Long Hard Road Out of Hell - Willow/Angel - Adult - 4/10
Title: Long Hard Road Out of Hell
Author: claudia6913
Rating: NC-17
Pairing: W/A
Summary: Angel comes back from hell. This is a response to Gabrielle’s ‘Willow/Angel Challenge’ on NHA Forums.
Distribution: NHA and my writing journal, all others please ask.
Disclaimer: I unfortunately do not own the characters. Those are owned by Joss and Co. I seek no profit from the use of anything here.
Author’s Notes: The title was taken from the song ‘Long Hard Road Out of Hell’ by Marilyn Manson from the ‘Spawn’ soundtrack.
Chapter 4
Angel is walking around the mansion, exploring. Willow sits down and watches him. She has, for the moment, gotten over the fact that he is naked and examines him appreciatively. The muscles and sinew of his form are moving in an almost elegant dance along the length of his back as he reaches up above the mantle. His long, taut leg muscles stretch, showing the perfect lines of his body. Only the faintest of scars still show on the broad expanse of his back, making Willow wince slightly at the thought of the pain he has been through these past few months.
Yawning, Willow relaxes and closes her eyes for a minute. She is tired and the night has been a trying one. Her nerves are still frayed from the almost-encounter with Buffy and from almost becoming Angel’s dinner. There have been too many such almosts in the last year or two for Willow’s comfort.
Her eyes are having a hard time staying open. Angel can hear the faint slowing of the girl’s heartbeat that signals the onset of sleep. He knows her…somehow. Everything is still jumbled and broken. The pieces are slowly fitting together though.
The last thing he remembers is hell, the stench of it, the cries for mercy…his cries for mercy. His ears still register the faint crack of a whip, leaving him flinching at the sound as if it is real. Right now however, the whip is more real to him then any of this…the mansion and the girl. Even the blood somehow didn’t seem right. The taste of it died on his tongue before he had a chance to savor it. It had seemed thick and cold…much too cold.
It has been centuries since he last fed. Angel had lost track of just how long ago. He lost count when he lost his mind. He’s seen red for years. Nothing but red. The color of blood, the color of the girl’s hair, his blood…everything became tinged in the crimson color of his nourishment. Now it’s as though he is looking at everything around him in a funhouse mirror, changing and distorting his view of things, as if he sees some hell’s eye view of Picasso’s world. Unrecognizable shapes and sounds meshing together in an unnatural way. The room and its contents are almost garish in their oddness to him.
The soft whimper from Willow catches Angel off guard and makes him spin quickly around, ready to attack. He sees her shift slightly in the uncomfortable chair, eyes closed in sleep. He takes a tentative step closer, curiosity driving him. She is so trusting of Angel, unaware of how unstable he is right now in his haze.
Angel stares at her for a very long moment, waiting, watching, listening for any sign that she might wake up. He is not sure about her, if she is an enemy there to bring more torture or not. Though how could she not be here to torture him as everyone else had? Millions of faces had been paraded by him, bringing their own form of pain and anguish to lavish upon him as he had once done to them. They are nothing more then a blur to him now in his memory of it. So many faces, so many screams. He holds his hands to his ears now as they ring with howls of suffering.
He had not been the only one in hell, but one of thousands…millions. They’d been separated yet he could see everyone else’s suffering, enhancing his own. Demon upon demon walked around the blackness, for there was no light, yet he could see. He could see each and every one of them clearly. Each demon was different for each prisoner. Every one of them had their own personal hell created for them. It was pure madness, a place Angelus would have found pleasing…but not Angel. No, never Angel. All those lost souls he couldn’t help.
His own soul was of great amusement, an evil vampire turned to good then thrown to hell for what was to be all of eternity. The demons laughed and mocked him in languages he couldn’t place, but it was written on their faces…the pleasure they took in the cruel irony of the situation.
There was no escape for Angel, try as he might. He ran, ran for what seemed hours yet he got absolutely nowhere, coming no closer to any of the other helpless people. How the demons laughed at him then. He was trapped in a transparent box of blackness, of despair. How long had he tried to escape? Days? Weeks? Months? He didn’t know then and can’t know now. Time held no meaning there, for the absence of time was part of the torture, part of the pain they inflicted on him.
It doesn’t matter now. Angel can barely recollect any of it in conscious detail save for smells and the occasional sound. He continues on his meandering search of the stone house. He’s not looking for anything in particular, but just looking as if seeing it all for the first time. He is awed by the fact that he can touch and actually feel something. In hell he felt nothing but the bite of the whip, the sting of the knife, and the stickiness of his blood clinging and drying all over his body. His blood only flaking off to be replaced with some fresh from another wound.
The soft sound of Willow’s breathing and the shuffling of Angel’s feet are the only sounds in the house. Not even the leaves just outside the window are moving. An eerie silence has come over the house through the shadows, cloaked in them. The air is still, the breeze that had come through the windows earlier has taken its leave leaving a stillness that is palpable. And so the night wore on unendingly, with Angel searching the large house, and Willow blissfully unaware in her slumber.
