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the-darklings · 5 years ago

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—𝒕𝒉𝒆 𝒈𝒂𝒎𝒆 𝒕𝒉𝒂𝒕 𝒑𝒍𝒂𝒚𝒔 𝒖𝒔;

pairing: john wick x f!reader

word count: 7.2k+

summary: You want him to fear you. And he will.

warnings: STRONG VIOLENCE, blood, emotional distress/trauma, mentions of torture, swearing, angst.

notes: Thank you so much for the feedback on Part 1!!! Ngl, I got carried away again but there’s something deeply enjoyable about these two so here we are. Fair warning, this one is gonna get messy.

children of ares series: 01 | . . | 03 |

“I’m surprised you’re alone.”

Your head lifts at the sound of his voice over the music.

John stands behind you in that familiar, overly calm manner of his that never seems to waver. The dark suit he wears seems to make him blend in with the darkness of the club as he nods his head towards the empty seat opposite to you in a silent question.

Your lips twitch upwards slightly, and you lean back in your own seat. “You don’t need to ask.”

John slides smoothly into the booth, and his obsidian eyes sweep over you once but the action is hardly sexual or makes you feel uncomfortable in any way. It’s a warming gesture, a protective one, and it makes something pleasant bloom in the pit of your stomach.

You’ve only been back in the great game for two months, and in that time Tarasov has only allowed you and John to work together once. He seems hellbent on breaking you in on solo missions. You aren’t sure if it’s his version of additional punishment but you find any thoughts of your boss beginning to fade as John gazes at you silently.

The singer on stage transitions into another song, her sultry voice dipping as a slower number begins. Winston, at least, knows how to choose his entertainment.

I give him all my love, that's all I do.

“How’s Venice?” you ask eventually, and John blinks as if he’s been lost in thought. “Any trouble?”

John doesn’t miss the tinge of sarcasm in your voice and his mouth twitches into one of his almost-smiles. “No trouble. I’ve been back for a week.”

Your eyebrows jump and you shift in your seat. “And you didn’t drop by for a visit? Why I’m hurt.”

Something changes in John’s eyes then; it’s a subtle shift you only pick up on because you’re starting to know his tells, and your nerves prickle at the silent intensity of his gaze.

And if you saw my love, you'd love him too.

“You seem to be making new friends,” he states, at last, a touch flatly, and this time your eyebrows rise in genuine surprise.

“The Italians,” you offer offhandedly, tapping your fingernails against the smooth wood beneath your hand. “They’re hardly my friends. The old man is even more unpleasant than Tarasov. His kids are promising though. Gianna likes you at least. Couldn’t shut up about you when she learned who I was. I think it made Cassian jealous.”

You don’t bother hiding the sardonic bite in your words, but John is not one to indulge in petty gossip so you don’t expect him to comment. He listens to you patiently though; the same way he always does, no matter how inconsequential the topic is, and it suddenly hits you just how much you’ve missed him.

It’s only been a week but the ache is like a dull throb that quakes your bones every time you move. Too often you have caught yourself wondering what John was doing or how his missions have been going. His presence here, now, is like a soothing balm you haven’t even realised you needed.

A love like ours could never die.

Before you can change the topic, however, John speaks, “Promise me that you’ll be careful.”

The seriousness of his voice only makes his morose expression even more severe, and your teasing half-smile crumbles away. “Are they that dangerous?”

John’s expression gives nothing away but he does lean closer, his eyes sweeping over the other patrons in a knowing manner. “Everyone in our world is dangerous,” he states gruffly, his words soft.

“And so are we,” you comment lightly, your lips curving playfully, dangerously. “It would be unwise for people to forget that.”

The singer on stage leans closer into the microphone, her words hushed and sensual while the song progresses and you blink, leaning back in your seat.

“You still haven’t told me why you’re here,” you speak up, finding it hard to talk all of a sudden. “Not that I’m unhappy to see you but…”

“It’s your birthday.”

He says it so simply and in that blunt manner of his, it’s like that fact somehow explains everything in the universe and you stare at him, uncomprehending.

“I—I didn’t realise you knew when my birthday even was,” you whisper over the growing lump in your throat. You can’t recall the last time you celebrated your birthday, or when anyone even bothered to remember it. So even though you have never taken much interest in celebrating it before, this feels different. Somehow, John knowing and coming to see you because it is your birthday feels… “Was it Winston? I swear that man knows everything.”

He gives me everything, and tenderly the kiss my lover brings, he brings to me.

But John doesn’t indulge in your line of inquiry. Instead, he reaches inside his jacket and takes out a black velvet box, placing it in front of you.

For a second, you feel your heart seize.

Your suddenly clammy fingers squeeze tightly before you forcefully relax them and calmly reach across the table, taking the box into your hand.

Much to your surprise, it is a ring. Just not the type most women would hope for.

It’s a viper. A silver, coiling thing that has beautiful detail engraved across its entire, curling length. The head sits slightly bent to the side, exposing the little gems in its eyes that reflect the exact same shade of your own.

For a long moment, you’re speechless, adrift. You stare at the ring in your hand as something warm simmers in your gut.

“Happy birthday.”

Your eyes lift to him. His expression has softened a touch, just slightly, but you imprint it in your mind. You hoard these moments—these rare, precious minutes with him when his and your guards are both down, and it truly does feel like it’s just the two of you against the world.

One day, inevitably, when something goes wrong—and it always does—you will miss him so terribly. You will miss him like one misses the feeling of the sun on their skin, or how gentle breeze feels kissing your skin on a warm summer’s day.

You will miss him the way the sun misses the moon.

You will miss him because you love him.

And it makes you so very sad that you do.

I know this love of mine will never die. And I love him, ooh.

“So then he says to me, he says—hey, are you listening to me?”

“Always.”

You bob your head happily, your arms still linked as John unlocks the hotel room door. You sway on your feet slightly and his grip on your tightens. The main reason you don’t drink is because you don’t trust the world you’re in nor the people in it. But you allowed yourself this indulgence tonight, and you wonder what it says about you that there’s a part of you that trusts John so completely that you don’t even hesitate.

It’s a simple truth to you.

John will keep you safe.

It’s not like you’re drunk, either. Yes, perhaps a bit tipsy but it’s been a while. These last few months have been soaked in blood and poison, not alcohol. A viper strikes without mercy or prejudice. They only leave devastation behind.

And that’s what you want. Devastation.

If only because you never want to give Tarasov a reason to lay a hand on you again. In fact, you want that same wariness he regards John with to be directed at you. You want him to hesitate, to shift in discomfort every time he thinks you will not be happy with what he has to say.

You want him to fear you.

And he will.

He will.

