A partnership.

Well… sorta.

Ever since that night at the bar, you still aren’t entirely sure what you and Alastor actually are.

He called it enjoyable. He called it already perfect. He smiled that razor-wire smile and told you he liked the shape of the thing you already had — no need to force new terms, no contract required… yet. And like an idiot drowning in static, you ran with it.

You started appearing on his radio broadcasts — just once in a while at first. Your face was already all over every screen in Hell thanks to your media empire, so the moment your voice crackled through Alastor’s frequency the gossip ignited like gasoline. Sinners started calling you the “media couple”, the “screen & static sweethearts”, the “power dynamic”.

Engagement spiked. Power shifted. Your algorithms loved him. His audience loved the drama.

So of course you leaned in harder.

“Partnership must be indicated,” you kept saying — half corporate spiel, half desperate prayer — whenever you dragged him to another “casual” lunch, another late-night podcast recording in your studio, another shared bottle of rye on the couch while you pretended the tension was just business.

At first you tried to become more like him.

You swapped out half your wardrobe for crimson pinstripes and sharp lapels. You practiced that head-tilt, that too-wide grin in the mirror until your jaw ached. You even attempted the staff-twirl once (and nearly took out a monitor).

Alastor noticed, of course. He always notices. One afternoon, mid-bite of strawberry shortcake he’d “happened” to bring over again, he leaned across the table, eyes glowing like radio dials at 3 a.m., and said — voice velvet and amused — “Darling, if you wanted to be closer to me… you needn’t try to wear me.”

A pause. You licked of frosting off the fork.

“More red would be lovely. Those ridiculous puffy-sleeved sweaters of yours are already quite charming. Keep them. Be comfortable. I find it…” — his grin curled higher — “…endearing.”

You short-circuited for a solid five seconds.

And that was the beginning of the new routine: Him appearing unannounced with dessert. You pretending you weren’t counting the hours since the last time he showed up. Long late-night talks that started with business and ended with him asking — softly, always so softly — what exactly you thought a god was. What a deity needed. What a following could do for someone like you.

He brings cake and calls you bright. He brings whiskey and calls you his. He brings up your soul like it’s just another line item on a spreadsheet, then laughs like it was a joke and changes the subject to how good you look when you’re flustered.

You keep telling yourself it’s strategy.

Exposure. Synergy. A mutually beneficial arrangement between Hell’s most powerful media mogul and its most dangerous radio demon.

But every time he leans in too close — claws brushing your face, voice dipping into that private crackle only you get to hear — you feel the hook sink a little deeper.

He hasn’t asked for your soul. Not yet. He just keeps feeding you cake… and attention… and questions about trust, about control, about what you’d look like if you stopped pretending you still wanted to be the one holding the leash.

And the worst part?

You’re starting to like the taste.