hope it's on part ii

13 Envelopes

pairing: reader x lin
summary: After graduating from UCLA, you would find any way to escape having to go back home. Lucky for you, your Aunt Jasmine Cephas Jones had organized a way for you to have the adventure you’d never gotten to have before. You’re ready to take her up on the offer.
warnings: rpf (naturally), mentions of teen pregnancy
a/n: thank you all for liking part i! we’re starting to go places now and this is Slightly Longer (by slightly i mean about 2k words longer).
(previous part) (part 3) (part 4) (part 5)
tagged: @defenestrate-yourself-please

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“I don’t see it.”

What’s Going On: Part II: Limbic Resonance

Derry, Maine

The floor was damp, beginning to slick over with a thin layer of ice. She lay in a crumpled pile like a broken marionette doll, her strings having all been cut. Blood dripped unceremoniously onto the dirt-covered concrete, a small pool gathered there.

His feet crunched over broken glass and soggy wooden boards, his hands out in front of him. His heart pounded amongst his ribs. He could almost touch her, his hand coming to nearly cup her cheek, her empty brown eyes staring at the stars through a hole in the ceiling. It was as he crouched next to her, knees popping slightly, that her eyes snapped forward, catching his and he gasped and -

Bill Denbrough jumped awake.

He lay curled up in his bed, a quick sweat drawing on his brow. He was at home, in Derry. It was only a nightmare. A bitter breeze flowed in through the window, bringing his skin to gooseflesh and he shivered, pulling himself out of bed. His head was pounding, a strict pulsing in his temples. This headache had been raging on for days and no amount of medicine could seem to get rid of it. He shifted the window down, cutting off the smell of snow from the outside. Turning to the room, his eyes fell on Audra, sleeping peacefully next to where his blankets lay messed. Home, they were home.

But the dream, it lingered. Everything about it seemed so familiar, the sound of wind pulling through the hollow cavern, the smell of mildew growing on walls, the broken slippery concrete and…her. The woman. He had never seen her before, he was sure of that. But it felt as though he had known her all his life. As if they were old friends. But friends wasn’t the right word, the word he wanted to use was…mother.

In the street there was the sudden roaring of engines and tires, the thick foggy sound of exhaust and burning diesel. The sound ripped through his skull, throbbing against the bone. He rubbed his eyes hard, trying to draw the pain away. It didn’t work.

He turned to the window, squinting out through the frost beginning to grow there. It sounded as though the engines were right below the house, but he couldn’t see anything. He slipped on a robe, tying the belt around his waist loosely, sliding on Audra’s slippers.

The screaming rumbling grew steadily louder as he moved downstairs, covering one of his ears with his hand. Cold had seeped into the floorboards and shook his bones as he went to the door, the blaring engines also mixed with the sound of angry metal music, shaking the door as he wrapped his hand around its handle.

He swung the door open, fuming and -

The street was empty. The sounds of engines and music were gone and all that remained was empty asphalt and the resonating pulse of his migraine.

Dortmund, Germany

The smoke of hot exhaust on the freezing city street filled the air, a thick fog resting at the shins. There were cars lined up the sides of the narrow path behind two Lamborghinis - a black one and a red one. Accept swelled in the square, blasting out of rolled down windows.

Richie Tozier gripped the steering wheel of the black car, his heart racing. He could barely feel the persisting migraine that had taken hold of him the last few days over the bass in his chest. He looked to his left out past the middle of the street, staring down his glasses at the driver opposite him. The man had a sleek shaved head and dark eyes, glaring him down with an excited anger, a smirk taking to his lips.

“Alles klar?” He shouted over the booming music and Richie nodded. He turned to the road again and squeezed his fingers down around the wheel, knuckles white.

A long narrow road lay out before them, barely enough space for the two cars. About 800 meters out there was a strict left turn which dragged up on the sidewalk and out past open fields, this sleepy town just on the outskirts of Dortmund.

His opponent revved the engine of his car, a teasing sound. Richie shifted in his seat, breathing in hard through his nose to steady himself. One of his hands rested on the gear shift, ready to pull. He shook his head to try and dissipate the pain. He needed to focus. Peter had 850 Euros on this race.

A woman in a fur jacket and leather pants stood in between the two cars, her face pinched around a cigarette. She held a pair of lacy white panties in her hand and she winked at him. He pursed his lips at her in a kiss and ran his tongue over his top lip. She shook her head, taking a drag off of her cigarette and held the panties aloft.

He stared straight ahead now, watching her hand from the corner of his eye. She was shouting something - counting no doubt, and he quickly jammed the gear into first, foot holding the clutch.

