#but in this house we love everyone and if he's ever confirmed cell three mentor you will hear from my lawyer

[governmentmandatedryujinstan420]

meme dump sorry if you haven't noticed but yes it's almost all ishaan no i' not insane i'm just posting more of discord memes here now, yes there will be more, and no i won't apologize for spontaneous uploads bc this site wiped 8 paragraphs when i tried to click the EDIT BUTTON. more when i FEEL LIKE TOUCHING THE SITE WITHOUT FEAR OF THE WIPE.

[diyunho]

The Joker x Reader - “John Wick” Part 1

Y/N left The Organization 3 years ago for the one reason strong enough to make her settle down: love. But after tragedy crushed her to pieces, she decided to leave The Joker and seek refuge with an old friend and mentor - John Wick. Needless to say The King of Gotham can’t accept his wife running away without a word, especially since he didn’t have a chance to tell her things she might want to hear.

Part 2     Part 3

Your high heels click on the marble floor, numerous conversations stopping in the hotel’s lobby since you haven’t been seen around in the past 3 years. The concierge can’t hide a smile and you take your sunglasses off, finally making it to the front desk after driving for hours.

“Welcome to the Continental, Miss Y/N. Such a pleasure to see you.”

“Thank you Charon,” you remove 7 gold coins out of your purse and slide them on the counter towards him. “It’s good to see you too.”

“For how long will we have the pleasure of your company?” the man inquires, taking a peek at the computer’s screen to make sure he can shuffle things if needed.

“One night.”

“That will only be 4 coins,” Charon informs and you point out at the tiny pile:

“The rest is for you.”

“Thank you, Miss Y/N,” he smiles again, typing on the keyboard. “Your old room is available; it will be a couple of minutes for us to add a few finishing touches.”

“Sure. Is the manager here?” you ask because you texted him this morning to announce your arrival.

“He’s waiting at the bar,” Charon gestures towards the elevator and you take a deep breath, excited and a bit nervous about the upcoming encounter. “Also, if I may… Allow me to express my deepest condolences.”

You bite on your lip and can’t utter a sound besides nodding your head instead of a reply: although it’s a genuine declaration, it caught you off-guard.

You slowly walk towards the elevator and once inside you press the B button when a hand halts the doors from closing; you know whom those tattooed knuckles belong to. Ares squeezes inside looking like she wants to kill everyone. What else is new?

“I thought that was you,” the woman uses the sign language and you silently gaze at her.

“Which floor?” you sign back.

“10th,” her thumb indicates the number.

The elevator’s doors shut and she analyzes Y/N, deciding to continue the conversation:

“Remember I told you next time we bump into each other I’m going to kill you?” the mute assassin’s threat brings a faint smirk on your lips.

“Shut up,” you elbow her and the smartass response doesn’t fail:

“I’m always as quiet as a mouse.”

You chuckle and Ares grins at her own cleverness, having a nice suggestion for the evening.

“I have the night off; wanna meet later for dinner?”

You are tired as hell but a distraction doesn’t hurt.

“Will 7pm work?” you accept the invitation.

“Awesome!” she signs, delighted you two can catch up. “They have new items on the menu you would enjoy,” Ares winks then her enthusiasm gradually dies out. “I’m sorry about…,” the discussion takes a serious tone and you sniffle, trying hard not to cry.

“Thank you,” you touch your chin and the ding sound reveals its first destination. “I have to bail; I’ll see you soon,” you step out of the elevator and she remains inside.

“It’s a date!” she signs, concerned you’ll burst out in tears as soon as she’s gone.

Yet after the elevator’s door close, Y/N manages to pull herself together; God knows it’s not easy to pretend she’s fine following the tragedy of losing someone she loved with all her heart.

The individual waiting for her at one of the tables at the bar can definitely notice the struggle behind the tired eyes; Winston sipps from his martini and gets up, opening his arms in anticipation.

“There you are,” he gives you a hug, then invites you to sit down.