The room is dark when you enter and John reaches for the light switch, kicking the door closed with the back of his foot. You lean against him for a moment—a purely selfish and self-indulgent few seconds in which you savour his warmth and unyielding strength before letting go. The world tilts to the right without John’s steadying grip on you but you still make it to the couch, falling onto it with a bounce and a loud giggle.

It feels good to laugh. You haven’t in a while and it feels almost foreign.

John is right behind you. Your dark, silent shadow. He doesn’t speak but his eyes gleam with amusement when you squint at him.

“I’m not drunk,” you grumble and John’s eyebrows rise.

“Uhu,” he grunts, watching your pathetic and clumsy attempt to take off your shoes.

Why is it easier to kill a man than take off these stupid things?

A moment later, another pair of hands join yours, carefully peeling your fingers away. Your breath hitches in your throat and the pleasant warmth in your blood turns into an inferno when your head lifts to see John kneeling before you. The slopes of his face are relaxed—almost gentle—while he patiently works on unclasping your shoes. His touch is featherlight, and yet it still manages to shoot bolts of lightning up your leg.

You stare at him wordlessly, caught in the moment. The ring on your hand gleams in the low light, and you bite your tongue to control the sudden urge to say something you know you will regret the moment you open your mouth.

Instead, you focus on the few rebellious strands of hair that brush against his forehead whenever he moves. You should tease him about it. His hair is getting long. Except you don’t mind it, at all. Biting back a shiver when his fingers grasp the back of your heel, you stare at his partially hidden eyes. They look so dark in this light. Merciless. A monster’s eyes that swallow every shred of light in the room.

Except they aren’t. Not to you.

In sunlight, they’re more golden brown than obsidian. You know because you’ve caught yourself looking one too many times, and they always struck you as beautiful.

God. When did you become so—

So soft.

“When—” you start, and stop. Your tongue feels clumsy but you force yourself to say something. “When I was eight my parents they, uh, they moved us to Italy. I didn’t know what for back then. But we were on the run. I knew that much. We lived in Bulgaria before that, and I don’t think whatever my parents were involved in went that well. But, well, before my parents managed to make anything of themselves in Italy they really struggled. Most days we barely had anything to eat. My father stole often.”

John’s hands pause briefly, but he resumes his work without interrupting you. You’re grateful. Now that you’ve started talking, it feels like you can’t stop.

“That summer I went through a bit of a growth spurt. Well, of course, we didn’t have money for new clothes so my Mama stole for me,” you continue, your voice hitching in places. “And—and this one time I needed new shoes so badly because my old ones were falling apart. So she stole this beautiful blue pair for me. They had jewelled clasps and this pretty floral pattern and—it was the nicest thing I’ve ever owned. I loved them immediately. That is until I put them on. They were too small. And I, uh, I can recall it even now, my Mama’s face when she asked me if they fit. I could have told her the truth. But we had scraps for food and people in town were starting to whisper about our family. So I smiled at her and told her that they fit perfectly. She gave me this look…it was so sad. She hugged me tightly and neither of us spoke after that because we both knew that I was lying.”

John is looking at you now, listening intently. He looks both older and sadder all at once but you don’t point that out.

Instead, you wiggle your free toes and smile through the sting prickling your eyes. Your smile feels brittle when your eyes meet but you only stretch your lips further.

“All I can remember is the feeling of those beautiful shoes squeezing my toes till they were numb,” you whisper softly and chuckle harshly immediately after. A tear escapes and you wipe it off angrily. “My feet were bloody but I said nothing. My parents were keeping us alive, and the least I could do is keep my mouth shut and wait. But I swore to myself that one day I will never have to worry about being forced to wear shoes that are too small for me. Never feel trapped again. Tarasov thinks he knows me, thinks he understands me. But he doesn’t. I’m scared of him, that’s true. But one day…one day he will be the one to fear me.”

“I know.”

The laugh that escapes you sounds harsh, perhaps a touch shrill, but you love him so much at that moment. Love his easy, unwavering faith in you.

The nameless thing between you finally has a name and you shudder in both happiness and fear.

John rises to his feet with the elegance of someone who is in complete control of his body and extends his hand towards you. There is no hesitation when you grasp it in yours. He helps you stand but when he moves to let go, your own grip tightens. His hand is so warm that a selfish part of you doesn’t want to let go.

The Boogeyman. The monster you’re supposed to hide your children from.

You reach for his tie, pull harshly, and kiss him.

It’s a slow thing; shy and fragile, much like your feelings for him. At first, John doesn’t move. He remains still and silent, but when he finally does move, it’s equally as careful. Slow. His free hand comes to rest lightly against the small of your back and you shiver.

The kiss is only a simmering, slow joining of you and him that last no more than thirty seconds before he pulls away.

You’re gasping. Breathless. Suddenly hot all over. No amount of alcohol could ever make you feel like this. Shivering from such simple contact.

You’ve kissed people before, but they’re not John.

No one could be John.

His fingers brush against the curve of your jaw, always so delicate and slow. You know how easily these hands can take lives. Which only makes his careful touch that much more thrilling.

It’s pathetic. How weak he makes you.

“We can’t,” he breathes, his voice hoarse and low, and his words slice through you like a hot knife. Your eyes snap open, and you haven’t realised that you’ve closed them till the exact moment you have to meet his regretful gaze. He looks conflicted, a deep frown twisting his features. His lips part and you hold your breath. “Maybe if things were…different.”

“Different?” you echo numbly, blinking, and pull away slowly, your eyes dropping to the floor. Your lips still tingle, the taste of him on your tongue, and you can’t inhale without remembering what it felt like to share oxygen with him. “Okay.”

“(Name)—”

“Don’t.”

Your eyes lift to his, hard and unblinking. “I always knew nothing could ever happen between us. Not while Tarasov holds us tied to him. You don’t have to explain yourself. It was stupid of me to except anything from you.”

But it still stings. God does it sting.

John takes a step towards you but your hand snaps out, pressing against his chest and stopping him in his tracks. Against the black of his shirt, the ring on your finger gleams even brighter.

“Please,” you plead and hate yourself for being reduced to this, again. “I don’t need your pity.”

“It’s not pity,” he says firmly, and his hand comes to gently rest on top of yours.

Shaking your head, you jerk your hand away and—for the first time since you met him—you turn your back to him.

That foolish, naive girl that still lives deep down begs for him to say something, to turn you around and kiss you again. Tarasov and consequences be damned.

But John is a man of discipline, of honour, so when a few minutes later you hear his retreating footsteps and the soft closing of your hotel room door, you don’t react.

The pain, as always, comes later.

You don’t sleep.

You can’t.

It’s almost like your body sobered up in a span of softly whispered “we can’t” and John walking out of the door.

