Time period: After Season 4
Spoilers for WWL
He’s floating in a black hole that that is darker than the void of space. Blood red eyes are pinpricks where stars should be. And then it hits.
The smell of the oil assaults him again, and he fights the urge to vomit. It burns in his nostrils and in his throat and crawls through his veins, setting him on fire from the inside out. He twists and turns his sweat soaked body in a futile attempt to escape the horror that he knows is surely coming.
He feels hands on him, shaking him, trying to restrain him, and he hears a voice, her voice, as if from a great distance.
“John. John, stop.”
“John, stop. You’re going to hurt yourself,” she is saying reasonably, if a bit loudly. The hands still trying to restrain him.
He will not stop. Not this time. Not again, not while the shame and rage and hate burn so brightly in him. He will take all of it and use it to fuel his rage, use it against her. He will finally be able to make her pay.
And then he will be rid of her.
His hand under the pillow finds the reassuring cold, metallic grip, and as his fingers slide comfortably into their familiar place, he realizes with cold, crystal, clarity what he must do. Her voice is still swirling around him, and he has to focus to locate its source.
His hand swings around suddenly to connect with the source of his anguish. The voice stops speaking, the hands quit moving over him, and he finds the sound and feel of Winona making solid contact with her head eminently satisfying.
He rolls over to pin her beneath him, but she is still squirming. He raises a hand to slap her hard before rolling off her again. She’s barely moving now, her body twitching really, but it makes him irrationally angry that she is still struggling. He grabs a fistful of black hair and pulls her roughly up. Without thinking, he smashes her head against the nearest hard surface he can find.
He pulls her down again and doesn’t quite understand how she’s made it appear that he is still in his bed on Moya, because he can feel the stone slab beneath him. He’ll work with what he’s been given though, and reaches for a golden cover. He wraps it securely around her wrists the way he’s been taught to immobilize her, and ties it off against the posts. He grabs another golden sheet and does the same with her feet, splaying her legs.
The oil has made him hard and hot and heavy, and the exertion of subduing her has done nothing to diminish that. If anything, as much as it disgusts him, the feel of her body sliding against his ratchets up his need to hurt her.
To fuck her.
The oil pours through his senses and the desire pours through his body in time with the pounding in his head. She has violated him in ways he never thought possible, and the need to return that in kind is a primal one he has no interest in denying. He will make her feel what she has done to him.
She’s squirming again, begging, that oily voice coming to assault his ears again.
“John, stop. Please. John. Stop. You’re hurting me.”
She’s begging now, shrieking really, and the lovely symmetry of that brings a feral smile to his face. It’s lyrical and lilting and the thought that she is feeling this makes him irrationally happy. But the feeling is fleeting and then the sounds of her whimpering begin to enrage him again.
He puts his hand on her mouth to stop the flow of words and feels the wetness of her cheek. The thought of her crying now that their roles are reversed, after all she has done to him tears at his self-control. He’d begged, he’d cried and she’d laughed.
Payback is a bitch.
“John, please,” she pleads.
He slaps her hard again to shut her up and leans down to whisper in her ear.
“What’s the matter? You don’t wanna fuck? Isn’t that what you Peacekeeper whores do? Fuck? You bitch,” he hisses, wrapping himself in his own righteous fury.
He reaches over and pulls the blade from the side table. The stone she’d been sharpening it with is knocked to the floor along with the flowers. She really is a stupid bitch, he thinks, leaving it there for him to use.
With one quick motion he has slit the small scraps of clothing from her body and left her bare to him. Reaching into his boxers he releases his cock, hard and angry and ready.
He won’t touch her anymore than he has to, won’t kiss her, won’t ease his way into her. He wants to be brutal, make her hurt. He grabs his cock and positions it at her entrance, sliding the tip of the head just inside.
“Feel this,” he growls, slamming his hips roughly forward and burying his length inside her.
She cries once and gurgles out her pain and strangely that comforts him. He reaches under her ass to lift her just enough to give him a better angle and then he begins to move, pounding balls deep into her.
Her body is shaking from his onslaught. She’s sobbing now, he’s sure of it, and that fuels his raging assault. He explodes in a sea of stars, and as he feels his ejaculate gush, he also feels her tears and the wetness of something else.
In his frenzied orgy of fury he’s found the knife again and run it blindly across her throat. He feels her still in death beneath him and laughs out loud at the pool of red against the false golden sheets. He’s wrapped in a blessed silence and thinks to himself that maybe if he bathes in the bitch’s blood he can finally get rid of her taint and the stench she has left behind..
He closes his eyes for a moment, envisioning what it will be like. When he’s finally away from her and with Aeryn. He wants to be free of this for her. He raises his head and opens his eyes.
And looks straight into Aeryn’s wide open, unblinking eyes.