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Summary
Alastor Hartfelt should have been a memory. Having narrowly escaped a "hunting accident" in 1933, he has lived to see his "Golden Age" of radio rot. Now fifty-three, he watches with predatory disdain as television turns the human imagination into grey slush. He is a King without a kingdom, presiding over a studio that smells of stagnant humidity and impending obsolescence.
Into the sweltering pergatory walks Vincent Whittman, a weatherman with a polished smile and a hollow soul. Dispatched to New Orleans by executives who view him as a disposable "pretty boy," Vincent carries Alastor's death warrant: the corporate buyout papers that will shutter Alastor's radio station forever.
Unless, of course, they can work together and assist one another with getting what they want.
Bookmarked by Justa__Simp
02 Feb 2026
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You find yourself on the brink of death in a cold and dark place till a charismatic TV host finds you and does his very best to take care of you, although, his motives are definitely questionable.
Bookmarked by Justa__Simp
01 Feb 2026
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As Vox's assistant, you handled a lot more than designated Voxtek tasks. It also meant dealing with Vox's rotating door of overly observant interest and his burning hatred for deer. Which you, unfortunately, were. On top of being one of the least intimidating types of sinner demon, making it difficult to be taken seriously on first glance.
However, with Vox's new personal upgrade, comes a new more confident and forward overlord. And his demeanor towards you becomes more enticing and less teetering on the shadow of someone else.
Series
- Part 13 of More Than Sin
Bookmarked by Justa__Simp
26 Jan 2026
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Two kids knocked on your door, offering a TV. You had no reason to accept, yet you did, only out of social obligation. You didn't expect this action to impact your life, as a side character's actions shouldn't matter. Oh, how wrong you were.
Bookmarked by Justa__Simp
25 Jan 2026
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Summary
Congratulations, you are dead. You gooned too hard. Your final jerk took all the blood from your brain, permanently (somehow). Freshly dead, you made a deal with Vox, kind of... selling your soul to him.
Bookmarked by Justa__Simp
23 Jan 2026

