Hell's Force of Nature (Helltaker Harem X Scout Male Reader)

Fortune and The Breaking Point

You stared at your screen, your eyes bloodshot and dry, playing a video game. Your fingers moved on the controller in a blur, and the curtains were drawn in your room, completely shutting off all trace of light. You deadbolted the door and barricaded your room off from the rest of the house, making a fortress of sorts. (OMG TEAM FORTRESS 2 GET IT??)
Snack wrappers lay strewn about here and there, and empty cans of Red Bull littered the floor, the floor showing through the mess like a carpet. There was a slight smell to the room that you couldn't quite place, probably that half-eaten bag of chips somewhere under the bed. Or the 2-liter bottles filled with piss after you decided to take a leaf out of Sniper's book. (Hey, there's very little time to go to the bathroom when gaming)

4 days ago, you finally, finally, managed to get ahold of the golden deluxe edition of Fools Fortune: The Treasure of The North, a pirate game that gave you several legendary skins in multi-player mode, and the copy was cheap as well, only for 230 dollars. (Because AAA gaming just loves to overcharge things. Yeah, that's right, game corpos, you can suck my mega 2-inch dick) and you wanted peace and quiet, and alone time, Justice had asked you to hit the gym, Pandemonica wanted to grab coffee, Cerebus to the power of 3 wanted to chase pigeons and Modeus...well...she wanted to do the horizontal Charleston and all you could think was how exhausting it all sounded. You just wanted quiet, not drama.

But the game was quickly leaving a sort of sour taste in your mouth, as you got no scoped by a no-life with a flintlock who was seemingly a master at this game for the 6th time in a row and you called it quits. You tossed the controller aside, the sudden thud breaking the silence as you forcefully shut the game off. The room fell into a heavy quiet, the kind that clung to your skin and settled in your chest.

"Fuck, hope that's not broken." You muttered.

Shutting off your game system, you leaned back in your chair, stretching until you heard a faint pop in your spine. It was the first movement you'd made in hours. You groaned a little before returning to your hermit crab posture and you looked around your room.

You hadn't bothered to clean in days, and now it was catching up to you, which a sad reflection of how you've been feeling inside. You exhaled slowly; the sound almost lost in the mess around you. Cleaning it would take hours, maybe the whole day. But you knew you wouldn't do it. Not today, anyway. Who has the energy for that sort of thing?

"Christ, my room's identical to Malina's. That's a problem." You muttered to yourself, voice low and rough, the kind of self-commentary that never made it past your bedroom walls. Your mind drifted back to that night at her place, where she'd destroyed you in Mortal Kombat like it was second nature. You could still see her smug, drunken smile as you lost match after match, and the way she looked at you afterward, with flushed cheeks, slightly slurred words, and that confession that tumbled out of her lips after nearly getting hit by that car. You hadn't figured out how to feel about it. Hell, you were still sorting through it now.

You made your way across the light switch, stepping over garbage and strewn clothes all over the place. Flicking the light switch, you grimaced and squinted your eyes at the harsh light. The trash, now in full display. You sighed. Maybe you'd get around to cleaning it, you know, after a shower, a meal that didn't involve Doritos and Mountain Dew, and maybe when you felt a little more like a person.

You removed the dresser from your door that effectively barricaded your room whenever Modeus was having one of her horny episodes (Don't ask) and exited your room.

You barely had time to take in the brightly lit hallway when Azazel popped up, notebook in hand and began talking at a million miles per hour.

"Ah, Y/N, it's good to see you! We hadn't seen you for approximately three days, sixteen hours, forty-three minutes, and twenty-one seconds. We were beginning to worry! Well, I was worried at least-Zdrada said she'd only be concerned if you started smelling like...feet and hot dog water, I think it was. But anyway, I'm glad you're not dead!" Azazel rambled, scribbling something into her notebook without missing a beat.