1 - 20 of 123 Works by Issushaim
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“Don’t tell me you want to keep working,” Alastor says with teasing incredulity, mostly to see how long he can drag this facade of ignorance out. “You owe me a song,” he reminds him, though there’s no way Vox has forgotten. He never does. “And a drink.”
A Valentine's Day in Hell.
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It was one thing to choose to be alone; to spurn close connections in a world where everyone sought to use one another in some way. It was quite another to have solitude forced upon you, left to nothing but your own thoughts as they began to clamour relentlessly, maddeningly against the insides of your own skull.
And by fucking god, the bittersweet nostalgia that one murmur of Vox’s signal had sunk deep into his aching chest with familiar claws was irresistible. Alastor hated it, even as he knew he couldn’t let it go.
Vox was hardly in any condition to deny him, in any case.
An AU in which things went rather differently at the end of s2, in a series of 666 word fics.
[P] Perseverance
Series
- Part 2 of A P O C A L Y P S E 666
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Hell is Other People (except when it's not) by issu (Issushaim)
Fandoms: Hazbin Hotel (Cartoon)
31 Jan 2026
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The Hell he emerged to was nothing like he remembered. No, it was more like the Hell the priest of his childhood had painted melodramatic visions of: a wasteland of desolate fire and brimstone under red skies, of agonising solitude—though it was hardly separation from God he cared about.
An AU in which things went rather differently at the end of s2, in a series of 666 word fics.
[A] Alone
Series
- Part 1 of A P O C A L Y P S E 666
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“I don’t trust him,” Alastor bites out, because it's true. It’s different. He doesn’t trust anyone, let alone Vox. All the man knows how to do is lie. “I just know him.”
There’s a soft, throaty chuckle as Valentino waves the smoke from his face to take a slow sip of his drink, closing his eyes briefly in pleasure before cracking one open to look at Alastor smugly. “Mm, and you also know that he wants to fuck you, don’t you, baby?” Discomfort crawls down Alastor’s spine, something ugly and hard settling in the pit of his stomach. “That cutesy, flirty shit you were pulling in front of the whole city—even your tits were falling out, which, nice touch by the way—yeah, you know him.”
Alastor has a plan. Then again, so does Valentino.
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The thin line of Vox’s mouth twists. “You have no idea what I want.”
He’s not entirely wrong. The Vox that Alastor had always thought he’d known is shifting, new facets fractured and exposed in the bewildering wretchedness of his breakdown. No, he doesn’t know what Vox wants, and he’s now not sure that he ever did. It itches under his skin like a sick compulsion he wants nothing more than to excise.
And so he shall.
Alastor decides he wants answers, no matter the cost.
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Sometimes the memories still feel like a fuckin’ fever dream. Vivid jeweled colours that are blurring around the edges; muffled voices and music that snap into crisp clarity only in time for him to recall the last few words or notes. The familiar weight of a friendly hand on his shoulder; of hooded ruby eyes gleaming warmly. And now he’s waxing poetic again, like a sentimental fool—but it's hardly the first time, and doesn’t it say it all that he’s still never learned?
The alcohol probably doesn’t help. Or maybe it does—even after several decades the jury’s still out on that one, and he’ll sure as shit never find out otherwise.
Husk reminisces, and Alastor interrupts.
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There’s a shadow of disdain in Vox’s expression as he looks at Carmilla, too, and when he speaks his voice is dripping with a questioning sort of condescension. “I’ll be blunt,” Vox says smoothly, and this time deliberately allows his eyes to flick towards Alastor—and it’s quite obvious the precise moment that Carmilla realises where this is heading; she briefly casts her eyes heavensward as she visibly exhales in resignation and folds her arms. “I just can’t help but wonder why there’s a child here, Ms. Carmine, and what that says about this whole…” Vox waves his claws vaguely, “...operation.”
Alastor knows what he wants—and unfortunately for Vox, he doesn't have much say in the matter.
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Vax—an ugly, uninspired name that has clearly crushed him under the weight of his progenitors combined egos and expectations—is sitting in one of the armchairs and muttering furiously to himself. Occasionally two of his arms twitch in an unconscious, violent gesture before returning to fist the crumpled fabric at his knees. The boy is, as Angel has whispered cruelly under his breath on more than one occasion, ‘fucked in the head’.
Of course they’d considered the possibility that he might be a spy—for all of about five minutes, that is, by which time it had quickly become apparent that the boy is…well—simultaneously unstable, pathologically incapable of telling a convincing lie, in possession of a hatred for Vox that dwarfs any animosity even Alastor himself has ever felt for the man, and most delightfully suffers from a cavernous lack of self-esteem.