He wakes up at the crack of dawn. You leave long before that.

The shower you take is barely lukewarm but you can’t bring yourself to adjust it. Instead, you allow few silent tears to join the water going down the drain, and try your hardest to control the sob that tickles the back of your throat.

Down, down, down.

Getting changed is a dull blur, as is gathering your clothes and walking out of the door. John is only next door. A part of you considers stopping and letting him know that you’re leaving. But as soon as the thought crosses your mind, you immediately crush it to nothing.

The truth is that you’re not made of marble.

Seeing him now would just be torture.

So you walk past his door.

Charon, ever the professional concierge, doesn’t let his surprise show upon seeing you up so early.

He takes your details, takes your room key. He wants to ask, you know he does. You certainly look like a mess but you can’t force yourself to speak even when you usually would.

“We look forward to seeing you again very soon, Miss Vipress.”

You pause for a brief moment, contemplating.

But don’t reply before walking away.

Tokyo is, frankly, freezing for this time of year.

The cold nips at your nose and you shift in your spot on the floor, your joints creaking in protest. As time continues to pass without your mark making an appearance, your focus starts to waver.

If John were here he would tell you to never relax on a job.

John.

The mere thought of the name coils your stomach into an uncomfortable ball of bitter emotion. Perhaps you took the coward’s way out when you left without saying a word but who can blame you? It’s too hard. Too hard knowing that even if he feels something—he didn’t push you away immediately, he even kissed you back—he still can’t be with you. Your world is not made for silly daydreams of love and happiness.

That’s why you have stayed away.

Why you haven’t seen him in weeks, maybe even months. Time tends to blur when you go from one job to another and you’re glad for the distraction.

It’s better this way. Distance will do you good.

Last you’ve heard, John was back in New York because Tarasov has been planning something big for a while. Frankly, you’re just glad he gave you free rein for the time being.

That’s how you’ve ended up in Tokyo. Your rather handsome 1 million contract has been set up to take out some Yakuza boss that’s causing trouble to his competitors in Kyoto. One power-hungry man going after another. Some things never change.

But the pay is good and it’s a pretty clear cut mission so in hindsight, you can’t complain too much.

Except, your target is almost thirty minutes late now.

Unease prickles down your spine the longer you wait.

Something creaks behind you.

The first man drops dead before he comes anywhere near you, a poisoned needle making him twitch on the floor in agony.

But there’s more.

They appear like a swarm from every darkened corner of the alleyway. Somehow they know your exact location.

And they have come prepared.

Never before have you been as thankful for the foresight to bring enough poison to take down a small army as you are then. You let the suppressed gas canister do its work first, the dispersing poison inside making men and women alike drop dead to the floor. Their skin blisters and eyes haemorrhage from their blood vessels rupturing upon contact. The next stage is their lungs collapsing and you hope they die before that.

Despite your hope, most of them choke on air and blood, dying in agony.

The rest is a hail of bullets and blades.

You have the advantage of being immune to your own poison and dance through the carnage easily, knowing full well that on a windy night like this one the gas will only stay in the air for another few minutes at most. Then, it will disperse into a milder irritant. A pesky distraction at best.

A blade slices across your arm and you snarl low in your throat, your muscles aching from the strain of trying to hold back another assailant aiming for your jugular.

Give yourself space.

A poisoned blade is slick in your hand. Wet from all the blood you’ve coated it in and you stumble back, slicing viciously. The figures in black have to climb over their dead comrades to reach you now, and you try to keep them back by releasing blade after blade, needle after needle of poisoned metal at them. Those that get close enough meet their end at the end of your fists and gun.

Focus.

Shoot, duck, reload, aim, throw, exhale.

Deep breaths. Control the pain tearing through your split knuckles.

You focus on breathing, on alertness that makes your body tense so much your muscles—even well trained and strong—still strain under the pressure.

Shoot, left, drop, slice, reload now.

The figures keep coming.

And coming.

Despair ceases your mind when you realise that if you stay in the alleyway, your chances of making it dwindle to nothing.

John’s stern voice goes devastatingly quiet in your head.

Whoever sent these people after you clearly didn’t underestimate your abilities like so many have in the past.

Knees hitting the floor, you roll, slicing through the tendons on the man who just tried to gut you with his sword. The man crumbles, shouting in pain, and you grasp him by the neck, your knife sinking deep into the unguarded flesh. You drag a line, blood spilling and hug him to you, letting the hail of bullets hit his body instead. The man squirms before stilling, his gasps of pain ceasing forever.

In the dim light, you catch the look in his eyes.

He looks scared.

They always look scared.

There’s movement behind you and you turn sharply, but too late to stop the knock on your temple.

Your head spins as you drop to the side, kicking blindly. Your vision swims and you grasp your gun before firing. The first two shots miss but the third finally hits and you groan, scrambling to your feet.

Disorientated, you don’t react fast enough.

A bullet tears through your leg and you scream, crumbling to the floor. Then comes a kick to your stomach, making you curl into a ball and roll on the floor.

Your vision is white from agony.

Fingers covered in blood and shaking, you attempt to curl them into fists—attempt to reach for your leg and ebb the blood-flow.

Footsteps draw closer and you snarl, trying to open your eyes and see the face of the one who did this to you.

A kick to your side hits brutally and you roll onto your stomach, gasping for air. God, it’s so hard to breathe through the agony travelling from up your leg and sides.

“Stop your squirming, bitch.”

The words are acidic in their bite, spoken in clear Japanese but twisted by an accent you can’t pinpoint.

You don’t listen, trying to regain your senses, knowing full well that it’s a matter of seconds before they put a bullet in your head.

But before you can do anything pain pierces through your shoulder, and you choke on your scream.

A blade.

A blade that has gone clean through your right shoulder, and currently creaking against the dirty pavement underneath you. Your blood looks black in this light and your head swims.

Blackness takes you before you can form another coherent thought.

You live.

But the following days make you wish you hadn’t.

The man grins widely as he talks.

His name is Kishi. Or at least that’s what others call him.

He likes visiting you. Likes seeing you weak and beat, likes spinning tales about all the wonderful things they were still eager to try on you. Whenever he suspects you’re not listening to him closely enough, he has others beat you till you lose consciousness.

That’s the best scenario you can now hope for. When compared to their other methods, being beaten is like being tickled.

But you’re so thirsty it’s getting hard to focus on anything he’s saying.

A scream echoes from somewhere in the far distance, and your eyes flutter closed for a second.

Figuring out that you’re not the only one being kept here was the easy part. But realising that you’re in a remote location far from any urban activity that at least gives you a sliver of hope someone may stumble upon you has been a whole other mental blow.

