint drumming, as if someone had hit a tuning fork inside the walls. It vibrated through Buck's ribs, unsettling in a way that made every instinct argue with itself:
Check it out vs. Run far, far away.
Great. Both options sounded equally stupid. And yet somehow, he already knew he was going to choose the stupidest one.
He slid out of bed, feet hitting the cool floor. Buck grabbed his old baseball bat from the corner, the same one he'd used back in Little League before he realized he was better at running than hitting balls. It felt weirdly heavy now. The house was dark, shadows layered over shadows. His parents kept the place neat and absolutely devoid of comfort, like they were allergic to warmth or personality.
He crept down the hallway, every creak of the floorboards punching through the silence. The strange air-wobble sound grew louder as he moved toward the living room, prickling the back of his neck. The living room was cloaked in darkness except for the faint glow from the streetlights outside.
And that's when he saw him.
A man stood in the center of the room as if he'd materialized from the darkness itself.
Buck froze. His heartbeat launched into a sprint.
The stranger was… big. Broad shoulders, tall, all hard muscle beneath a perfectly tailored black suit that did nothing to hide his strength. His jaw was sharp enough to cut glass, with a cleft in his chin that shouldn't have been as attractive as it was. High cheekbones, a mouth made for sin, and piercing blue eyes that glowed faintly in the dim light.
Beautiful. Terrifying.
Like someone had stolen a model from a luxury cologne ad and dropped him into a horror movie.
The man grinned when he noticed Buck. It was smooth, slow, and wicked, like he knew secrets Buck didn't even know he had.
"Hello, Evan."
The way his deep voice wrapped around the name made every hair on Buck's arms stand at full attention, like he'd been stroked by a live wire. But the craziest was that he liked how his name sounded coming from the stranger's mouth.
Before Buck could react, the man added, almost cheerfully, "And happy birthday."
Buck made a sound that could generously be described as a scream, a yelp, and a fish gasping for air all at once. It echoed embarrassingly loud in the dark room.
"Wh-who the hell are you?" Buck blurted, lifting the baseball bat. "You… you need to get out. Now. My parents are home, and they'll… they'll call the police! I mean it!"
The man chuckled. Actually chuckled. A warm, velvety sound that made Buck's skin heat in ways that were absolutely not helpful right now.
"Oh, Evan," the stranger said fondly, "I'm no stranger. I'm a very old friend of your parents." He dipped his head in a mock bow. "You may call me Tommy. Tommy Kinard."
Buck's pulse stuttered. He felt scared, terrified, even, but also… hot? Fascinated? Like his brain was malfunctioning under the pressure of fear and the world's most inappropriately timed attraction.
Tommy straightened, blue eyes flickering like flames in a way no human's should. "Now," he said, smile widening, "are you coming?"
Before Buck could decide whether to swing the bat, faint footsteps thumped down the stairs.
His parents appeared in their sleepwear, blinking against the darkness. But instead of panic, instead of calling 911 like any reasonable human being would when there's a beautiful, terrifying beast of a man in their living room, their faces crumpled into something far worse.
Dread.
His mother's hand flew to her mouth. "Oh God… What are you doing here?"
Tommy turned toward them with an easy, cordial smile, like he'd been invited for brunch. "Margaret. Phillip. Lovely to see you both." He gestured loosely toward Buck. "I'm here for what was promised to me."
Buck blinked. Once. Twice. His brain blue-screened.
"What - what is going on?" he demanded, voice pitching upward. "Who is he? Why does he know my name? And why does he look like a supermodel and the devil at the same time?!"
"Oh, let me assure you, the Devil looks nothing like me. Lucy is a very beautiful woman, though."
His father stepped forward, jaw tight. "The deal is off, Kinard. You didn't deliver."
Tommy chuckled, low and silk-smooth. "Phillip, I delivered exactly what was asked of me." He glanced at Buck with a soft, almost proud smile. "More than asked, frankly."
