AUTHOR'S NOTE: This story goes with the episode that was just shown on Monday (continued on Tuesday) AKA 'The Dragon House.' This hasn't been beta'd much since it was written because it bothers me too much to read over it.

Title: Ich Will Kein Engel Sein

Archive: RFF, others ask first.

Fandom: The Pretender

Pairing: Angelo/Kyle Rating: NC-17, violence, rape, implied mental abuse Summary: To deal with the horrors of the negative conditioning he's been exposed to since his youth, Kyle abuses his mysterious visitor against his own will.

Spoilers: "Dragon House"; set a little bit before Kyle escapes the Centre.

Extra Note: This is deliberately written strangely to reflect Kyle's state of mind (basically mush) and to hint at what type of horrors Raines was exposing him to. German translations at the end. Inspired in part by the music group Rammstein.

ICH WILL KEIN ENGLE SEIN

by Elektra Pendragon

//"I’ve been angry for so long, so filled with rage and revenge, I’ve forgotten what it was like to care about someone." - Kyle, ‘Red Rock Jarod’//

Hate.

Rolling, seething, curling hate. Like a dragon clawing at my insides, holding my heart in its scaly hand and squeezing it until it is dead. My mentor, my *tor*mentor, tells me to use it, use the hate. Feel it grow inside. Focus it on my target. But he is not here, and I am unfocused.

I rage against the walls, scrapping animal and blind against the concrete until my nails are split and my fingers are torn. All I can think is HATE and ESCAPE, but there is none. Defeated, broken, enraged, I find my cot, curl up as small as I can make myself, and wait for the need to pass. The need to hurt, the need to kill, the need to destroy anything I can get my hands on.

It hurts. Everything hurts. Just hours ago, I thought I’d never be released from my restraints as he began to work on my mind and body. Rapid-fire questions, scenarios, electric shocks were delivered as I writhed against the biting straps. I thought I’d be kept there forever as he molded my thoughts into what he wanted them to be. I can’t tell you which hurt worse; in their own way, both physical and mental tortures are hell. Or heaven. When I do well, I am beaten. When I do ill, I am beaten worse. I can no longer tell the difference.

Even as I bury my face in my arms, I can still see his face. "Raines." His name is a curse I snarl at my empty cell. When the guards had finally removed my restraints, I had wanted to kill him. I wanted to kill them all. I had ran a hundred sims in my mind, devised five-score tortures to exact my revenge, yearned to release this HATE onto its creator. But, I couldn’t. Something holds me back, invisible restraints, making me unable to harm him the way I want to. The way I *need* to. Again, I am left alone in my "space" to fester in impotence.

I decide who lives or dies. *I* decide who lives or dies.

So why can’t I kill him?

My body shivers with the need to hurt something, to lash out and release my fury. It is eating me alive and soon I will be an empty husk.

That is when You appear. My mute visitor. I never see You enter because You only emerge when I am beyond the capacity to notice. You sense my need and come running. And I sense You when You enter my "space." My need smells You. My HATE senses Your nearness.

I am upon You before I even realize it. My arm is across Your throat, crushing Your windpipe as I press You harder into the grey wall. For the moment, I am out of control, mindlessly lashing out. Watching Your blue eyes cloud, Your face turn red as You struggle for breath, the HATE concentrates. I have Clarity. Purpose. Focus.

My mind returns, HATE-sharp. With confidence I share my elation by spitting in Your face. "I decide who lives or dies."

And You will....live.

Like so many times before, I release Your throat before You can pass out, my control returned. You fall, boneless, gasping, unafraid though You know what will happen, though I know what will happen. You cough, pressing Your face against the floor as Your body tries to shake off the nearness of suffocating death. I stalk You, with measured steps, with calculated menace, with silence and anger. I circle Your prone body, letting the emotion grow until I unleash its awesome energy on my target. You.

Anticipation of pain is far more effective than the pain itself, but You show no fear. Never in the past have I found a way to make You fear what I am about to do to You, and I gave up trying long ago. No, the waiting, the building up of anticipation if for me alone, so I can savor the moment. My small revenge against *them*.

I need release. I forgo the usual torture for pure physical satisfaction.

I begin by kicking You. There is no design, or set pattern to how I do it. I let HATE dictate action, and it is an irrational emotion. You cringe, whimper, sob, as I connect with Your leg, Your back, Your stomach, Your nose. The last begins to bleed copiously. Like a shark in the ocean, I am drawn by the scent of blood in the water.

You are so short, so small, I have an easy time to throw You on my cot. With a crack, Your head connects with the wall, but You don’t pass out. I calculated my toss perfectly. You move naught but to stanch the flow with Your hands. Your unscarred hands. Unburned, perfect hands. My "space" is so small, it is only one quick step across the room to my cot, Your body. You don’t cringe at my touch when I slap Your hands from Your face. The sour scent of the red fluid is pungent. I descend, laving the liquid with a swipe of my tongue. Thick, metallic, salty wine bursting in my mouth.

Tastes like revenge. HATE approves.

