Hazbin Hotel x Reader Imagines❤✓

Imagine 25: Static⚡ (Vox)

WARNING: mentions of lemon related themes. 18+!
Requested by the lovely earth_angel17!
Enjoy reading bestieeee❤️

*Y/N's pov*

Ever since it became known that Alastor had come back after a seven year absence in Hell, Vox's mood has solely been focused on kicking the red deer demon's ass back to whatever corner of Hell he crawled out of.

No doubt, seeing Vox flustered and heated over such a rivalry that to this day he won't explain why it's like that, it makes me laugh a little.

Hell, Vox being frustrated about anything is kind of funny, for a time at least.

And for the past week, he's been refusing to leave his dungeon (I like to call it that) of tv screens that spy on every demon who has a piece of Vox tech, he drinks way to much coffee for comfort just to keep awake, and he's been barely coming back home.

So today, whether the ass likes it or not, I'm coming to him and dragging him back home to where things really matter.

After getting my fingerprints scanned at his security (a new upgrade for Vox's paranoia) I walk past the entrance of Valentino's studio where the magic happens.

And of course, whoever is new in Val's territory, he'll do whatever he can to seduce them into signing a contract with him.

Of course, it didn't happen, and it will never happen. I'd rather see the bald headed moth kick and scream and throw his tantrums because he lost for once.

As I step in the elevator that takes me to the bottom (aka the dungeon of electricity) I wait for the doors to open, and when they do, I step inside a large opening of darkness with lights of blue illuminating the bridge to where Vox's office is.

And of course, that flat headed prince is sitting there, gripping the armrests so tightly I can see where his claws left marks in the fabric.

The TVs around him aren't even playing a specific moment of reality from Hell, but rather, it's all a mess of static and color.

I assume Alastor had his fun with Vox's connection again, which just makes my plan a bit harder.
Vox will be more agitated.

But no matter.

I approach the back of his chair, but he does nothing to turn around and face me, and I know damn well he heard my footsteps, the ass.

"Vox," I say.

No response, only the sound of his fingers digging deeper in the armrests.
Sighing, I go to the front of his chair where he's forced to address me and not treat me like one of his shadows.

Still, his eyes remain locked on the TVs that play nothing.
Dragging a hand down your annoyed expression, you say through a groan.

"This isn't healthy for you, you know. You're beginning to neglect things at home just because this stupid radio demon showed up."

"Not in the mood, Y/N," Vox suddenly says, unmoving, unblinking.

Not in the mood my ass.