Unbetitelt

Your foot hit empty air where concrete should have been, and suddenly the world lurched violently sideways. The phone flew from your hands—screen protector be damned—as you tumbled forward into what looked like a swirling mass of fire and very illegal-looking special effects. Your scream echoed in your ears, raw and terrified, as you fell—

And fell.

And fell.

The hole because what the actual fuck else could it be? seemed to stretch on forever, all crackling energy and the distinct smell of sulfur and burnt hair. Your stomach did approximately seventeen somersaults as you plummeted through the void, limbs flailing uselessly like one of those inflatable tube men at car dealerships.

The colors were wrong.

Everything was wrong.

Red and orange and black swirled around you in nauseating patterns, and the heat—god, the heat—felt like you'd stuck your head in an oven set to "apocalypse."

This is it, you thought with surprising clarity. I'm going to die because I was looking at cat videos in the rain. They're going to find my body and my last browser history is going to be 'cats being jerks compilation 47'.

The fall seemed to last both an eternity and no time at all. Your scream had gone hoarse by the time you saw something solid rushing up to meet you—pavement, actual pavement, oh god you were going to splatter—

Then you hit something that wasn't pavement.

Something that wheezed and cursed and was definitely alive.

"OOF—FUCK! SHIT—WHAT THE—GET OFF ME, YOU FUCKING—"

You scrambled backward on pure instinct, your hands meeting scorching pavement that made you yelp and jerk them back. The ground was hot, like summer-asphalt-at-noon hot, and it definitely wasn't rain-soaked concrete anymore. Blinking rapidly, you tried to orient yourself, your brain struggling and failing to process the scene before you.

A... creature. There was a red creature sprawled on the ground where you'd landed, and he was pissed.

"Do you have ANY idea how much this coat cost?!" the thing screeched, scrambling to his feet and brushing off his jacket with sharp, spindly fingers. He had claws—four of them, you noticed with growing hysteria. "Actually, I stole it, but that's not the fucking point titty-haver! You can't just—just fucking DROP on people! There are RULES! Social contracts! Basic goddamn physics!"

You stared. He was red. Entirely red. Candy-apple red with white blotches across his face and forearms. With horns—actual horns curving from his head. And a tail. A tail with a heart-shaped point that was currently lashing back and forth like an angry cat's. And yellow eyes with red pupils that were currently fixed on you with the intensity of someone who'd just had their entire day ruined.

"I—I'm sorry, I didn't mean to—" you stammered, finally finding your voice. It came out small and shaky. "Where... where am I?"

The creature—demon? your brain supplied unhelpfully, because apparently that's where we were at now—brushed himself off with sharp, aggressive movements and stood to his full height. Which, you noted with some distant corner of your mind, wasn't very tall. He looked you up and down with an expression that cycled rapidly through annoyance, confusion, and what might have been curiosity.

"Where are you? Where are YOU?" He gestured wildly at the hellscape surrounding you—literally. Buildings that looked like they'd been designed by someone's nightmare committee loomed overhead, all impossible angles and leering faces. The sky was a perpetual red, like an infected wound, and in the distance, you could hear screaming. Actual screaming. "You're in Hell, bitch. Welcome to eternal damnation, hope you brought sunscreen and low expectations!"

"Hell?" you repeated faintly. The word didn't quite compute. Your brain was still trying to process the horns. And the tail. And the fact that the sky was red. "Like... the Hell? Fire and brimstone Hell?"

"No, sorry I meant Michigan. YES, THE ACTUAL FUCKING HELL!" He threw his hands up in exasperation. "Jesus Christ on a—wait, no, don't say his name here, people get all fucking weird about it—how did you even GET here? You die or something? You look too... squishy to be dead."

You patted yourself frantically, checking for wounds, for blood, for anything that would indicate you'd died and somehow missed the memo. "I... I don't think so? I don't feel dead. Do I look dead?"