When she dropped the white flag - he ripped his foot from the clutch and pumped the car, hitting sixty-five kilometers per hour within a matter of seconds. He could see the red Lambo in his peripheral, nose to nose as he jumped into second, quickly drawing the car up even faster. Wind was pouring into the car, cold and whipping his black hair as he drove, his speed climbing to 100, 115, 130 kilometers per hour, the red streak pulling up on him until they were practically on top of one another, metal scraping on metal. Richie didn’t care - the car was stolen.

The curve was nearly upon them, he was in third now, but he needed to switch down into second, just until the turn was behind them. As they came to it, the other driver cursing inaudibly at him, he threw down into second, feet on clutch and smashing the gas pedal into the floor, he turned the wheel sharply and kicked the clutch. The car skidded smoothly across the stonetop road, pulling to the right and facing the car left, where he pushed forward, the red Lamborghini getting caught up behind him.

Ahead the road was flat dirt, a straight grey line under a waxing moon. Richie turned in his seat as he maintained speed, looking to see the other driver falling fifty paces behind him. He laughed wildly, jumping in his seat and whooping before turning back to the front.

A dark haired woman stood dead center in the road, a grungy cream sundress covering her body like a film.

“Shit!” Richie cried and jerked the wheel hard to the right to miss her, and the front left tire hit a pothole, taking the car airborne.

It flipped twice in the air, Richie’s hands pressed to the ceiling as shock coursed through him, screaming obscenities and bracing himself. The jet black sports car came back to earth with a sickening crash and toppled over once, twice, three times more before sliding into a tree and coming to a stop.

Richie was upside down, and he coughed trying to clear the dirt from his mouth. Nothing felt immediately out of place, he noticed thankfully, and tried to gain his bearings. The radio had blacked out after its initial crash into the ground and he could hear yelling over the ringing in his ears. He hadn’t been wearing his seatbelt and felt stupid for not having done so regardless of the fact that he wasn’t thrown from the car.

“Richie!” He heard his name called. Peter.

He pulled himself out from behind the smashed in steering wheel, falling down onto the remnants of the windshield and jagged metal. His name was called again and he dragged himself towards the window facing the town, people running towards him.

“Rich! Richie? Richie!” Peter cried as he approached. His breath came out in puffs of smoke and he knelt beside the heap of the car, taking Richie’s hand in his and pulling. Glass grinded against his back and he winced but the pain was not immense. As Peter dragged him from the car, his competitor - Jonas, he believed - came up too.

“Jesus man, are you fucking okay?” He patted Richie on the shoulder as he brought himself to his full height, stretching. He tasted blood on his lip and couldn’t see out of the right lens of his glasses. He pulled them off and held them to the moonlight, squinting. The lens was shattered but the frame was intact. He couldn’t help but laugh, the sound rippling through his chest. Peter and Jonas looked at each other uncomfortably and shifted in their shoes, shivering.

“Rich, are you ok?” Peter asked quietly.

Richie placed his glasses back on the bridge of his nose and laughed hard one more time. He looked from Peter to Jonas and sighed.

“So did I win?”

McLouth, Kansas

Sunlight poured in through the kitchen window, Mike Hanlon gripping the edge of the counter and staring blankly outside. There were patches of snow blanketing the yellowed grass, a cold breeze rippling through them. April was on its way but winter had not completely left them yet. He worried that the snow would not be gone enough in time to break dirt, and they would be late on the harvest in the fall.

He jumped at the sound of his mother coming into the kitchen, heart panting wildly for a moment.

“You okay, Mikey?” She asked, stepping up next to him.

If he was being honest with himself, no. The last few nights he had been plagued with terrible nightmares, nightmares of a woman being murdered in front of him and he could do nothing to stop it. It was so real, he thought, the rigid feeling of icy concrete under his feet, the echoing tantrum of a gunshot, pomegranate red blood in a pool on the floor, hot with steam rising above it. This woman, whoever she was, was gone, definitely, but would always look at him, eyes snapping to attention and he would scream and wake up in a cold sweat, his head throbbing.

“Yea, ma,” he said, turning to her. “Just tired.”

“Still having nightmares?” She asked.

He had mentioned it to her the first night when he had awoken her in his terror in the middle of the night.

He lied and shook his head.

She looked at him sadly and rubbed his arm. “You need a day off today? Dad still thinks the ground is too frozen to start, anyway.”

He shrugged. “I can run some errands, if you need?”

She smiled sweetly at him. “No, why don’t you go just run around town. See what your friends are doing.”

He grinned and took her into a hug, taller than her by a good six inches. “Thanks mom.” He said and she squeezed his middle.

“Go on, get out of here.” She said, pushing him gently away and pointing towards the door. He chuckled and grabbed up his Carhartt from the hook, gave her a quick wave and loaded into the pickup.