Author: claudia6913
Rating: NC-17
Pairing: W/A
Summary: Angel comes back from hell. This is a response to Gabrielle’s ‘Willow/Angel Challenge’ on NHA Forums.
Distribution: NHA and my writing journal, all others please ask.
Disclaimer: I unfortunately do not own the characters. Those are owned by Joss and Co. I seek no profit from the use of anything here.
Author’s Notes: The title was taken from the song ‘Long Hard Road Out of Hell’ by Marilyn Manson from the ‘Spawn’ soundtrack.
Chapter 4
Angel is walking around the mansion, exploring. Willow sits down and watches him. She has, for the moment, gotten over the fact that he is naked and examines him appreciatively. The muscles and sinew of his form are moving in an almost elegant dance along the length of his back as he reaches up above the mantle. His long, taut leg muscles stretch, showing the perfect lines of his body. Only the faintest of scars still show on the broad expanse of his back, making Willow wince slightly at the thought of the pain he has been through these past few months.
Yawning, Willow relaxes and closes her eyes for a minute. She is tired and the night has been a trying one. Her nerves are still frayed from the almost-encounter with Buffy and from almost becoming Angel’s dinner. There have been too many such almosts in the last year or two for Willow’s comfort.
Her eyes are having a hard time staying open. Angel can hear the faint slowing of the girl’s heartbeat that signals the onset of sleep. He knows her…somehow. Everything is still jumbled and broken. The pieces are slowly fitting together though.
The last thing he remembers is hell, the stench of it, the cries for mercy…his cries for mercy. His ears still register the faint crack of a whip, leaving him flinching at the sound as if it is real. Right now however, the whip is more real to him then any of this…the mansion and the girl. Even the blood somehow didn’t seem right. The taste of it died on his tongue before he had a chance to savor it. It had seemed thick and cold…much too cold.
It has been centuries since he last fed. Angel had lost track of just how long ago. He lost count when he lost his mind. He’s seen red for years. Nothing but red. The color of blood, the color of the girl’s hair, his blood…everything became tinged in the crimson color of his nourishment. Now it’s as though he is looking at everything around him in a funhouse mirror, changing and distorting his view of things, as if he sees some hell’s eye view of Picasso’s world. Unrecognizable shapes and sounds meshing together in an unnatural way. The room and its contents are almost garish in their oddness to him.
The soft whimper from Willow catches Angel off guard and makes him spin quickly around, ready to attack. He sees her shift slightly in the uncomfortable chair, eyes closed in sleep. He takes a tentative step closer, curiosity driving him. She is so trusting of Angel, unaware of how unstable he is right now in his haze.
Angel stares at her for a very long moment, waiting, watching, listening for any sign that she might wake up. He is not sure about her, if she is an enemy there to bring more torture or not. Though how could she not be here to torture him as everyone else had? Millions of faces had been paraded by him, bringing their own form of pain and anguish to lavish upon him as he had once done to them. They are nothing more then a blur to him now in his memory of it. So many faces, so many screams. He holds his hands to his ears now as they ring with howls of suffering.
He had not been the only one in hell, but one of thousands…millions. They’d been separated yet he could see everyone else’s suffering, enhancing his own. Demon upon demon walked around the blackness, for there was no light, yet he could see. He could see each and every one of them clearly. Each demon was different for each prisoner. Every one of them had their own personal hell created for them. It was pure madness, a place Angelus would have found pleasing…but not Angel. No, never Angel. All those lost souls he couldn’t help.
His own soul was of great amusement, an evil vampire turned to good then thrown to hell for what was to be all of eternity. The demons laughed and mocked him in languages he couldn’t place, but it was written on their faces…the pleasure they took in the cruel irony of the situation.
There was no escape for Angel, try as he might. He ran, ran for what seemed hours yet he got absolutely nowhere, coming no closer to any of the other helpless people. How the demons laughed at him then. He was trapped in a transparent box of blackness, of despair. How long had he tried to escape? Days? Weeks? Months? He didn’t know then and can’t know now. Time held no meaning there, for the absence of time was part of the torture, part of the pain they inflicted on him.
It doesn’t matter now. Angel can barely recollect any of it in conscious detail save for smells and the occasional sound. He continues on his meandering search of the stone house. He’s not looking for anything in particular, but just looking as if seeing it all for the first time. He is awed by the fact that he can touch and actually feel something. In hell he felt nothing but the bite of the whip, the sting of the knife, and the stickiness of his blood clinging and drying all over his body. His blood only flaking off to be replaced with some fresh from another wound.
The soft sound of Willow’s breathing and the shuffling of Angel’s feet are the only sounds in the house. Not even the leaves just outside the window are moving. An eerie silence has come over the house through the shadows, cloaked in them. The air is still, the breeze that had come through the windows earlier has taken its leave leaving a stillness that is palpable. And so the night wore on unendingly, with Angel searching the large house, and Willow blissfully unaware in her slumber.