“Hello Winston,” you place your purse on the floor and Continental’s owner is attempting to small talk:

“Please make an old man happy and confirm your return.”

“You’re anything but old,” you emphasize while he snorts, amused. “I’m not sure; I have to figure out some personal stuff…”

“Of course,” Winston agrees right away given the situation. “Mmmm… I’m terribly sorry for your loss,“ he addresses the heartbroken Y/N.

“Thank you…” you mumble, avoiding eye contact since the painful subject hurts more than any physical wound you ever sustained.

“I wanted to come attend the funeral yet I was out of the country,” the man underlines.

“No worries. I appreciate the flowers you sent… …”

Moments of complete stillness before Winston changes the topic; he knows better than to prolong your agony. A manager with his flair can at least guess the extenuating circumstances that led to your presence on the premises.

“Any plans for the near future?”

“I’m going to stay with Jonathan until I decide.”

Winston wishes to suggest a couple of options but he’s interrupted by your warning:

“Someone might come searching for me.”

He taps his fingernails against the martini glass, the weak echo dissipating in the background noise.

“Is that someone…somebody’s husband?” his furrowed eyebrows prompt an answer not difficult to estimate:

“More like… ex-husband…”

The manager inhales, debating on your confession.

“Nothing we can’t handle,” he reassures without any hesitation; heaven knows a domestic dispute is the last kind of mess Continental needs but it will probably pass undetected. “Would you care for a drink?”

Suddenly, Winston’s cell goes off and he retrieves it out of his suit’s pocket, apologizing for the delay.

“I’m sorry, I really have to get this,” he slides the screen, attentively listening to the person speaking. “Are you kidding me?!” the man raises his voice with contempt. “Damn…,” he rubs his forehead, annoyed. "Well, he brought it upon himself! Transfer me,” the manager passes the sentence without hesitation after his call reaches the correct department. ”Accounts payable: 11111. Effective immediately: Magnus Stonnenberg, excommunicado. Open contract: 2 million dollars. Distribution: international,” and he hangs up. “Work never ends,” Winston adds even if it’s not necessary; you are perfectly aware how the company works and what it means to run it.

“What happened?” you curiously investigate.

“Trouble on the 15th floor: Magnus murdered Anuscka Volovdya on the hotel grounds, thus I have to implement punitive measures. This is neutral environment and the rules are clear: no killing. Cocktail?” he lifts his glass up and you politely decline.

“No, thank you.  If it’s all the same, I will retreat to my quarters. It was a very long drive and I can’t wait to freshen up. I will come see you in the morning before I leave; would that be ok?”

“Of course,” Winston stands up in the same time with you, a faint smile lingering on his face as he watches you distancing yourself from the bar. He didn’t see you in a long time and he can tell that although you look pretty much the same, something has certainly changed.

Everyone’s cells start chiming and ringing, including yours: the text messages keep on popping up with the manager’s most recent order regarding Stonnenberg.

You wander along the small corridor leading the stairs when at the corner Magnus almost crashes into you; he seems distressed and no big surprise due to his present predicament.

“Are you back?” he hisses while quickening the pace in the opposite direction because he wants to get the hell out of there.

“No,” the short acknowledgement triggers his cockiness mixed with relief.

“Great! One less to worry about!”

You frown at the unnecessary statement: pursuing a bounty is not financial gain you are momentarily interested in; you have more important problems on your plate and chasing a persona non grata isn’t on your list.

************

Next evening, 7:13pm

“There you are!” John exclaims as soon as he sees you. “Come on in,” he grabs the two suitcases out of your hands, leading the way around the house. “Did you get stuck in traffic?”

“Yes,” you close the door and follow him into one of the bedrooms downstairs already prepared for your visit. “Traffic was terrible, took me one hour to pass Lincoln Avenue.”

“Well…” he places the luggage by the bed, “I’m glad you made it.”

“Me too… Thank you so much for letting me stay here, Jonathan.”

Despite having his hair in a ponytail, the shorter strands slide out and John blows them off his cheeks, irritated.