Torture is a wicked, ugly thing.

Human bodies are resilient though, and according to Kishi you’re their “guest of honour” which meant that after the pain came some deranged form of care.

They have decided to keep you alive for now, but you doubt that’s going to be a permanent arrangement. Eventually, they will either grow bored or the reason they’re keeping you here will expire. After that…

After that, there are a great many things that can happen to you. None of them pleasant. Most of them horrifyingly terrible and painful in fact.

Effectively, your continuous existence depends on getting out of here before that happens.

Easier said than done, of course. You’ve been bound from head to toe. You couldn’t so much as twitch without catching someone’s attention. Your muscles have long since cramped and gone numb from disuse as well as blunt trauma.

The only chance—if any—you have of getting out is…

You force your treacherous mind to quieten. Force yourself to banish the thought of the one person you could imagine missing you, perhaps even looking for you.

But that hateful voice in the back of your mind reminds you that there’s no reason why anyone would care enough to look.

You are, as you’ve always been, alone.

“Enough.”

Kishi speaks in English which is rare.

Apparently, he finds the language ugly. Some delirious, pain-riddled part of you can’t blame him for thinking that despite the fact that he’s responsible for your torture.

Your teeth clatter loudly in the now quiet room, and your lungs rattle with every deep inhale of air.

It hurts to breathe. Things blur in front of you and you try to blink the droplets of water still stinging your eyes.

It’s cold. It’s so, so cold.

“Still fighting, aren’t we?” Kishi mutters thoughtfully, this time in Japanese, taking a drag of his cigarette. “Didn’t know bitches came this tough.”

Few men chuckle but Kishi doesn’t laugh. Kishi only stares.

His eyes are dark.

So dark that if you focus on just them you can almost imagine that—

A shaky breath escapes you but you don’t speak. You’ve lost the ability for sarcasm and humour days ago. Especially after you’ve been shown just how much more severe these sessions can get if you show disrespect.

“Leave us.”

The men shift; surprised, wary. “Master?”

Kishi’s eyes leave yours, and his face twists into a sneer when he faces his men. He’s in his late forties at least, and you can tell from the lines etched deep into his face that this is a familiar expression. His face knows this hatred, this cruelty, as if it’s second nature.

“I said fuck off!”

The men obey because they’re afraid, not because they respect him. In fact, they can’t leave fast enough as the metal door groans shut and you stay slumped in your spot.

Your hands are still bound, wrists raw and blistered, but your feet aren’t. They simply dumped you in this creaky chair after they were finished. Your soaked clothes cling to your skin and you shiver again, your body trembling from the effort to hold yourself together.

Kishi stares.

Your throat bobs when you swallow, waiting for him to say something. He always speaks first. That’s a fact you learned early on. After you spoke first once—sarcasm flowing free and your mocking tone making others cringe—Kishi punched you so hard that your teeth rattled upon contact, one of your back molars breaking free. Blood dribbled down your chin after, the impact still vibrating through your skull and neck.

A rough, warm hand touches your jaw and you jerk back to reality.

A phantom memory of another warm hand touching you in exactly the same manner mangles your heart to pieces, leaving a fresh bleeding wound in its place.

“John.”

It’s a strangled, weak whisper but this time more than your physical body aches. Longing and terror mix dangerously till for the first time in days—maybe weeks, months for all you know—you feel tears fill your eyes.

The fingers against your jaw tighten till you whimper in pain.

“Who is this John you long for?” Kishi questions curiously, his hand jerking your head from side to side while he inspects you like one would a slab of meat. Clinical, indifferent. “You plead for him in your dreams. Whisper his name when the pain gets too much. Do you hope this John will save you? He won’t. You’re dead to the world. You’re nothing but a piece of meat for me to do with whatever I please. I’ve been keeping my men away from you. But perhaps…”

He makes a thoughtful sound at the back of his throat before he throws his half-smoked cigarette to the floor. His rough fingers slide away from your jaw and down the slope of your neck, causing you to jerk in your seat. Kishi laughs at that; a cruel, empty sound as his eyes lift to you.

“What’s the matter, huh?” he mocks, his voice dropping to a whisper. “Are you going to plead for your John? Some weak, pathetic nobody? Did he give you this? Is that why you fight so hard, eh?”

Kishi grabs something from his inner jacket pocket, and awareness slams into you when your foggy mind registers what you’re looking at.

Your ring. John’s ring.

A small breath escapes you, and your swollen fingers twitch.

Kishi’s smug sneer sparks something in your gut—something hard and cold and furious. When you reach for the familiar coil of the viper, his other hand slaps yours away harshly. Your teeth grit from the shooting burn but you stay silent, obedient. Being reckless now will not do you any good.

But you’re grateful for the pain too because for the first time in days you feel awake. Your body is weak and broken in so many ways but—

Your hands are bound tightly, but your feet aren’t.

And more importantly, you’re alone. For the first time since you’ve been taken, you’re alone in the room with this man.

I don’t need anyone. Not when I’m the most dangerous one here.

Biting back a smile, you let your head to loll back and stare at him.

He notices your expression and his features darken.

“Closer.”

You don’t recognise your own voice; it’s faint and frayed around the edges but that doesn’t surprise you. Your cracked lips hurt from simply speaking but you don’t regret that either. You stopped talking a long time ago, and Kishi hates it. He wants you to engage in his sick little game.

That’s why he leans closer.

Because he believes that you are weak—or perhaps he doesn’t think that you’re weak at all, but that he’s managed to somehow strip away your killer instincts instead.

His breath stinks of tobacco and you force your expression to relax when you come face to face.

“Closer, please.”

Kishi’s hand presses against your waist suddenly, eager, his breaths growing more shallow with every second. Sickness squeezes your already cramped stomach but you hold your breath to calm down.

Just a little bit more.

Kishi’s hand is rough as he explores, his lips eagerly pressing against the shell of your ear and you smile.

“That nobody is called John Wick.”

Kishi freezes as if struck by lightning.

And that’s all the time you need.

The kick you deliver to his knee makes him slump against you but you don’t register the moment your teeth sink into his neck.

You don’t register the agonising pain as he tries to free himself by jerking you back by your hair.

There’s just the sensation of hot blood in your mouth as you rip.

Kishi stumbles back, gasping, helplessly grasping onto his neck where his life force is leaking far quicker than he can stop it. Your ring falls to the floor with a sharp cling! and you follow its path with your eyes.

A knife appears in Kishi’s hand and you jerk to the side, the chair crashing with you as the man topples over to the floor behind you.

Your legs don’t obey you at first but with a scream of frustrated pain, you still manage to kick him in the head. Scrambling on your knees, you hurry towards the fallen knife. Your fingers skim over it but a weight falls on top of you, pulling you back.

