Why yes, I'll take your soul

It was well into the evening when everyone started convening for game night.

Much to everyone’s surprise, Alastor had accepted Charlie’s invitation. Charlie had insisted that he actually play instead of hovering over their shoulders and offering advice.

Why had he accepted? It was simple, really. His deal compelled him to spend a vague, arbitrary amount of time engaging in group activities at the hotel. It wasn’t exactly a written rule. Hard to anticipate exactly when it would decide enough was enough and compel him.

And as far as group activities went, he didn’t particularly mind this one.

Alastor liked games.

He enjoyed competition. He enjoyed manipulating people and outwitting them. Rest assured, he wasn’t a sore loser. He might be competitive, but he wasn’t uncouth. He recognized it was just a game.

He’d had some unfortunate experiences with sore losers, though. Often they’d accuse him of cheating—which was rarely true—or, even more ridiculous, get upset with him for trying to win at all. ‘Pathetic’

The last player to arrive was Charlie herself, descending the stairs with that incessant cheerfulness of hers. She was dressed—or rather, underdressed—in an oversized nightshirt, barely tight enough to stay on, pale skin catching the light. It just managed to cling to her right shoulder. The neckline plunged deeply, a wide curve that revealed a far too generous amount of cleavage. Presumably, she was wearing bottoms as well, but Alastor knew not, the hem skimed mid-thigh, and from his vantage point he saw nothing beneath but alabaster legs.

Everyone started getting comfortable around the board. For Alastor, “comfortable” meant sitting in his chair with perfect posture, hands folded neatly in his lap, smile already in place. His grin looked anticipatory. Pleasant, polite, eager in a way that was almost convincing.

Charlie plopped down on the couch next to Vaggie, the nightshirt riding up in a way that enraptured Vaggie. She tried to be subtle about it. She was terrible at it. It was obvious. The way her gaze dipped and lingered before she caught herself. The way she adjusted on the couch like she suddenly couldn’t get comfortable. The way she glanced away too fast when Charlie shifted and the shirt slipped a little lower on one side.

Mostly, Vaggie stared at Charlie’s chest with the intensity of a cat stalking a mouse. When Charlie shifted to set up the board, her eyes traced Charlie’s ass and lingered on her thighs.

That was a side of Vaggie Alastor hadn’t seen before.

He didn’t like it.

Alastor had always found Vaggie’s single-minded devotion to Charlie annoying, but this? This was vulgar.

Alastor's seat was opposite the couch, directly across from Charlie and Vaggie. Husk and Angel claimed the remaining sides of the coffee table: Husk sat opposite Angel, slouched deep in an armchair. There was a bottle of bourbon on the end table beside him. He didn’t look excited, but Alastor knew he cherished these nights.

Angel sat across from Husk, to Alastor’s left.

“Sat” was a generous term.

He was sprawled upside down on his chair, head hanging at board level, legs hooked over the top. Earlier, Husk had told him, “Cut the shit. You can’t play like that.”

Angel had taken it as a challenge.

They played a few rounds. The board slowly filled with pieces. Cards traded hands. 

Vaggie played cautiously. She minimized her engagements, avoided direct clashes unless she had an overwhelming advantage, and used her turns to shore up what she already had. 

It was annoying. It also worked.

Husk, on the other hand, risked it all right out of the gate.

He leveraged his meager resources on a long shot, dumped nearly everything into one early push that could’ve collapsed instantly if the  deck had gone against him.

It didn’t.

He gained two mediocre territories, a handful more cards and a hefty lump of influence that placed him as the most threatening player.

Charlie overextended.

She was too ambitious. She expanded too quickly, reached too far. Grabbed territory she didn't have the influence to afford 

For a minute, it looked like she was going to get punished hard for it.

She only recovered thanks to the good graces of Husk and Vaggie.

Angel was barely functioning the entire time. He stayed hanging upside down in his chair, stubbornly fighting the headrush. His arms kept flopping toward the board at weird angles. He made moves with no rhyme or reason, often deciding which action to take based on whatever piece was easiest to reach. 

Miraculously, he was still doing better than Charlie.

Alastor, meanwhile, had been doing what he did best. While everyone else swung at each other and fought over territory, he secured his power base, preparing for a burst of violence.

On Charlie’s turn, she leaned over the board with a little sigh, elbows planted on the table, her hand tucked under her chin. She stared at the pieces with intense focus, biting her lip as she considered her options.

Alastor chuckled softly to himself and took a slow sip of rye whiskey.

It was unlikely that anything short of extraordinary luck could let her pull ahead after her earlier blunder. She’d spent too much momentum, spread herself too thin.

Still… he was glad she was still trying. Charlie didn’t fold. If she were the type to—

“Hey! Strawberry pimp, it’s your turn.” He was jarred from his thoughts by Angel’s voice.

Alastor's face remained resolute and unbothered as he set his drink down and brought his attention back to the board and continued with the game.

The game continued like this for some time. Angel made a grab for territory near Alastor's sphere of influence. He capitalized, and afterwards Angel complained loudly.

“Remind me why we’re playing the Overlord board game with an actual overlord?”

Charlie snorted, trying not to laugh. Husk grumbled something curmudgeonly.

Charlie ended her turn and leaned back only to let out a startled yelp as she slipped between the cushions of the couch. Her legs kicked up in the air as she flailed, flashing her rose gold panties to Alastor.

Alastor’s eyes flicked down on instinct. He quirked a brow.