“Yeah, absolutely. Plenty of space.”

“What’s that smell?” you sniff the air, intrigued.

“I cooked chicken Alfredo.”

“Oh no,” you crinkle your nose and he laughs at your despair. “Are your skills as bad as I remember?”

“Worse,” he admits. “Helen is not here to guide… me…”, John swallows the last word and you feel compelled to soothe his grief.

“I’m sorry she’s gone… You had a terrific partner…”, you sadly smile and continue . “We pay such a heavy price for leaving the organization… I must say you got a better deal than I did.”

He’s quiet for a few seconds and you could swear there’s no trace of Baba Yaga inside him; I suppose this is John Wick’s greatness: his ability to switch from an apparent normal guy to the deadliest assassin in a blink of an eye.

“Umm… do you want me to help you unpack?” he breaks the silence and you lift the first suitcase on the bed, opening the metal clasps.

“I don’t have a lot; just some basic necessities,” you explain and gulp when you take out the device you use on a regular basis. “I… I still pump the milk and… and throw it away since I don’t have my baby to feed anymore…”

Jonathan exhales, sensitive to the mother’s sorrow: he knows a thing or two about losing a loved one and Y/N uncontrollably sobbing triggers emotions he kept bottled up for weeks. He pulls you in his arms and you hug him back, hopelessly crying on his shoulder after displaying such restraint in the past days.  

“Why didn’t he drive the car? Why?” you keep on repeating the question and John understands what you’re referring to:

Two months ago The Joker was supposed to bring his three weeks old son from the beach house to The Penthouse and didn’t; he had a meeting and instead he sent one of his henchmen to drive Kase back to you and they never made it. There was a horrible accident on Glissan Street: the car was smashed to pieces by a huge truck, both driver and the baby dying on impact. You couldn’t stop blaming your husband for his indifference regarding the safety of his own child. I supposed the meeting and making money was infinitely more critical than driving his son home.

Maybe if J navigated the vehicle, he would have taken another route and you would still have your tiny treasure right now. 

You’re calming down a bit and John wipes your tears, upset to see you broken beyond anything he could ever fix.

“Do you want to lie down?”

“No,” you whimper and fight to regain your composure. “I’m a little bit hungry…”

“Well,” your friend puckers his lips, “depending on how bad it is we might have to order something. Shall I…call anybody for you?” he hints and surely didn’t predict the reply:

“My anybody is probably too busy with his mistress or planning a heist, can’t be bothered with any type of insignificant matters.”

Your friend seems shocked and you enlighten the mystery for him:

“I followed J so I know… That’s why I decided enough is enough. I packed minimum necessary in a hurry and left… … …I should have killed him… …” your voice dies out and your attitude proves Jonathan that you most than likely tried to. “Can we eat now please?”

“Should I actually order Italian?” he plays along for your sake.

“I’ll try the chicken Alfredo first.”

“Shit! You’re brave,” his brutal honesty makes you giggle and whimper in the same time. “C’mon then, food’s on the stove.  Hopefully we’ll survive,” he smirks and you nod in agreement, grateful to have a soul to talk to since your husband’s lack of empathy made it so much harder to cope with your son’s demise.

***************

Same evening, 7:30pm – Continental Hotel

“Mister Joker,” Winston greets The King of Gotham. “Welcome to New York!”

The gush of wind sweeping the terrace on top of the building messes J’s locks and for once he couldn’t care less.

“Hello Winston,” your spouse growls, barely able to concentrate after he slept a couple of hours the previous night.

“Grape juice on ice?” the manager’s hospitality emerges out of necessity because The Clown isn’t exactly the easiest character to accommodate.

“Is my wife here?” J quizzes, ignoring Winston’s cordiality.

“Walk with me,” the hotel owner persuades your husband; they move alongside the concrete path bordered by decorative shrubs as information is shared. “Y/N was here.”

“She’s gone?”

“Yes.”

“Where did she go?” The Joker sneers.