Buck stared at all three of them. "I'm sorry, what? What deal? What are you talking about? And why - why is everyone acting like this is normal?!"
Tommy clasped his hands behind his back, posture relaxed, as if preparing for a presentation.
"Very well," he said. "Truth, then." His eyes glowed brighter. "I'm a demon, yes, a real one, and eighteen years ago, your parents made a deal with me."
Buck's grip on the bat slipped. "A DEMON? What - I - I don't - why - what does that even mean?!"
"They asked me for a deal," Tommy continued calmly, "for your brother Daniel."
Buck shook his head. Hard. "No. I don't have a brother."
His mother whispered, "You… did."
Tommy nodded politely. "Daniel had leukemia; your parents were desperate for a perfect genetic match, another child, a baby, quickly. So they came to me, and I offered assistance; a child engineered to be the ideal donor. Strong, healthy, resilient." He gestured at Buck casually. "You."
Buck swallowed hard, his throat feeling raw; of course, there had to be a reason his parents never looked at him the way other parents looked at their kids. He'd joked about it to himself a hundred times (maybe I'm adopted, maybe I'm the mailman's kid), but apparently the truth was several layers worse and involved hellfire contracts.
"You… you made me?" he asked, his voice cracking and furious as he looked at his parents. "With demon magic?"
His hands were shaking, and that pissed him off even more. He didn't want them to see him shake. He didn't want Tommy to see him shake, especially not when the guy's stupidly beautiful face was right there being… distracting.
He turned to Tommy sharply. "Did you make me with their… stuff? Or did you three…?" He gagged mid-sentence, horrified at his own imagination, his face burning with a mix of mortification and rage.
Tommy's expression softened as he smiled at him with pity. "Well, I took your father's sperm... Oh, Phillip, don't look at me like that, because I remember you enjoying the process. Anyway. I added a touch of my demonic power. I laid my hand on your mother's belly with it for the conception. And voilà." He smiled and made a flourish with his hand and bowed slightly for dramatic effect. "Evan Buckley. Designed to save a life."
Buck staggered back, hitting the edge of the couch.
"The birthmark on your face, proof of the deal," Tommy confirmed gently. "My touch. My mark."
Buck swallowed, throat gritty and burning. "And what did you get out of this?" he forced out. "What was in it for you?"
Tommy tilted his head, eyes glowing like blue embers. "Their baby's soul," he said softly. "When he turns eighteen."
Buck's vision tunneled so fast the room lurched; his chest cinched in on itself, tight and nauseating. "My soul?" he choked out, bending forward with his hands on his knees as his breath began to saw out of him. "I'm gonna be sick."
Somewhere through the panic haze, Tommy moved, silent, smooth, too graceful for a man that size.
"Oh, Evan…" His voice was warm velvet, wrong and comforting at the same time.
Buck hated how it slid under his skin, how part of him leaned toward the sound like a plant straining for sunlight.
Tommy stopped close, close enough that Buck could feel his heat, but not touching. His hands lifted in a slow, soothing gesture. A small silver flask appeared in his palm, like it had always been there, like Tommy had just pulled it from thin air.
"Drink," Tommy murmured. "It will settle you."
Buck's brain shouted No. His stomach shouted run. His pride shouted swing the damn bat.
And yet… something deeper, something ancient and instinctive whispered back he won't hurt you. Was that instinct his? Or some demon trick rewiring his nerves? But his body moved anyway. He snatched the flask with a shaky hand, glaring at it, at Tommy, at everything. And then he drank.
The liquid was cool and sweet, mint, honey, and something wild and glowing he couldn't name. Warmth spread through him like soft fire, smoothing out the nausea, unclenching his lungs.
He hated how good it felt. He hated the part of himself that… didn't hate it at all.
"Poor boy," Tommy said gently. "They didn't tell you any of this…"
"Daniel still died!" his mother snapped suddenly. "The deal is off!"
Tommy sighed and rubbed his temple as if this were all a tedious business matter.