Everything cries with agony as you squirm wildly, screaming into the dirt as Kishi tries to push your face into the ground. Your bound hands feel like a deadweight but you only fight harder, trying to throw him off. He punches your barely healed right shoulder and you scream again. Your fingers—

Jerking, you slam the back of your head into his face. Kishi shouts something you can’t make out but it gives you just enough time to turn around and bury the knife into his neck. His movements cease as he stares down at you blankly. Shocked.

You jerk the knife out, blood pouring, and stab him again, deeper. With all the hate and hurt roaring in your ears, you barely hear his chuckle before he slumps over you. The weight of his body makes you cry out and breathing heavily, you awkwardly push him off. Kishi, now eternally still, collapses beside you with a heavy thud.

For a while, you lay there unmoving, staring up at the ceiling, convulsing from both adrenaline and terror.

There’s blood all over your mouth, inside your mouth.

There’s just enough time to forcefully turn around before you throw up. The lumpy rice from last night looks as pathetic as you feel, and your fingers sink into the cold dirt beneath you, tears stinging your eyes. Some still escape and you scream again, this time in frustration and rage.

You want to get up, but you can’t.

You’re too weak, too exhausted.

So weak, so pathetic, you couldn’t save your family and now you can’t even save yourself.

Tears come even harder, prickling your already bruised skin even more.

A glint of silver suddenly catches your eye and you still.

Your ring. John.

“Master, sorry to disturb you but everything went so quiet—”

The man halts in his tracks, stricken by the scene before him. Of his master laying in a pool of dirty blood.

Your mind goes crystal, terrifying sort of still.

The bloody knife in your hands leaves them so fast the newcomer doesn’t have enough time to even react. It doesn’t stick like you wanted though—it’s too heavy, your hands are bound and you’re too exhausted and disorientated to throw accurately. Despite all that, luck is on your side, and it slices against one side of the newcomer’s throat, cutting through the fragile skin like soft butter. Blood rains freely, almost like its been eager to escape its host, and you fall back onto the dirt, gasping in pain. Cold sweat covers your forehead and you ghost your fingers gingerly over your ribs.

It’s too hard to breathe, but broken ribs would leave you in mind-numbing sort of agony. Cracked, then? Or bruised?

Inhale, exhale.

The newcomer continues choking on his blood. Kishi is still.

Ferocious, savage sort of satisfaction blooms when you hear the man finally fall silent. You have never—not once—taken joy in taking lives before. You always made light of your job because you had to. Because too often it felt like if you didn’t make a joke or tried to lighten the situation, you would drive yourself mad with the cruelty of it all.

Digging your fingers into the dirt, you turn onto your stomach.

Your legs feel like jelly but if you can’t walk, then you’ll crawl to freedom.

First though—

First, between muffled curses of discomfort and even more tears, you craw your way towards the silver ring laying on the ground.

It’s covered in dirt and blood.

You grab it in a fist of dirt and it feels like a victory, like your love for John. Because it’s both sweet and painful all at once and you blink rapidly. Dirt crumbles from beneath your fingers and you put the ring on.

Or try to.

Your bruised, swollen digits are not what they were when John first gave you this ring.

They shake so badly that for a moment you can’t help but think that it’s useless to even try. Helplessness swells inside your chest and you squeeze your eyes shut, gnashing your teeth till you feel your gums starting to hurt.

Then one centimetre at the time, you force the ring onto your finger.

It hurts.

But everything is hurting so you don’t open your eyes till it’s done and when it is you stare at your hand in low light. Seeing the ring back where it belongs fills you with the energy you needed to crawl back onto your knees. Digging your fingers in, you half-crawl, half-stumble towards the now dead guard. You don’t bother to look at him because you need to get out of here first. Sooner or later someone else is bound to come looking and you have no time to waste.

It takes considerable effort to unhook the small, well-fashioned blade from the guard’s belt with your hands still tied. But eventually, it comes loose, and you grapple for the handle, awkwardly twisting your hands till the blade kisses your bindings delicately. It takes almost five minutes of painful hacking until the binds finally come loose. Your wrists look mangled; angry, red lines cutting deep into the delicate flesh.

You throw up again. Or try to, at least. Your empty stomach cramps painfully, jerking your whole body from its central gravitational point. Forehead pressed deep into the dirt, you calm yourself and gather strength in your core.

Then, sticking the short blade deep into the ground, you use it as a crutch.

Your knees give out almost immediately, making you fall face-first into the dirt again. Your still healing leg aches terribly and you feel more tears in your eyes.

Weak.

“Stop crying,” you croak to yourself, bitter and angry about your own inability. “Stop crying.”

Your hand curls into a tentative fist, John’s ring pressing into your worn skin and gritting your teeth once more, you force yourself to rise to your knees.

Kishi’s knife is the first priority after the small sword. It makes you feel better, more like yourself, to be armed once again.

Free.

For now.

Blades you know intimately well. A part of you wishes you could grab the poison they took from you but there’s no time for that.

Swiping your forearm over your eyes, you inhale deeply, ignoring the crackling in your lungs. Then, you rise.

Your knees wobble again, every muscle straining.

Short, wheezy breaths slip free but you don’t care about the fact that you sound like you’ve just ran a marathon.

There’s only the end goal.

Get out, get out now.

One foot in front of another. It’s hard to breathe and it’s even harder to walk.

But you keep walking.

Step by step.

You want to see John again. Even if—

Stumbling out of the door, you stare at the dark corridor to either side of you. They always bring you from the left side which leads deeper into the underground facility. Surely that means that going right will lead you to some semblance of safety.

Hope is a dangerous thing. But right now it’s all you have. Because without it you might as well go back and lay down beside Kishi and wait for your own death.

Every step is a varying degree of agonising, but your shoulder presses against the wall as you continue moving. It’s a slog and your head spins with every clumsy step. The taste of blood lingers too and you heave once more. Nothing comes up. Small mercy.

Commotion.

You almost fall over again in your hurried attempt to stop.

Have they figured out you’re gone already?

There are no cameras in the “fun room” as Kishi used to call it. But no—no, you realise in dazed confusion, the commotion isn’t coming from behind you but from the direction you’re heading towards.

It’s so close you can hear the sounds of a struggle from just around the corner. Both the blade and the knife tremble in your hands but you wait for your chance, listening intently.

The telltale sound of what has to be a body hitting the ground reaches your ears, and light footsteps move in your direction. The moment whoever it is rounds the corner and makes themselves visible, you’re going to slice their arteries open.

The person draws closer, closer, closer.

Now.

You lunge the moment a silhouette rounds the steep corner, your knife and sword raised.