"I mean, you look like shit, but that could just be your face," he said with a shrug that was somehow both casual and deeply insulting. He leaned in, sniffing at you. "Wait. Wait wait wait. You smell... alive. Like, actually alive-alive. The fuck?"

"I was just walking home!" you said, voice rising. "In the rain! I was on my phone and I tripped and—and there was this thing and I fell—"

"A thing. Great. Super specific. Really narrows it down." He started pacing, his boots clicking against the pavement with each agitated step. "Okay, okay, let me think. Living human in Hell. That's... actually that's new. And I've seen some weird shit. Like, really fucking weird shit. There was this one time with a—no, not important right now."

You became aware, suddenly, that demons were staring as they passed by on the street. Some looked almost human with just small horns or odd-colored skin. Others looked like they'd been assembled by a committee that couldn't agree on what species they were making—too many eyes, too many limbs, too many teeth.

One of them, a tall demon with what looked like a traffic cone for a head, called out: "Hey Blitz! New girlfriend? She's a little... pink!"

"Fuck off, SHITSTAIN!" the red demon—Blitz, apparently—shouted back, flipping the bird with both hands. "Mind your own goddamn business!"

"Alright, alright, come on," Blitz said, grabbing your arm. His hand was hot—warmer than human-normal—and his grip was firm. "We're not doing this in the street. I got a reputation to maintain."

"Come on where?" you asked, still rooted to the spot, staring at his hand on your arm. His very red and white, very not-human hand.

"My office. I.M.P. We'll figure this shit out there." He started walking, then paused when he realized you weren't following, your legs apparently having decided that standing still was the only acceptable response to the current situation. He turned back with an exasperated groan. "Today would be nice, tits! I got shit to do!"

You scrambled after him on shaky legs, trying not to stare at the various demons going about their business on the street. There was commerce happening—shops and signs and what looked like a coffee stand, except the coffee was probably made of something you didn't want to think about. Everything was tinted red from the sky, giving it all a surreal, nightmarish quality.

"I'm Blitz, by the way," he said over his shoulder, navigating through the crowd with practiced ease. "The 'O' is silent."

"There's no 'O' in Blitz," you said automatically, your brain latching onto this small, manageable detail in a sea of what-the-fuck.

He whipped around, pointing at you with a manic grin. "EXACTLY! See, you're smarter than you look. I like you, you got functioning ears."

"I... thanks?" You weren't sure if that was a compliment.

"So what's your deal? Sell your soul? Piss off a wizard? Fuck a demon and forget to read the fine print?" He wiggled his eyebrows suggestively.

"What? No! I told you, I was just walking home in the rain!" Your voice came out higher than you intended. "And I fell into... I don't know, some kind of hole? It was just there, in the sidewalk, and I wasn't looking and—"

Blitz stopped so suddenly you almost ran into him. He turned to face you, his expression shifting from casual interest to something more dangerous. "A hole. You fell through a hole." His eyes narrowed. "What did this hole look like? And be specific this time, none of that 'it was a thing' bullshit."

"Um..." You tried to remember, but it had all happened so fast. "Swirly? Fire-y? There were these weird symbols around the edges, I think? Kind of glowing? I don't know, I wasn't exactly taking notes! I was busy falling and screaming!"

"Symbols. Glowing symbols." He pinched the bridge of his nose—or where a nose would be, his face was kind of flat there. "Please, and I mean this from the bottom of my cold, dead heart, please tell me it didn't look like someone drew it with sparkly demon chalk and it had that new-portal smell."

You blinked at him. "I... maybe? It smelled like burning?"

"SATAN FUCKING DAMMIT!" Blitz screamed at the red sky. "MOXXIE, YOU INCOMPETENT FUCK! I TOLD YOU TO CLOSE THE FUCKING PORTAL! I SPECIFICALLY SAID, 'MOXXIE, CLOSE THE FUCKING PORTAL' AND WHAT DID YOU SAY? 'YES SIR, RIGHT AWAY SIR'—WELL CLEARLY FUCKING NOT!"