Winston fails to spill the beans and J is aware he can’t push for a disclosure, not with a high ranking member of the organization. So he attempts a different strategy.

“Imagine my surprise when I returned home after a meeting just to find out my wife abandoned the nest,” he shows management a post-it with your handwritten note:

Do what you want with the rest.

“She just took a few things, thus I have to personally discuss with her a very crucial dilemma: what am I supposed to do with the baby’s items? I have a room full of them. So I’m asking: WHERE.IS.MY.WIFE?”

“Mister Joker, you forget that in my line of business I am good at reading people and I can tell when they lie,” Winston elegantly throws it out there for the heck of it.

The King of Gotham halts and cracks his neck, displeased with the comment.

“Then tell me, am I lying?!”

The manager sighs, carefully analyzing J’s features: although he looks pretty much the same, something has certainly changed.

“Maybe she’s staying with a friend,” he insinuates and your husband articulates a sentence rarely spoken aloud:

“Thank you,” J stomps away, already having a few ideas about your whereabouts.

Winston huffs, intrigued to have discerned a crazy detail while reading The Clown’s reactions: besides the fact he wasn’t lying, something else stood out. 

“He loves her…” management mumbles to himself. “I bet he doesn’t even know it.”

*************

10:34 pm

John softly knocks at the cracked bedroom’s door, unsure if you’re awake or not.

“Y/N, do you need anything before I go to sleep?”

There’s no answer and he creeps inside only to see you passed out with your hand hanging over the side of the bed. Jonathan tucks you in, feeling awkward about your unresponsiveness.

“Hey, are you ok?” he gently shakes you and freezes when he realizes there’s an empty pill bottle on the nightstand.

“Oh God!” he panics and reads the label. “Trazodone 300 mg: Take 1 tablet by mouth nightly for depression/insomnia.” That’s the highest dose for the medication and he taps on your cheeks, concerned you took a bunch of them at once. “Y/N, Y/N! Can you hear me?!”

You moan and open your eyes, unhappy to be woken up in such a hasty fashion.

“Jesus, lemme sleep... would you?!...” you grumble and turn on the other side, groggy from the drug.

“How many sleeping pills did you take?” John doesn’t give up and you yawn:

“One…my last one…” you adjust your body on the comfortable mattress, not comprehending why your host is agitated. “I’m exhausted…” you close your eyes and he lingers next to your bed, relieved the situation was a misinterpretation from his part.

**************

11:32am, New York

“Oh my…”The Bowery King deciphers a missive a dove flew in 10 minutes ago; he got a whiff of some valuable data yesterday and the new documentation is by far the best conspiracy and revenge scheme he stumbled upon this year. “Would you look at that,” the man grins, caressing the bird’s feathers. “What do you think?” he addresses the winged companion. “Should we be nice and tell Y/N and Mister Joker their son is not dead?”

 Also read: MASTERLIST

You can follow me on Ao3 and Wattpad under the same blog name: DiYunho.

[rebekah-raven]