But the figure reacts faster, slamming your body back against the wall, excruciating grip on your sore wrists. You feel the blades slip free from your hands and fall to the floor.

You stare.

The figure stares, too.

Then, a raspy, hysterical giggle forces itself from out of you.

It seems like you’re wrong and you never did make it out of the fun room. Maybe you died during the torture or Kishi gutted you like a pig during your fight. Or perhaps the guard did move fast enough and you’re now long dead.

It would certainly make more sense than seeing John right in front of you.

Here. After all this time.

The thought makes you laugh again; a bubbling, hysterical sound and you don’t realise you’re crying till John’s horrified features begin to blur.

That’s funny, too. After all he’s done, after all you’ve seen together, it’s hilarious to think that it’s here—now—that he looks so horrified. This is hardly the worst thing he’s seen.

His hands drop away. “(Name)—”

He sounds hoarse, and so terribly sad.

For some reason, something odd sticks out about him. Your shaking hand reaches out and tugs on a loose strand of his raven hair. “Your hair has gotten long,” you whisper and laugh again, choked. “It looks really g-good.”

You don’t remember losing consciousness.

. . .

an: there’s more where that came from~ ( ͡° ͜ʖ ͡°)

#john wick #john wick x reader #john wick imagine #keanu reeves #john wick fic #fic: children of ares

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ralfstrashcan · 6 years ago

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3x19 Reaction / Commentary

I didn't even skip breakfast today, it's almost as if I'm a real functioning adult ahahaha.

SDFALFJSKLDFJASDF I'M ALREADY A MESS

Ngl those first few shots made me think I had fallen headfirst into a zombie apocalypse movie. Wind swooshing through the speakers, no living soul in sight, no cars driving, just Magnus walking along the street, on the Boulevard of Broken Dreams hahahahaha sorry I'll stop.

Wow what a jerk.

There's been so many hilarious jokes about the “What fool summoned you” line, and my favorite one will forever remain this.

So, points to Magnus for asking, minus points for buying this shit not-sound-at-all story. Even “fatherly love” can't just screw the laws of nature, okay, Magnus shouldn't just skim over this. Then again I can definitely cut him slack on this because he is a little preoccupied with other problems at the moment.

Listen, Magnus's body language throughout this whole scene (and also throughout the sneak peek we saw for 3x20) is so expressive. Imma skim over it because I plan to do a thorough Relationship / Scene Analysis for Magnus and Asmodeus, so let me just leave this picture here uncommented.

No wait, I have a question. Isn't Magnus's magic occupied with guarding Lilith's home? Did Asmodeus pick it up before summoning himself or did he call it just now? Also, does Asmodeus know that Lilith is on the loose? Then again, is she even? Because no Shadowhunter can be bothered to look for her and she did say that she wanted to go back to Edom... but that was probably a lie to get Cain to cooperate. And how could she even send herself back to Edom? So many questions. Anyway moving on because who cares about Lilith.

Magnus's face when he gets his magic back. ....................yes I have no witty words here, sorry.

Lol okay I have. I love this scene, I absolutely LOVE Magnus's face and how expressive it is, but I've also been dreaming of an epic eye-sparkling, energy-crackling mid-battle-scene where Magnus regains his magic for uhhhh almost a year now, and in terms of dramatic-ness this was pretty anti-climactic. And I think we can agree he won't lose his magic again and then get it back in a more dramatic fashion. Also where are his cat eyes I feel cheated.

I mean, come on, even he gets to show them!! Btw what a dick cunning move to use them to manipulate Magnus. Since they made a compelling argument the first time around.

Also LOL Asmodeus playing nice for one second and when Magnus denies him he immediately shows his hand with “I won't take no for an answer.” Man has no patience XD

Finally I wanna give a huge HUGE shout out to Magnus for resisting Asmodeus becuase can you even imagine how low he must be feeling and yet he has enough presence of mind left to realize that whatever comfort Asmodeus offers can't be true, there must be a hook and it's best to stay away. Dude what strength.

“I only lost sight of her for a minute.” “Enough time for the Evil Rune to have taken hold.”

Uuuhhhh since when?? Did they also go to the bathroom together before?? Did I miss that?? I mean, sure, Clary was drifting sometimes, but she spent a whole half episode in the same cell as Jonathan with Jace “away” behind the glass wall and out of her sight, so...... yeah. This is a little sudden.

She keeps saying that but we have yet to see her actually filter anything. #nofilter

“No one can hurt us if we get to Morning Star first. And once we have that sword the entire world will be terrified of us....”

So he wants that evil sword not to open a rift but to keep the NY Shadowhunters off his back so he can live his life in peace. I-n-t-e-r-e-s-t-i-n-g.

Yes, good. Finally learned your lesson.

.............Or not??? I mean it's not like Clary pretended to be on his side before, to lull him into a false security and gain the upper hand. Why would he fall for it now? Because he acts like Jace is the only risk factor here, and Clary is of course truly and wholly on his side. I mean, true, the circumstances are different since she freed him and all, but like. Guy must have trust issues by now. Where are they.

Also

he should start a self help group with Alec hahahahahaha *weeping*

Me, waiting for the next episode of Shadowhunters. (Also I just noticed Simon says “me neither” not “mine neither” so it sounds as if he's not Izzy's thing, either and LOL I couldn't agree more ahahaha.)

Uh-huh, I agree. Perfect timing. I mean, it's not like there was a glaring 98% there earlier, and as if he didn't have plenty of time before to bring this unfortunate line of conversation up. This is on you, Simon. Don't blame the filtering.

HAHAHA ASK ALEC, HE'S GOING TO THROW IT AT HIM HAHAHAHAHAHA

Seriously though. Just, uh, crush it into powder, add some saline solution, done. And I'm not even a scientist. This is intuitive. The heck.

I'm 1000000% on board with all of this, okay. Over excited Alec is the best Alec. Handholding is the best. Magnus's weariness of surprises is headcanon confirmed. Yes to all of it.

So there were a few lines that were widely interpreted as allusions to their kinky sex life and tbh I never bought any of it because I thought it was seeing too much where there was nothing, but this is so very obviously meant in a kinky way that I'll accept it. Another headcanon confirmed ahahaha this episode is so generous to me.

Ugh I'm so gonna have to write something about that. And knowing myself, it'll be sad closeted Alec daydreaming of all the things he can never have.

Question time, what are those weird rivets thingies? Do they hold any meaning? Is their placement of importance? Because they look very deliberate and very there. I'm confused.

Also, this scene was designed to drive me crazy. There's 7 different shots where we see the lock's placement and there are no less than 3 (!!!!!) different placements. Placement #1, #3 and #5 are consistent (though really, #1 and #5 shouldn't even count because they are clearly the same shot, just with Magnus's hand reaching for the lock) on the left side of the yellow lock, to the bottom left of the Dips lock.