Several demons on the street looked over with mild interest before going back to their business. Apparently public screaming was normal here?

The building he led you to was a dingy office structure that looked like it was one strong breeze away from condemning. A flickering neon sign read "I.M.P" with what looked like a cartoon demon giving an enthusiastic thumbs up while standing on a pile of skulls. Classy.

Inside was... well, calling it an office was generous. It looked like a tornado had hate-fucked a filing cabinet factory. Papers everywhere, scorch marks on the walls, bullet holes—were those bullet holes?—and a very strong smell of gunpowder, sulfur, and something that might have been old pizza.

"M&M! Get your asses out here NOW!" Blitz bellowed, his voice echoing off the walls.

Two more demons emerged from a side room. One was short—shorter than Blitz—with red skin, white hair, and a perpetually anxious expression. He wore a bow tie. An actual bow tie. In Hell. The other had black hair, a bright smile, and a southern energy that felt wildly out of place in the current situation.

"Sir, we were just organizing the—" The anxious one—Moxxie, you'd learn later—stopped mid-sentence, his yellow eyes going wide. "OH MY SATAN, IS THAT A HUMAN?!"

He dropped the box he was carrying. It hit the ground with a crash and something inside it started ticking ominously.

"Hi there, sugar!" The female demon—Millie—waved enthusiastically, completely ignoring the ticking box. "Well, aren't you just the cutest thing! What brings you to Hell?"

"That's what we're trying to figure out, Millie-Billie," Blitz said, his tone dripping with sarcasm at the nickname. "Because Little Miss Clumsy here fell through one of OUR portals."

"I CLOSED THAT PORTAL!" Moxxie protested, his voice going high and defensive. "I followed every procedure! I checked the seal twice! I even did the little hand-wavy thing you showed me!"

"Well clearly you didn't wave hard enough, Mox, because Surprise! Fucking! Human! Delivery!" Blitz gestured at you like you were a particularly disappointing package that had arrived broken. "And she's alive, which is a whole new level of what-the-fuck for my day."

"Oh crumbs," Moxxie adjusted his bow tie nervously. "This is... this is bad. This is very bad. Sir, if the higher-ups find out we brought a living human to Hell—"

"They're not gonna find out, because we're gonna fix it!" Blitz snapped. "Now where's the book?"

"The grimoire? It's in your office, sir. Where you left it. After you—"

"I know where I left it, I'm not senile!" Blitz stomped toward a door marked "BOSS" in messy paint. "Just—everyone shut up and let me think!"

Thirty minutes later, you were sitting on a questionable couch that had mystery stains and smelled faintly of chemicals, watching Blitz pace back and forth with a massive book in his arms. The grimoire, apparently. It was bound in leather, you were actively trying not to think about what kind of leather and had gold in symbols down the spine that seemed to move when you weren't looking directly at them.

Moxxie and Millie sat nearby, Moxxie wringing his hands anxiously while Millie gave you sympathetic looks.

"Okay, okay, I got it," Blitz announced, slamming the book down on a desk. "I'm gonna open a portal, you're gonna jump through, and we can all forget this weird-ass day ever happened. Sound good? Good."

"Is... is it safe?" you asked quietly.

"Safe? Bitch, you fell through one by accident and survived. On purpose has gotta be an improvement." He started flipping through the grimoire, muttering under his breath. "Portal spell, portal spell... where the fuck... ah-HA!"

He laid the book flat and began tracing symbols on the wall with what looked like red chalk. They glowed faintly as he drew, pulsing with an otherworldly light that made your skin prickle.

"Sir, are you sure you should—" Moxxie started.

"Shut it, Mox. I've done this a million times." Blitz finished the circle and stepped back, spreading his arms wide. "Watch and learn, sluts! This is how a professional does it."

He began to chant in a language you didn't recognize—something guttural and old and wrong-sounding. The symbols flared bright, and the air in the center of the circle began to shimmer and twist. Your ears popped from the pressure change.