Going Home: A Hunger Games Fanfiction

I hadn’t been allowed to see her for nearly a week save the sound-less surveillance camera in her cell. It was painful to watch her losing the will to live, knowing I held the knowledge and words that would sooth her bleeding heart and begin to bring her back to us, but Plutarch was insistent. I hated having to stare at the television screen, watching her lay for hours without moving, blinking, eating, drinking. Sometimes, I wondered if the camera was even working, but it was. Effie was busy with her own devices, mainly ensuring Peeta was adjusting well to his long-term hospital situation, and was adamant I should be as well, but Katniss had always been more dear to me than any other tribute I’d had the misfortune to mentor, and watching her waste away was killing me. Peeta was high on my list of good tributes, but Katniss was different. She was brave and selfless and so full of love. I longed for the sound of her voice, her headstrong ways, the small weight of her in my arms when she lost her brave facade and broke down, turning to me, as she had come to find I wouldn’t turn her down. I knew I was hard on her, but I loved her more than I had loved anything in over a decade. I woke on the eighth morning of Katniss’s imprisonment to a hand on my shoulder and lurched to my feet, raising the knife I always slept holding. Plutarch stepped back, raising both hands in a sign of surrender until I slipped the blade into my pocket. I glanced over my shoulder at the girl on the screen I had fallen asleep watching and saw that she was still in the position she had been in for more than half the week. “You’re required for a meeting that starts in...” he checked his watch, “three minutes.” “That’s nice.” I sat back down, watching her sleep... but was she sleeping? She seemed to be in more of a stupor as her eyes flickered gently ever hour or so. “Haymitch, she’s supposed to be released later today. That’s what the meeting is for.” With a heavy sigh, I stood up, gathered my jacket, and followed Plutarch out of the room and down a narrow hallway to a meeting room with a circular table. Everyone was already in their seats, including Paylor, Panem’s new president. Effie was there too, along with a few people I either didn’t recognize or didn’t care to. Paylor got to her feet to start the meeting. “After the unfortunate death of Primrose Everdeen, Mrs. Everdeen has retired to District 4 to start a hospital. Our Mockingjay has been, to us, cleared of all charges, but to the public, she has been pardoned. She will be returned to District 12, but she is still sixteen. She is still a minor, and even past the age of eighteen, I believe she will need looking after. I need volunteers, someone who will ensure she is physically and emotionally well, that she moves towards the future without being restricted to the past. Even had her mother been available to care for her, I would still be asking this. Mrs. Everdeen seems to be a lovely woman, but not right enough to care for a child such as Katniss after everything they’ve both been through.” I got to my feet very quickly. “I’d get to take her home?” Paylor nodded once. “She wouldn’t be forced to take place in government advertising?” A strange look crossed the president’s face, but she nodded again nevertheless. “When do I get her?” ################################################################ The peacemaker flipped through a ring of keys in his hand before picking one and sticking it in the lock and pushing the door open. He steppe d to the side very quickly, knowing I would want to be the first one in the room. I hoped and prayed that my face was the first one she’d see: a sign that things would get better. Her eyes flickered open and it broke my heart to see the grey-green orbs void of any light. “Haymitch?” She voice was so soft, so vulnerable I wasn’t sure it had come from her, but from the tremble of her lips, I knew it had. “Hey, Sweetheart,” I murmured gently, wanting to pick her up and carry her out as quickly as possible, “It’s over, Katniss. You’ve been cleared, and now I’m taking you home.” Her tiny forehead wrinkled ever so slightly. “Home?” she asked. I nodded a confirmation. “Yes, Child. We’re going home.” The peacemakers came in with some doctors who inserted IV’s into her arm to give her nutrients and liquids and a little morphine too. I wanted to shout that she seemed so frail a single needle prick would meant the end, but I stayed quiet. I had remained completely sober throughout the entire eight days and I wanted to prove that leaving her in my care was not a mistake. Twenty minutes passed in complete silence as the medical crew worked ceaselessly on Katniss, bringing her body to life, but her eyes and heart still seemed dead. I knew it would take time to heal the emotional damage, but I wouldn’t give up on her. When the doctors finally stepped away from her, the girls skin looked brighter. No longer grey, but a glowing pale pink with a hint of blue. I looked around and shivered: it was cold down here. I approached her with a soft green blanket I had brought with me and carefully placed it over her, wrapping it completely around her as I lifted her into my arms and felt her head fall against my chest. I turned to leave. Plutarch lead the way to the elevator and pressed the underground floor where the entrance to the landing