"Margaret, I am sorry to inform you, but I fulfilled my end of the deal. Evan was made perfectly. I've checked the contract repeatedly over the years. I asked my boss, Lucy… or Satan or the Devil, as you might know her, and she says the contract is watertight. I even consulted Death herself, Natalia is a lovely woman, by the way. She confirmed that it was not Evan's fault that his brother died. Daniel's body was simply too weak to accept the healing. And healing him was never part of the contract."
Buck clutched the flask, his fingers white-knuckled, while his parents began shouting at Tommy, at each other, and at God; the noise swirled around him, sharp and ugly, but Tommy ignored them completely to focus only on Buck.
"Evan," he said lightly, "before we move forward, do you need anything from your old life? A pet goldfish? Your favorite plush toy? Or," he tapped a thoughtful finger against his chin, "would you prefer a clean break?"
Buck gaped at him. A clean break? From his life? From the only life he'd ever known, even if it suddenly felt hollow and rigged from the start?
His stomach twisted again. Anger stirred under the shock, small, confused, hot.
He should hate the way the demon talked about his future like it was grocery shopping, but Tommy's attention felt steadier and warmer than anything he'd ever received from the two people currently screaming behind him.
"I… why am I the prize?" Buck demanded, his voice cracking. "I wasn't even alive when they made the deal; how am I responsible for all of this?"
Tommy blinked at him, expression softening with what looked disturbingly like real sympathy. Then he exhaled, slow and almost sheepish.
Tommy's expression softened with what looked disturbingly like real sympathy. "Unfortunately, that's how deals work in my line of business; parents are responsible for their children, and therefore," he lifted a shoulder, "they can also make deals on their behalf."
"That's insane," Buck whispered.
"Correct," Tommy agreed brightly, "and yet, here we are."
Buck hated that a tiny part of him wanted to laugh. Or lean toward Tommy. Or just let the demon's easy confidence carry him for a second.
Behind them, Margaret shrieked something about contracts and fraud, while Phillip yelled that this was all Tommy's fault, and that they'd demanded a full refund. Whatever that meant. Tommy's eye twitched with a flash of annoyance before he checked a gleaming silver watch.
"Look, Evan, as you've apparently learned all of this within the last five minutes, I am somewhat sorry for the abruptness; I could give you time, leave you for the night, and we could arrange your move tomorrow."
He glanced at his parents, his nose wrinkling as if someone had opened a fridge full of expired milk. "However," he continued, his gaze traveling down Buck's frame with slow, deliberate interest, "it would be such a shame to leave empty-handed, and as I see, this doesn't seem like a particularly loving home. So perhaps leaving sooner is preferable?"
Buck's mind tumbled over itself.
His parents had sold him before he'd even existed. Made him for a medical procedure. Discarded him when he couldn't fix their first kid.
He was angry, boiling, shaking, nauseous, angry. The kind of anger that made his eyes sting, and his chest feel too tight. He wanted to scream at them. Throw something. Demand why he wasn't worth anything beyond a bone marrow donation.
He also wanted to hate Tommy, should hate Tommy, because demons were evil. Because Tommy had bought him like a collector's item. Because none of this was fair or right or normal.
But Tommy… Wasn't ignoring him. Wasn't treating him like a mistake or a burden or a tool.
And when Tommy looked at him… Buck felt seen in a way that he wasn't ready for.
His parents kept screaming, about deals, about contracts, about Daniel, but not once about him.
He inhaled, breath shaking. His choice wasn't really a choice, but it still tasted bitter on his tongue.
"I…" His voice cracked, anger and confusion and raw hurt all tangled. "I don't want to stay here. Let's go."
Tommy's smile bloomed slow and bright, wicked and delighted and almost… gentle. He didn't spare Margaret or Phillip a single glance; he looked only at Buck.
Only at him.
"Excellent choice, Evan," he murmured, lifting two fingers to snap.