The portal opened with a sound like tearing fabric, revealing—

Home.

Your street. Rain still falling, streetlights glowing in the dark. You could see your apartment building in the distance.

Hope surged in your chest so hard it hurt. "Oh thank god—"

"Alright, off you go!" Blitz made a shooing motion. "Nice knowing you, try not to fall into any more Hell portals!"

You rushed toward the portal, relief flooding through you. Almost there, almost home, just a few more steps—

You hit an invisible wall so hard you bounced backward and landed on your ass.

"Ow! What—" You scrambled to your feet and tried again, pressing your hands against the barrier. They met solid resistance, like the world's strongest invisible window.

The portal was right there, you could see rain falling on the other side, could smell the petrichor and city smells, but you couldn't get through. "No, no, no—"

"The fuck?" Blitz strode forward and stuck his hand through. It went right through, no resistance at all. He pulled it back, wet with rain, staring at it in confusion. "Okay, that's... weird."

You threw yourself at the portal again. And again. Each time meeting that same unyielding barrier.

"Let me try!" Millie came over and tried to push you through. Nothing. You couldn't even get a finger through.

"This doesn't make any sense," Moxxie said, adjusting his bow tie nervously—apparently his nervous tic. "The portal is stable, the connection is clear, there's no reason she shouldn't be able to pass through."

"Well she CAN'T, Moxxie, I have fucking eyes!" Blitz snapped. He tried grabbing your arm and pulling you through. It was like trying to drag you through a concrete wall. "Come ON, you stubborn BITCH!"

"I'm trying!" you said, voice cracking. Panic was setting in for real now. "It won't let me through!"

Blitz let go and stepped back, running his hands over his horns in frustration. "Fuck. FUCK! This is... I don't..."

He trailed off, staring at the portal, then at you, then back at the portal. His tail lashed agitatedly.

"Sir?" Millie prompted gently.

"I don't know," Blitz admitted, and the words seemed to physically pain him. "I don't fucking know what to do. This has never—I've never seen anything like this before."

Moxxie grabbed the grimoire, flipping through pages frantically. "There has to be something in here. A spell, a counter-curse, some kind of—"

"Cursed ? I don't want to be cursed!"

"If there was something obvious, I'd have seen it, Moxxie!" Blitz snarled, ignoring you entirely. "I'm not a complete fucking idiot!"

"I didn't say you were, sir, I just—"

"Everyone SHUT UP and let me THINK!"

The room fell silent except for your increasingly panicked breathing. The portal continued to shimmer, showing the world you couldn't reach. You felt tears burning in your eyes.

"Please," you whispered. "Please, I just want to go home. I don't—I don't understand what's happening, I don't know why I'm here, I just want to go home."

Blitz's expression flickered with something that might have been sympathy before defaulting back to irritation. "Yeah, well, join the fucking club. We're all stuck with shit we don't want."

He waved his hand and the portal snapped shut, the sudden absence of rain-smell making the sulfur-stink of Hell that much more noticeable.

"Okay. Okay, here's what we're gonna do," Blitz said, pacing again. "We're gonna... we're gonna figure this out. There's gotta be someone who knows about this kind of thing. Some magic asshole who—" He stopped mid-pace. "Wait. WAIT. I know a magic asshole who might know!"

"Who?" you asked desperately.

"Stolas!" Blitz snapped his fingers. "That feathered fuck knows all kinds of weird magic shit. He's gotta have an answer!"

"Sir, it's almost midnight. And wouldn't he be ... busy... at this time?" Moxxie said delicately.

"I don't give a shit what he's doing!" Blitz grabbed the grimoire, hugging it to his chest. "Fine fuck ... I'll call him first thing tomorrow. Until then..."

He looked at you, really looked at you, taking in your rain-damp clothes, your smudged makeup, your tear-filled eyes, your entire generally pathetic situation.