pad was located. We left the lift and made our way up a small flight of stairs as the hovercraft came into view. We boarded and Plutarch took the seat across from me. A peacemaker directed me to set Katniss in a seat he could harness her into, but I shook my head. Small as she was, she was my burden to bear. I felt the hovercraft take flight and relaxed, happy the capital was behind us. “Thus, we enter a time of peace, when we promise that we will never repeat what we have just overcome.” Plutarch’s voice was quiet, but there was a twinge to it. “Yet, we are fickle creatures who forget too easily.” I still said nothing, brushing my fingertips over her soft hair and smooth cheeks. She had fallen fast asleep and I was glad of it. “But then, this time, it may last.” Plutarch went on, “Maybe we have finally learnt our lesson.” When I remained quiet, he released as breath, watching his hands for a few minutes before glancing up at me. “Take care of her, Haymitch. She deserves it.” I looked up to meet his unsteady gaze. “Yes.” I replied evenly, “I am determined to bring the light back to her eyes, and she will smile again.” “Will you be happy, Haymitch?” I paused. It was the one question no one had bothered to ask before. “I will be content as long as she is safe, and when she is happy, I will be too.” Plutarch smiled a little as he looked to the window. “I’m glad you both have each other. You both have what you never thought you would. She has a guardian who understands her and only wants her to be safe and happy, and you have a...” He trails off and I realize what he had wanted to say, but had not been sure if I would agree. “A daughter.” I murmured quietly, “I have a daughter.” Plutarch let a small smile cross his face, and I hoped he knew they had made the right decision in fully entrusting their small Mockingjay to her mentor. I had every intention of caring for her and raising her during the final eighteen months of her childhood, and I promised myself that, whatever happened, she would know only love at my hands. The hovercraft touched down in District 12 and I looked down at Katniss. “Can you walk, Sweetheart?” She made something of a nod and I set her down, steadying her before standing up myself. Plutarch escorted us off the hovercraft, then turned to bid us farewell. He shook my hand, then turned to Katniss and placed a hand on her shoulder. "We've found our peace, Child, and I hope you can now find yours." She nodded and allowed him to embrace her before mounting the stairs back onto the hovercraft. It started to rise even as he stood on the top step, waved to us, and stepped inside. I watched the ramp close and the hovercraft turned around. I slipped an arm around my Mockingjay and lead her down the worn paths to the neat, nearly unused walks in Victors' Village. We passed my house and arrived at hers. Plutarch had been given the key by Mrs. Everdeen and had passed it on to me. I carefully unlocked the door and stepped inside first, holding the door so she could follow. She passed right by me and made her way to the fireplace mantel where there were picture frames lined up: photos of her father, photos of her mother, photos of a little girl with dark hair, young Katniss. There were photos of Peeta and Katniss and of her with Gale. At the very end, there were two photos Katniss picked up, then placed them face-down. She turned and made her way to a rocking chair by the window and sat down, rocking slowly and watching out the window. I moved to the couch, reached for an afghan, and carefully draped it over her. I kissed the top of her head. "I'm going to look around, make sure everything's safe and in order." She didn't reply, not that I was expecting anything. She had spoken as little as possible ever since Primrose's death, and I couldn't blame her. I made my way into the kitchen and pulled a chair into a corner to climb on. I carefully screwed a monitor into the wall and clicked a button to turn it on. I moved around the house, placing an identical monitor in her bedroom, living room, and study. They were sound-recording, and I could listen from my house one door over. I nearly felt guilty, but I needed to make sure she was alright. I returned to her rocking chair and knelt down in front of her, catching her eyes. "I can stay in the house with you, if you want." I said quietly. She shook her head, as I had expected her to, but the monitors were in place, so I could be there when the memories resurfaced and the nightmares visited, as I knew well they would. I pulled her into an embrace, kissed her forehead, and left, reminding her that I was right next door. I walked back to my house and opened the door to find empty bottles and dirty clothes everywhere, just as I had always left it... but not anymore. I would stop, for Katniss. I cleaned the place up: throwing the garbage away and tossing the clothes in the laundry. I opened the curtains and dusted the furniture until it looked like a normal house. I looked around and sat down on the couch, stretching out to go to sleep. I had a feeling I wouldn't be sleeping much that night. The last thing I heard as I dozed off was a sweet, untrained voice singing the refrain of an old lullaby: "Here it's safe, here it's warm Here the daisies guard you from every harm Here your dreams are sweet and tomorrow brings them true Here is the place where I love you."