And with it, naturally, a deep seated, violently desperate need for recognition and approval!
Vax comes to stay at the hotel, and Alastor scents blood in the water.
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The hands that settle on her shoulders are warm against the cool clamminess of her skin, and still all Vox feels is a desperate sense of relief. She closes her eyes and tilts her head back as the familiar sensation of Alastor rubbing her cheek against the edge of Vox’s screen envelops her, the tightness in her chest loosening with a shaky exhale. Whenever Alastor returns, it’s hard to think of little else.
As the hotel becomes aware of Vox's situation, the question remains: though freedom will be had one way or another, who will end up paying the price?
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The room is still spinning around them, Vox’s throat dry and stomach nauseous as she looks up, eyes abruptly stinging. Why him?
Why him?
Angel stares down at her, expression twisted in a conflicted amalgamation of incredulity, hatred, disgust, and worst of all—pity.
For day 7: free day
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Eternity is an awfully long time to hang on nothing but a promise.
For day 6: toxic yuri
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Time passes.
That’s about all Vox can say regarding the matter, really, because there’s not a clock to be found in the entire goddamn suite. Hours, days, weeks, perhaps even months blur and blend into an amorphous haze, and Vox has long given up on trying to keep track. What would the point be? Alastor—very deliberately, Vox knows—keeps no regular schedule. She’ll disappear for an indeterminate length of time to 'take care of hotel business' (her words), only returning to check in on Vox right as she’s nearing the end of her fucking rope.
And, oh, it’s fraying real thin.
For day 5: wedding attire
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the agonising anticipation of waiting by issu (Issushaim)
Fandoms: Hazbin Hotel (Cartoon)
10 Sep 2025
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“Are you alright, dear?” Alastor mumbles sleepily against her neck, her puffs of breath tickles of sweet agony. Vox’s skin is on fire, every point of contact torture she can’t get enough of.
“Can’t sleep,” she whispers hoarsely, “I might get up and—”
Alastor's arms tighten around her, claw tips digging sharply into Vox’s flesh. “I’m comfortable,” she says petulantly, and Vox already knows she’s not going anywhere.
For day 4: body worship
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Don’t fucking touch me, she wants to spit, even as she lets her forehead fall against Alastor’s chest, throat aching with unwanted memories when Alastor’s arms encircle her. It feels like returning to a once-abandoned home of years gone by, and she wants to scream.
For day 3: bathing together
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“The terms were very simple,” Alastor says, a touch of amusement warming the edges of her words as she steps forward into Vox’s space, shards of glass crunching beneath her heels. “And you agreed quite happily, if you recall.”
“Happily,” Vox repeats in a low, bitter voice as Alastor perches beside her on the arm of the chair. Vox doesn’t flinch away—if anything she leans in, albeit unconsciously. Muscle memory is a powerful thing. “Like I had a choice.” From this higher angle Alastor can see the rapid rise and fall of Vox’s chest, a pleasing swell that betrays her apprehension.
For day 2: Boob appreciation
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After a last-ditch effort to save herself, Vox's soul is no longer her own - and Alastor has her old friend just where she wants her.
For Day 1: Lingerie
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Every single sinner on set was clustered in the center of the room around—was that fucking Travis? Expressions varied from confused curiosity, to suspicion, to outright disgust, and Val knew for a fact that the script they were filming today wasn't that interesting (and nor was Travis, for that matter).
Then the crying started.
And not the kind of crying he was used to hearing, either; it wasn’t someone sobbing in overwhelmed ecstasy, or weeping in choked gasps as they begged for mercy that they didn’t deserve, no, it was—
A… baby?
“What,” Val said softly as he approached, quiet words edged with steel, “the fuck is going on?”
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As his friendship - Vox supposes that's what they're calling it, anyway - with Alastor suffers its ups and downs, Vox finds himself drunkenly entering into a deal with an irritatingly charming whore for regular venting sessions. Secrecy is guaranteed, so what's the problem? A strict no-sexual-contact clause, because Vox isn't into men. He's really not.
Or: Vox uses a hooker as his therapist, and gets a lot more than he bargained for.
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Radiostatic yuri gift art created for Lvndr_ for the Technical Difficulties server 1 year anniversary gift exchange!
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He wonders, sometimes, if Val ever stopped hurting him—would Vox stop caring?
Fixing Val's mistakes, that's what Vox does. Angel supposes he's another of those mistakes.
Angel never expected to be taking comfort in Vox, of all people.