"Fuuuuck," he groaned. "Okay, look. You can crash here tonight. Tomorrow we'll get bird boy's help and figure this shit out. But just for tonight, got it? I'm not running a fucking hotel for lost humans."

"I... okay," you managed. "Thank you."

"Don't thank me yet. The couch has seen some shit. Literally. There was an incident with a client and some bad Chinese food." He paused. "Also you're gonna need different clothes. You stick out like a—a fucking... I dunno, something that sticks out."

Millie patted your shoulder gently. "Don't you worry, hun. We'll get you sorted out. I got some spare clothes that might fit, they we're my brothers ... there a little bigger, and then we ca—"

"Can I just..." you interrupted quietly. "Can I just have a minute? Please?"

The three demons exchanged looks. Finally, Blitz shrugged.

"Yeah, sure. Whatever. Millie, show her where the bathroom is. Try not to touch anything that's glowing." He turned to Moxxie. "You, start going through that book. There's gotta be SOMETHING useful in there."

As Millie led you down a hallway, you heard Blitz mutter "A fucking human. In Hell. In MY office. That feathered FUCK is never gonna let me hear the end of this b-u-l-l-SHIT."

You locked yourself in the bathroom—which was surprisingly normal except for the sulfur smell and the fact that the mirror had a crack in it that looked suspiciously like a horse—and finally let yourself cry.

You were in Hell. Actual, literal Hell. With demons. And you couldn't get home.

note: shout out to my fiance for inspiring this lol (this is brief and barely proof read, but I had to get it out of my brain) (this is mostly just a lil teasing dialogue scene, no real backstory or anything)

THIS IS A FANFIC ABOUT REAL PEOPLE IN FICTIONAL SCENARIOS. I AM NOT IMPLYING THIS IS HOW THESE PEOPLE ARE IRL OR THAT THIS SITUATION WOULD HAPPEN. IT IS FOR FANFIC PURPOSES ONLY!

+

The loud crash of metal hit the laminate floor first, then a string of yells and curses followed.

“Ah, FUCK! Fuck! Shit!”

You jolted upright from your bed, immediately bolting out the door and down the stairs, eyes wide at the clang of various utensils and pots.

“What the hell are you doing?” You yelled before turning the corner, and there stood your roommate, clutching his wrist.

Noah stood frozen in the kitchen, wide eyed and guilty. Water was dripping off the stove and onto the counter, creating a sizzling hiss as it poured over the glass burner.

The pot lay sideways next to his bare feet; a few pathetic noodles scattered across the floor.

You looked from the mess, to him, then back to the mess.

“…Noah.”

“I was making pasta,” he groaned, glancing at you only for a moment, before gritting his teeth and staring at his hand, “and I dumped the fucking boiling water all over myself trying to strain it.”

Your stomach dipped, face scrunching and mimicking his pained expression. “Oh my god, give me your hand.”

Already stepping toward him, you reached out before you could overthink it, tugging him towards the sink.

Noah didn’t even have time to swallow and register the closeness, because you were already guiding his arm under the cool stream, your fingers wrapped firmly around his wrist.

The moment the water hit his skin he hissed, sucking in a sharp breath before coughing to mask it. His free hand braced on the counter beside you, knuckles blanching as he bent forward slightly, shoulders tightening with shock.

The brunette cursed again, and you winced with him, rotating his hand in the water before glancing towards the pot on the ground.

“Why would you use the only pot without a handle?” you scolded.

He hissed again, bending slightly at the knees. “I don’t know! Why didn’t you throw it out?!”

“Because it’s a good backup!”

“For who?” he snapped, then immediately winced again.

Grumbling under your breath, you sighed, “It’s literally your pot from your last apartment.”

You glanced at the angry red bloom across the back of his hand, before looking up at him.

Despite the way his brows furrowed, his dark eyes traced your face, almost nervously.

“Noah… this looks pretty bad. Like you really burnt yourself.” You mumbled, still inspecting him.

“Oh, really? The boiling water burn looks bad?” His voice was too close to your ear now, “Shocking revelation. Truly.”