Darkness spilled outward, shadows wrapping around Buck like cool silk, and for one breathless second, the world dissolved into swirling smoke. When he blinked, they were standing inside a breathtaking penthouse; Tommy stepped beside him, looking entirely pleased with himself.
"Welcome home."
Buck staggered, dizzy from the transition. "Where... where are we?"
"My apartment," Tommy said, spreading his arms proudly, "Penthouse. Los Angeles. Only the best."
"Penthouse? I thought demons lived in... I don't know, Hell? A cave?"
"Oh, that would be silly and not really cozy; I chose the penthouse instead." Tommy grinned, gesturing around the luxurious space. Buck looked, and holy crap.
"This must be so expensive!"
"Evan, please; I'm a demon. Wealth is the least interesting thing I can conjure. Take a look."
The place was massive. It was airy and open, with floor-to-ceiling glass windows that wrapped around the living area to provide a panoramic view of LA glowing like a constellation flipped upside-down; the city lights shimmered in the dark, a golden sea spreading endlessly below them.
A balcony curved along one side, framed with sleek black railings, while the furniture was luxurious but unexpectedly warm; there were rich woods, soft brown leather chairs, and a massive couch plush enough to drown in. There was even a home cinema setup complete with an absurdly big TV, and shelves lined with everything from classic noir films to rom-coms, which Buck absolutely did not expect from a demon. The entire place smelled faintly of smoke and cedar, and of a warm, spicy scent that Buck couldn't quite name.
Other doors and a hallway branched from the central room, and a staircase led up to a second level to... Offices? Bedrooms? Secret sex dungeon?
Buck swallowed. His brain, traitorously, drifted to the idea of... Great. Fantastic. Kidnapped by a demon, and his libido was like, but what if…
He glanced at Tommy and immediately remembered why. Why did Hell have to make demons look like that? Dangerous. Unfairly gorgeous. Built like sin in a bespoke button-down.
Buck scowled at himself. No. Absolutely not. Stop thinking things, you idiot.
"What… what now?" Buck asked, trying for defiant but landing somewhere in the neighborhood of squeaky. "Am I supposed to be your bedslave or something?"
Tommy blinked, then burst into laughter; it was a warm, delighted sound, as if Buck had told the funniest joke in the realm. "Slave? Evan, please; such a dramatic human concept." He rolled his wrist lazily, and with a soft metallic shink, something appeared around Buck's wrist.
Buck yelped and jerked back to find a cuff of dark, braided leather; it was soft and thin, featuring an elegant pendant with a circle, square, and triangle formed together. Buck absolutely did not like the way part of him liked it.
"There, a soul marker," Tommy noted approvingly.
"Marker? As in branding?!"
"No branding," Tommy said, wagging a finger with a voice that was maddeningly gentle; "just a symbol, a visual cue to let other entities know you are under my protection."
Buck's jaw clenched. He should be terrified. He was terrified. But there was also something else, something warm, dark, pulling, curling around his ribs whenever Tommy's eyes lingered.
"I'm not a prize, and I don't belong to anyone!" he bristled, stepping forward; "I don't care what weird demon rules you have; this doesn't mean anything."
Tommy's grin widened, his blue eyes gleaming like dancing embers. "There it is," he purred, leaning in slightly as the air around him began to warm. "A bit of fire. I think you and I will get along splendidly."
Buck's pulse kicked so hard he thought it might knock him over; he wanted to shove Tommy away, stare at him forever, and kiss him all at the same time (preferably after punching that stupidly perfect jaw).
"Don't…" Buck sputtered. "Don't look at me like that."
"Like what?" Tommy asked innocently; it was a lie, a clear and devastating lie.
"Like you already know I'm gonna…" Buck snapped his mouth shut, fighting the urge to yank the cuff off even though he secretly liked the weight of it. He was flustered and far too aware that his demon captor was looking at him like he was the most entertaining thing in the universe.