Then we see Alec placing it in an empty compartment at the very edge of the construction (placement #2), only for it to be on the compartment below that in the next shot (placement #4), sharing space with a little gray-blueish lock. This is the same place from where Magnus removes it then (placement #6).

I hate inconsistencies, okay, and I really did notice all this the first time watching. I can't not-see stuff like this. The only fun that comes out this detail obsessiveness is the lock that clearly ships Captain America and Captain Marvel (left) and the lock that was placed from two years in the future (right) because ahahahaha did the show forget it takes place in 2016?? It would seem so.

And yes, I chose to focus on this instead of the fact that Magnus incinerates their lock because that hurts my heart too much to think about, okay. That scene was perfect, the music swelling in all the right places and just. So heart-wrenching. I might've teared up a little. You can't prove anything.

Why she not removing those paper thingies? Seems impractical.

Paint on face trope? Check.

Yeah Raphael, lemme pay you some respect for facing your mistakes like that. I like it a lot.

Istg if they don't give him GPS this time and just rely on the tracking rune again, which Jonathan and Clary will insist he blocks, then imma flip my shit.

.......................so many fanfics want to be written here, okay. So many.

Also is no one gonna talk about the fact that they all put the ring on the pointer when that's not the intuitive position to place a ring? For security reasons alone you should put it on your middle finger so it doesn't accidentally slip off. Oh right, I forgot. Magic ring.

I love how Alec's voice wavers and you just know he sends Jace away because he'll start crying if he doesn't (even if in this screen cap Alec looks weirdly happy). Btw headcanon that Jace didn't realize something was up at first and was only tipped off when Izzy asked earlier if Alec was okay, and then he prodded at the parabatai connection and realized... there was nothing. Just a solid wall of nothing, because Alec's been sealing off his feelings completely.

1) Wow, Simon, your condolences are amazing. 2) Please, explain? Is she in a coma? Walking around as if she'd had a lobotomy?? But whatever, just skim over this, she's a minor character anyway and nobody cares about her *shrug*

This is the LAZIEST plot convenience I ever had to see with my own two eyes. I really can't work up the energy to rage about this. Just, wtf. Then again, not calling ahead with vital information seems to be Luke's Thing, just remember the 3x15 disaster. At this point it might as well be considered a character trait of him and no longer plot convenience. *sigh* Also, Shadowhunters are major creeps, am I supposed to believe they don't have a few liters of all of their soldiers' blood stored away somewhere, for reasons?

Uh-huh, Izzy. And if you care to remember, that was about 20 episodes ago. And since vampires have a constant craving for blood they seem to have some kind of metabolic. If you want to tell me that Jace's blood is still IN Simon, then either a) he's been chipping away at the Jace-blood-stash he has hidden in his second gastric and if that runs out he'll no longer be a daylighter or b) Jace's blood went into Simon's cells and changed him on a molecular level..... in which case, to extract it they'd have to remove it, un-daylighter-ing Simon in the process. Or maybe just parts of him? Imagine if he was a daylighter except for his left arm or something. In any case, this is majorly ridiculous and I can't believe I have to suffer through this.

????????????? Who opened that portal? I mean, if he had to call on a warlock to get away, wouldn't it have been easiser for Izzy and Co. to stop him from running through that portal and make him donate some blood first? Instead of forcing this bullshit logic on me? Ugh. But I get it, this is necessary to justify a Sizzy scene. Whatever.

Hahahhahha.

Which means nothing, since Jace can activate his runes without his stele. Or did they forget that part again?? I mean, it's been half a season since he last did that.

“And if it wasn't for our connection I suspect you'd do it again.”

lolololol hilarious.

HAHHAHA WILL YOU STOP WITH THE HILARITY

Honestly, the way they all act I get the distinct feeling I'm watching an exasperated kindergartener and two particularly clingy toddlers vying for her attention XD

Uuuuhhhh yeah hit me with more Malec Flashbacks to make me feel shitty, why don't you.

Okay, consoled. Btw thanks for confirming another headcanon that between the two of them Magnus is the one easier swayed by puppy eyes.

HAHAHAHA of course my mind immediately interpreted that as a misguided pun about Magnus being a Prince of Edom hahahaa wtf Alec

Dammit, his eyes. You can really see how he's allowing himself to start dreaming about it.

Also, can't believe they had a kiddie talk with at least some seriousness, what, two months into their relationship?? Haha. And internally Madzie was like “Uh boring grown up talk, at least I got my sprinkles.”

See, this is what I have problems with. On the one hand, even with all his emotional turmoil going on, Magnus is still enough in his right mind not to fall for Asmodeus's sweet talking, but on the other hand he revisits all of those memories and doesn't realize Alec breaking up with him can't have been real? This doesn't really add up. Either he is out of his mind with emotions that he can't see this very very strange happening for being something fishy (then he shouldn’t have been able to so easily resist Asmodeus), or he's still level-headed enough not to be driven by emotions entirely (then he should have realized the breakup was fake).

toddler fight intensifies

I'M WHEEZING HAHAHAHAHAHAH R U FOR REAL. Also remember my statement from last week? Where I said “I mean, in a way it's nice to know that Demonic Clary isn't smarter than Regular Clary.” Turns out she's so much worse than Regular Clary XD

Lol Raphael is that still you talking or the Plot Point? Because ngl, when I saw that sneak peek promo thingy where Jordan eyes the dramatically last vial of serum in the Institute I immediately thought they want to cook up a conflict there, where he steals the last vial needed to help save Clary and bla bla bla. I really hope they don't go down that road because I feel he should be better than this by now. *sigh* In any case, while I enjoyed the first part of this plot line with Raphael coming here to make reparations, this feels really forced and convenient.

OH MY GOD THANK YOU SIMON FOR ASKING THE IMPORTANT QUESTIONS WTF I NEED ANSWERS

Wow can't believe they pulled this obvious and clearly unfitting parallel to Sizzy. I mean, Simon lost his glasses back in S1 and even before that Izzy noticed he was hot in like ep 2. She's been appreciating him as a friend since at least 2B if not sooner. So please don't pretend that she just didn't notice what a great guy he is, because she did. She knows he's someone you can count on, who's there when you need him, with advice or a joke or just to listen to you. She knows all this, and has for seasons. But, surprise surprise, you don't fall in love with everyone who's a great guy and a good friend. That is a thing. Friendships are a thing. Anyway, at least I can wholeheartedly agree that in any possible scenario Izzy is the hot girl XD

HAHAHA JACE THAT'S PAYBACK FOR ALL THOSE TIMES YOU INTERRUPTED MALEC HAHA KARMA IS A BITCH RIGHT

.......or just use glamors to look like Downworlders. Just saying.