That was bold. She was wearing only panties under that shirt. He knew he was prudish compared to most of Hell’s denizens, but he’d assumed she'd be wearing shorts beneath, or at least briefs.

“Hey, toots!” Angel called out with a wolfish grin. “That’s cheating, no seducing the competition,” he said with a saucy wink.

Vaggie’s glare could have melted angelic steel. She shot daggers at both Angel and Alastor, her hands gripping the armrest like a vise.

“Hah. Not interested,” Alastor said flatly, defusing the situation somewhat.

Charlie finally got her feet under her and hauled herself upright. Her cheeks were still flushed as she cleared her throat and pretended nothing had happened.

“Alastor, it’s your turn.”

Alastor, being the gentleman he was, followed her lead. He picked up his cards and took his turn without commenting.

Moments later, he realized he played his turn suboptimally. He chastised himself internally. He’d been too distracted by Charlie’s little show to notice the correct play. His claws flexed against the armrests of his chair, the leather creaking under the pressure of his grip. ‘Annoying.’ An amusing guffaw was no reason to slack off. 

Then Vaggie took her turn.

She triggered a hazard event. Everyone had to replace their hand with random cards. The table descended into chaos as everyone tossed their hand into the discard, drawing new cards. 

Charlie leaned forward in her excitement, the neckline of her nightshirt dipping dangerously low. Alastor’s gaze flicked down before he could stop himself.

Her breasts were pale, impossibly white against the darker fabric, soft and full. The rosy nipples—matching her panties, no less—were impossible to ignore.

His jaw snapped tight.

Alastor’s fingers clamped down on the arms of his chair with punishing force, wood creaking faintly beneath the pressure. His knuckles blanched, though he scarcely noticed. For the second time in his unlife, Alastor, the great Radio Demon, had an erection. His face stayed controlled for half a second, then his control faltered, and the mother of all scowls took its place.

He did not move. He did not shift. He did not adjust. He kept himself perfectly still. With painstaking care, he set his new cards down, grateful—absurdly—that he had not shredded them where they rested between his fingers. His scowl remained.

This could not be dismissed as the result of sickness, or proximity. There was only one conclusion, and he loathed it on principle.

He was attracted to Charlie.

Or… she had drugged him? No. Preposterous. …Unless? No. That was ridiculous. Charlie wouldn’t do something like that. It wasn’t in her nature.

Finally, he forced his gaze up and away from her breasts. Vaggie, thankfully, remained oblivious, her own gaze glued to Charlie’s backside where she certainly had a clear view of those rose-gold panties.

Husk’s eyes narrowed, his mouth pulling into a line as he stared, head canted, at Alastor. Then Husk made his move. He leveraged everything he had—territory, influence, all of it. A full commitment, aimed at wiping Alastor out in one swing. It was reckless. Clearly, Husk had mistaken Alastor’s disgust for a weak hand.

The others noticed the shift immediately. It quickly became a joint attack.

Alastor blocked out the room. He blocked out Charlie. He blocked out his own reaction. He focused on the board, his pieces, his power. He could deal with his horrifying revelation later.

Right now, he was going to win.

Everyone chose their battle cards and flipped them.

Alastor had been positioning himself as a true combat powerhouse all game. He easily had the strength necessary to fend off all aggressors and counterattack.

There was an immediate wave of complaints.

Angel threw his hands up and started yelling about luck and unfairness. Vaggie’s expression tightened, and she muttered something short and sharp under her breath. Charlie groaned and dropped her head into her hands.

Husk didn’t even get angry.

He just looked confused, staring at the cards, then at Alastor, then back at the cards.

Alastor didn’t gloat, boast, or mock.

He simply seized the initiative.

He swiftly and systematically tore them apart. First Husk, then Angel, then Charlie, and finally Vaggie.

“See, Alastor, wasn’t that fun?” Charlie asked afterwords. She hurried over to his chair and put a hand on his shoulder for half a second, then pulled it back quickly, remembering he didn’t like to be touched. It didn’t matter. She was still close. Too close. Close enough that Alastor could feel her presence and smell her hair and hear her breathing.

He stood up abruptly, chair scraping slightly. He adjusted himself, wiped his monocle with his handkerchief, and forced his face into something neutral. He gave a half-hearted excuse he couldn’t be bothered to remember.

Then he left.

He went straight to his radio tower.

Alastor struggled to remember exactly how yesterday’s healing session had gone. He remembered pain, certainly, and he definitely felt better today than he had in a long while, so it must have gone well enough. Unfortunately, his mind had been far too preoccupied with denying his mortifying situation to truly observe it.

Tonight’s healing session was even worse.

Alastor sat rigidly, every muscle held in check by habit alone. His mind scrambled for something—anything—that might anchor it away from the torture he was experiencing. He tried to think up new avenues of research. He reviewed ritual diagrams he’d half-drafted and discarded. He schemed ways out of his deal, turning over loopholes and angles that didn’t exist.

Nothing proved a suitable distraction.

Charlie, entirely unaware of the misery she wrought, was straddling his lap once again. She was focused on the task at hand, brows furrowed in concentration as she worked her magic. Her weight pressed down against him, soft where he was not, pulling his thoughts into erratic directions he had no interest in entertaining. Every slight shift of her body, every brush of her skin against his, sent a jolt of unwanted desire through him.

It was unbearable.

And yet, he endured it. Because he had to. He was not some low creature to be undone by a pretty face.

And then, infuriatingly, inevitably, his body betrayed him again.

So it was that the Radio Demon experienced the third erection of his unlife.

‘This is Hell.’