Tommy stepped closer, just one step, and his hand lifted slowly, giving Buck plenty of time to pull away if he wanted. He didn't. Tommy's fingers brushed the side of Buck's face, tracing the cheekbone and caressing the faint birthmark as if he knew it better than anyone; it was a gentle, reverent touch that sent electricity buzzing to the base of Buck's spine.
Tommy's expression shifted, becoming hungry and interested, before he stepped back abruptly; "Well," he said, his voice roughened but controlled, "I'm a consensual demon." He put one hand over his heart. "I don't do anything you don't genuinely want, Evan; and trust me... I know how to wait."
Buck's knees nearly buckled.
"Now, follow me; you need rest."
Tommy led him upstairs to a beautiful, spacious bedroom where the floor-to-ceiling windows offered yet another glittering view. "This," Tommy said, "is yours from now on."
Buck blinked, his mind reeling. "This is… my room?"
"Of course." Tommy snapped his fingers to produce another tiny silver flask. "Drink; it will help you sleep after an eventful first night."
Buck didn't question it this time; he drank, and as the warmth pooled in his chest, his limbs went pleasantly heavy. He collapsed onto the blankets, and the last thing he heard was Tommy's voice, soft, warm, and unexpectedly tender.
"Sleep well, Evan."
***
Tommy shut the bedroom door softly, and for a moment, he just stood there. Then he dragged both hands down his face, letting out a breath that sounded suspiciously like a groan.
"…Well, that did not go as I thought it would."
He leaned back against the wall, staring at the closed door with a kind of exhausted bemusement. He absolutely had not expected his night to go like this.
When he'd made the deal years ago, he'd honestly just been... well... a little shit.
He had shown up intending to annoy two obnoxious people, and after hearing the coldness of their demands, he'd dangled the "give me your unborn child" clause in front of them just to watch them squirm. He'd wanted to force them to consider the consequences, perhaps even spark a bit of parental protective instinct, but they had said yes immediately. No hesitation; not even a "wait, what?" or a "maybe this is a bad idea."
Tommy had stood there blinking for a solid minute, wondering if they had misheard him, but no, they were just that awful.
Fine, whatever, he'd thought back then; it's hard to get reliable human employees these days. Since the parents clearly didn't want the child, he figured he would take the boy's soul for a while and see if he could train a competent human assistant; Bobby wouldn't be with him forever, after all. It was supposed to be simple, business-like, and professional.
Then Evan had walked into the room tonight.
Tommy's brain had short-circuited so hard he was surprised sparks hadn't flown out of his ears, because Evan was, frankly, probably Tommy's best work ever. Sure, the boy came from their DNA, but Tommy's power had shaped that potential, and apparently, he'd done one hell of a job. A masterpiece, even; long legs, tousled hair, a mouth soft enough to be illegal, and those bright, searching blue eyes.
Tommy scrubbed a hand over his face again.
He'd looked at Evan and instantly wanted to take him home, to hide him from those two pathetic excuses for parents and provide him with warmth, protection, and every luxury he could ever want. But then he had also seen the fear in Evan's eyes; it was buried under the shock and that stubborn spark of anger, but it was there, a sliver of genuine, shaking fear.
Tommy's jaw clenched; he hated it. He hated how fear looked on Evan, and he hated even more that he was currently the reason for it. He was a demon, sure (he liked mischief, chaos, chilly martinis, and contracts with inconvenient fine print), but he wasn't heartless; not when it came to a boy who'd spent eighteen years like this.
"Okay," he muttered to himself, letting out a slow breath as he stared at the door. "First task: show Evan I can be nice."
He rolled his eyes at how ridiculous that sounded; Tommy Kinard, better known to the other world as Asmodeus, one of the Kings of Hell and the Demon of Lust and Gambling, planning a charm offensive. But he meant it; if Evan stayed with him, and if Evan eventually trusted him of his own accord...
Tommy's mouth curved in a slow smile. "That," he whispered, "would be very, very nice."
He straightened his clothes, fixed his cuffs, and walked away; he was already planning breakfast and perhaps some very gentle persuasion. After all, he was very good at winning people over.