You shot him a look over your shoulder, ready to snap back, but froze; because he was right there, chest pressed fully against your back, his breath skimming the side of your neck every time he exhaled.

And suddenly you couldn’t breath; because you didn’t touch Noah. Not like that.

He was just a roommate; a casual living arrangement.

Noah was someone you met through mutual friends and agreed to split rent with; someone you argued with about laundry and taking out the trash.

He was someone you avoided brushing past in tight hallways because of this exact feeling- the pounding of your heart in your chest as you held him close.

“Y’know,” he chuckled, attempting to brush off the pain, and the closeness of your bodies, “in my defense, the pasta attacked me.”

“The pasta did not attack you.” You turned off the tap, shooting him a look before pulling his dripping hand out of the sink.

“It lunged,” he insisted, voice strained but playful as he looked at the ground. “Did you see how far it jumped? Look at those vicious little jerks, all over the fucking floor.”

You rolled your eyes, reaching for a paper towel and nodding towards the kitchen table. “Sit. I’m going to grab some stuff from the bathroom.”

“Alright, doctor.”

Shaking your head again, you grabbed everything you needed before making way back to the kitchen.

Noah sat on the chair, waiting, watching your every move.

His good hand rested on his thigh, fingers tapping lightly. His burned hand hovered awkwardly in the air, as if he wasn’t sure where to put it until you told him.

“You can put your arm down,” you said, setting the supplies on the table beside him.

You took a q-tip, dipping it in the petroleum jelly before holding the palm of his hand. He watched quietly, noticing the way you sucked in a nervous breath.

“Okay,” you mumbled, “This might sting, but you don’t want the gauze to stick.”

“Everything stings right now,” he said, gaze flicking from your fingers up to your eyes, “including my ego.”

“Good,” you replied, meeting his stare before smiling. “Maybe don’t use a pot with no handle next time.”

Noah tried his best to stay still when you coated the wound as gently as you could, but he jerked backward, a string of curses leaving his lips.

“Fuck,” he spat, nose scrunching as he recoiled.

You immediately loosened your grip, eyes widening. “Shit, I’m sorry,” you blurted, instinctively cupping his wrist softer than before. “I’m trying to be gentle.”

He let out a shaky exhale through his nose, the corner of his mouth twitching despite the pain. “You are,” he said, blinking slowly, “It just hurts pretty fucking bad.”

The two of you were silent for a moment, and as you began to concentrate on wrapping his hand in gauze, you tried to ignore the way his eyes remained fixated on you.

Your breathing slowed, so much in fact you couldn’t take another breath- and neither did he.

And when you finished, gently taping the end of the gauze, you dared to meet his eyes.

“So,” he exhaled, trying and failing to hide the way he was staring, “on a scale of one to ten… how pissed are you at my life choices?”

A breathy laugh escaped your nose, and you began tossing the packaging into the garbage.

“Eleven.”

Noah broke into a crooked, boyish grin that should not have looked that good on someone currently maimed.

“Hot.”

“Shut up, Noah.” You tried to glare, but it wilted before it even formed, your voice thin.

His smirk faltered, hearing the way your voice softened; and for a moment, neither of you moved again.

The kitchen stayed warm and quiet, thick with a kind of silence that pressed on your chest.

Your eyes lingered on his mouth longer than you meant to, and his fingers drifted towards yours, watching the way your hands still hovered close to his.

But all of that lasted for only a second; because you cleared your throat.

“We should go to the doctor,” you murmured, forcing your voice steady even though your pulse wasn’t.

“We?” he echoed, slower this time.

You looked away immediately, beginning to pick up the measly strings of pasta stuck to the floor.

“Well, yeah,” you shrugged. “You can’t go by yourself. Not with your hand like that.”

His expression flickered, surprise slipping through before he smirked again to cover it.

“Damn,” he said lightly, leaning back in his chair, “If it was that easy to take you out, I should’ve boiled my hand sooner.”

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