Jonathan using the cuts to get a secretive chest grab in on Jace, but I know all those sleazy tricks and you can't slip that feel-up past me #busted

*weeping tears* yeah, and he'll never get the real deal. what a tragedy.

“...the Downworlder club. I think the runes front and center on my neck make a compelling argument, don't you agree?” Also the foreboding background music totally spoiled this 'twist.' (I'm using ''s because it was totally obvious this wouldn't work.)

Look I just love Alec, okay. I LOVE ALEC.

*waves hand* elite guard *waves hand some more* blue mark on his neck *smacks self in the face with waving hand* look i'm pretty sure Meliorn doesn't have a mark like this and he's like, the only Seelie that gets regular screen and talking time with the queen. But I'm way too behind schedule to start looking into it, I might edit something in here later (or never ahahaha).

OH DEAR THE MOMENT OF TRUTH

YES YES YES PLEASE

DUUUUDE WHY ARE YOU GIVING HIM IDEAS WHAT THE HELL

Also, remembering that short sequence of Magnus shooting red magic at his temples from the promo doesn't bode too well for the rest of the episode. Dammit.

You had one job, Lindsay. One. Job. (Yes, please imagine the Loki Gif here. I just love him a lot, okay. Loki <3<3<3)

(^pls imagine her little disenchanted headshake because any screen caps I tried to take made her look drugged out of her mind lol.)

Yep, this is it. This is it.

Sooooo.... how exactly did they persuade the bouncer? Just curious.

HAHAHAAHAH duuuuuude hahahhaa.

........when exactly did Jonathan spy all that? I mean, I've been having questions about the pacing since that ep with the Baby Jonathan Flashbacks, because that manibus whatever demon? Referring to 2x05. So Jonathan only got to earth after that? Howwww? Not thanks to Valentine, right, since he didn't even know Jonathan existed until 2x15 where Jonathan intercepted him from his portal to Idris? And didn't they say Sebastian Verlac disappeared half a year ago?? How does that all match up?

In any case, I feel like the seelie queen suddenly having a warlock boy toy who she can't order into her realm and who she has monthly scheduled appointments with that the whole shadow world knows about is a) totally absurd b) pretty ooc for her and c) reeking of plot convenience. They just couldn't find a better excuse for her to be at a certain place at a certain time. They should have made her attend a fashion show, or hell, a gardening contest. Would have been more credible than whatever this is.

“I grab the queen. Clary portals the three of us away.” “The four of us, including the queen.”

HAHAHHAHAHHA I CAN'T XD XD XD #slightly consoled

WHEN THE HELL DID JONATHAN READ / WATCH THE SHINING ARE YOU SERIOUS RIGHT NOW WTF!!!!!

1) This doesn't work in real life. Do you have any idea how much time it takes to catch a snow flake or a raindrop this way? I know because I've tried, and the anwer is ages. 2) Seems a very uneconomical way to distrubute drugs. Whoever invented that business model must be in deep depts by now. 3) What kind of shitty plan was that on Jonathan's part? Get Jace on drugs, he'll surely expose himself to be a traitor? I hate the fact that it works. I hate that everyone's shitty plans always work (re: Sizzy's dilettantish prison infiltration) because that's why they all keep making shitty plans. Positive reinforcement and all that. The only one who always gets punched in the face for making okay-to-good plans is Alec, and that's why he's the overthinker. So unfair.

“Well this is awkward because I just stole it for you.”

So frakkin predictable. Also, how did he steal it from the table when Izzy and Simon where guarding it?? It clearly was still there when Maia left and like

Did Jordan just grab it and run? So many questions.

Don't get me wrong, that whole forging the sword sequence was super badass, but like, if you're wielding scorching hot metal it seems a little impractical to just wear security goggles and a leather apron. There were freaking sparks flying and Izzy ducked. What the hell. What about, idk, unconventional but, a protective suit?? And Simon isn't any better. “Oh, I could die from this sword? Just lemme hide behind this doorway real quick.” *sigh* One of these days a character should die because of dumbass behavior, maybe that'd teach them all a lesson.

Also, this is totally logic. They had a splinter from the original sword that they then made tons of serum from, which they saved 3 vials of..... and somehow this was still enough to forge a whole new frikking sword that's apparently just as powerful as the original one. I don't even know where to start with this bullshit.

.................dude, if you wanted to persuade her you should have pointed out the ring to her. But maybe this isn't about logic at all, this is about wanting to know if he is Clary's first choice without logic or reason, and that would make sense for his character, even if it's not the most sensible or productive course of action.

Me, during the fight scene: “Wow, I believe all that Seelie guard slaughtering is not going to end up in a Downworlder vs Shadowhunter war again..... ha..... hahahaha.”

Arguing with a possessed person. Again. Honestly this is the, uhhh, fifth time this happens on this show? And people just seem to never learn. SIGH

Yeah, by not following the plan and acting stupid, so my sympathy is pretty limited aka non-existent. Btw his slide across the Institute floor was hilarious. And also, pretty nice of Clary not to just kill him. This is the second time she's spared him. Interesting.

ISTG IF THIS SCENE ENDS WITH A CLIFFHANGER IF HE GOES THROUGH WITH IT OR NOT IMMA FLIP MY SHIT

*manic laughter* I love that this makes so much sense. Asmodeus needs Magnus's heartbreak so he'll be susceptible to Asmodeus's influence. So his motives are shitty. On the other hand it's not as if what Asmodeus says to Magnus isn't the truth. Fighting through this will make Magnus stronger, no doubt. Knowing he can be this low and still get back on his feet without running away and succumbing to the pain. And I'm glad, for obvious reasons, that Magnus didn't go through with the memory removal because ain't nobody got time for those issues. Mending the breakup in a satisfying was will be hard enough as is. Back to the scene at hand, I gotta say I love this about Asmodeus: He doesn't lie outright, he mostly lies by omission, and he speaks enough truth to really screw with everyone's perception. It's awesome. He is such a great antagonist and his dynamic with Magnus is highly fascinating.

Conclusion: Not enough Malec (seriously, their only scenes together are flashbacks? the frakkin audacity) but tbh I'm still too high on endorphines since the memory removal didn't happen that I'm mostly okay with it. And the Jonathan-Jace comedy was nice.

#shadowhunters #3x19 #magnus bane #alec lightwood #isabelle lightwood #clary fray #jace wayland #asmodeus #simon lewis #jonathan morgenstern #maia roberts #kyle #luke garroway #raphael santiago #reaction

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