I press my lips against Yours, swollen and blood-covered. You open immediately when I tear Your soft skin with my teeth. Your mouth...Your divine mouth tastes like something sweet and creamy. I can’t identify it, but I am addicted to it. When You are not here, I *crave* Your taste, even after the HATE subsides. I search Your moist depths for the source of this sweetness, but it evades me, spurns me, and soon it is corrupted by the blood still on my tongue.

In fury I give You the back of my hand, Your neck cracking with the vicious blow as Your face turns to the wall. The delicious curve of Your neck is exposed, and I ravage it with my mouth, using tooth and suction to mark and bruise the flesh. When You make a feeble play at struggling against my removing--ripping--Your shirt, I twist my hand into Your curly auburn hair and bite Your collarbone hard enough to break the skin. You protest no longer, arched and laid bare in my rough embrace.

I strip You. Your flat, hair-covered chest is miles of canvas for my work. Bruises are already purpling from my kicks, and I add new ones with pummeling fist and pinching fingers. You gasp and cry from my abuse, pulling out Your own hair as You jerk Your head, but it is not enough to satisfy HATE. It needs more. I need more.

I release my grip on Your hair to use both hand on Your pants until You are finally totally exposed. Your thick cock is not erect, not that I expected You to be. This isn’t about sex, it is about HATE. Power. I can’t hurt Raines, so I hurt You, because I can. My own penis is hard and howling against my fly, HATE personified in a purple pulsing stave of hungry flesh. Another controlled backhand, and You are swung over to Your stomach.

I shove two fingers into Your dry ass, twisting and scissoring inside while I free my throbbing cock. I watch my HATE grow even harder as You tense against my invading fingers, twisting with every corkscrew turn of my digits. I have no lubrication except for Your blood, my spit. I mix them in my palm, then slide it over my erection. I withdrawal my fingers, but give Your stretched ass a few good spanks.

I give You no rest before I slam inside, tearing where I meet resistance, bruising where I grip Your hips, biting where You arch against me. I feel the dragon let go its hold on my heart, the hate empty into Your bowels as I explode inside You. I howl in release, and collapse beside You. Broken.

For two heartbeats, I feel whole, freed of the itching need for now. The hate is still present, not as ‘here,’ not as immediate and demanding, but it is ‘there,’ small and crouched, waiting to rise again. I open my eyes to see You spit Your own blood onto the white sheets of my bed, struggling to find Your breath against the pain. The pain that I caused to lessen my own. I sob, ashamed of what I’ve become. I hate him I hate him I hate him. I hate myself. I hate the Centre. I *hate* hating.

But I don’t hate You.

I sob harder, turning away from the sight of Your abused flesh. My body feels as though it is run through with a thousand volts as it shakes and trembles. I want to fly apart, let the shuddering and the crying break my bones and destroy this hate forever.

Instead of dissolution, I feel...Oh, I feel warmth covering my back like a blanket. I feel strong arms wrap around my chest, holding me together. I feel a soft rain of kisses down my neck. I feel silky hair brush my cheek as a face is pressed to the back of my head.

I feel...

I don’t know what to call what I feel. I’ve never been given a word for it, and I’ve only ever felt it in Your arms. I turn inside Your calming embrace, burrowing my face in Your bruised neck to heal Your hurt with my saline tears. You don’t retaliate for Your pain, You don’t push me away. You hold me closer, and I feel small and totally encompassed by Your heavenly presence. I struggle to lose myself in the soothing balm of Your touch as You pet my back and rub my shoulders.

I feel...You. "My Angel." The benediction escapes through the sobs, the only name I have for Your divine personage.

My savior. When the sobs quiet, I feel a gentle languor set into my limbs. For not the first time, I wonder why You come to me when I am lost in the HATE. I hurt You, I beat You, I rape You, and You take it all, yet...You give nothing but gentleness back. If You weren’t here to help me vent my HATE, then I would have imploded long ago, and all this would be over. But You show without fail when I need you, and I hurt You, and we live to go through the process again. I hate what I’ve become, but I can’t stop what I do.

My divine strength. I feel sleep settling over me like the darkness, but it is softened by Your presence. You give me the strength to survive this place, to face Raines with cool detachment and to assimilate whatever new horrors he has for me. You keep my head from completely turning to mush. I feel safe here, more safe than I do even in the Dragon House. Here, he can’t touch me, can’t find me.

I can’t stay awake any longer. The harder I try, the better sleep’s grip. I know You will be gone when I awake. You always are. And when the hate builds up and is too much for me and I have to let it out, You will return, healed and ready to take my abuse. The knowledge torments me, making me yearn for the abuse just so that I could taste Your sweetness again and feel Your gentling touch as I fall asleep, making me hope the next time You will not appear so that I will not have to hurt You. I want You. I need You. I wish I’d never have to see You again. I wish You could stay with me forever. I am torn apart by my desires.

You are so unlike me and this place. A drop of purity in a world of depravity, a shaft of sunlight in a darkened room, an angel untouched though You are in hell with the rest of us tortured souls.

I fall asleep, knowing that for me, for the Centre, for Raines..Ich kann nicht ein Engel sein. **

THE END