The drive to town was only five or ten minutes, the gravel road jostling his tires a little. He turned left, towards the city.

His friends were on spring break he knew, only one or two of them were in town for the vacation and it was early enough in the morning still that they probably wouldn’t even be awake yet. But he’d call them around ten or something.

It was a small town, only about 800 people and it was all he had ever known. He didn’t go to college after high school, 25 now, and instead helped his parents out on the farm. He had received a scholarship from the school out in Manhattan and he’d wanted to go, maybe study agriculture or go to be a vet, but his father had got sick. The Big C. It wasn’t extreme, but it had put a dent in their savings, and he could not stand knowing the farm might suffer while his dad recovered. So he’d stayed. And now here he still was.

He pulled up the stop sign that came into town, idling there as cars puttered past down the slow strip of highway that ran through town. He was looking ahead, the sky clear but gloomy.

He was suddenly shaken by the sound of something exploding against the side of his truck and he jumped turning to look. To the left was a small gas station, and not far off the street, standing under the pump’s awning were three white boys wearing camouflage jackets. Henry Bowers, Patrick Hockstetter, and Victor Criss. They were down a few people today, usually running in a group of six or seven but always with Henry.

Dark soapy streaks of Coke ran down the window, Henry shouting something he couldn’t hear over the grumble of the exhaust. Mike assumed it was his favorite racial epithet and he looked away embarrassed. As the cars finally stopped passing, he gunned it down the road, leaving Henry and his asshole friends behind him. As he drove away, he didn’t see Henry make a gun with his fingers and follow the sight with squinted eyes after him.

London, United Kingdom

The subway platform was packed with commuters, crammed together trying to make their afternoon trains. The din echoed through the tunnel as the sound of screeching brakes came up to the stop, the wave of people moving forward as others coursed out. Ben Hanscom held tight to his shoulder bag, staring blankly off into space. He had headphones on, a guilty pleasure boy band playing in his ears.

He had missed his initial exit and now had to wait three more stops to be dropped off at a closer location, his mind whirling. He had been thinking about a bridge when the intercom had called his stop - “We are now arriving at Amersham Station,” - trying to think of the best dimensions to get a swaying action that could take on wind and rain without buckling. He had watched his stop pass by and it wasn’t until the train came to a stop at the next that he realized he missed it. He cursed himself silently and shuffled his feet, sighing heavily.

He was so exhausted as of late, sleep coming to him difficulty and in the wee hours of the morning. He couldn’t seem to get the pictures out of his head. Her face, clear as the woman standing in front of him now, swam in his head every night for the last week, quiet brown eyes and knotted hair of the same color. Her nose was small, like a buttoncap between her eyes, which were vacant. Cold. He could not stop seeing her life ripped from her, shattered in a heap on the floor. He could not stop seeing her sitting up and looking at him, arms outstretched, beckoning him forward. These dreams were like fevers to him, coming and going in hazy loops, and he would awake from them covered in a fine sheen of sweat, the gunshot still in his ears, head pounding. He felt like he was going crazy, if he was being honest with himself. Perhaps it was the lack of sleep and overworking, always pored over blueprints and diagrams, a pencil or compass in hand.

He looked to the map above the sliding doors and heard something over his music. It sounded like…ice cubes clinking into a glass. Ice cubes in a glass?

He pulled off one side of his headphones and squinted around. There was the regular sound of the subway as it slid over its tracks, but the sound was definitely there. It was almost like it was happening right inside his head…

Orleans, France

Beverly Rogan dropped another ice cube into the Glencairn, the afternoon gloom of late winter shafting slightly into the room. She poured scotch over the ice, the watery liquor filling the glass halfway.

Tom was standing in the bathroom at the mirror, shaving cream lathered across his jaw.

“A day for celebration, yes dear. This sale will make us rich.” He dragged a razor across the skin, pulling back a strip of cream with it, which he rinsed under the faucet. Beverly absently wished his hand would slip and rush the blade across his throat. She brought him the glass, holding it lightly in her fingers. He turned to her, face still foaming and smiled. It was a grim smile. She returned it, only halfhearted, and he took the glass.

“Nothing for you?” He said, his voice coy.

She knew that if she had poured herself a glass he would have slapped it out of her hand, screaming, “It’s three in the afternoon! What are you thinking!” Maybe hit her in the face. Maybe punch her so hard in the stomach she’d be unable to walk.

She smiled. “I’ll save the celebrating for tonight.”

He nodded knowingly and turned back to the mirror. She leaned against the sink and rubbed her temple. The migraine still held a root there.

“You alright, Beverly?” Tom asked not looking away from the task at hand.

“Just a headache, love.” She replied softly.

He set down the razor for a moment and turned to her, taking her face in his palm. She flinched slightly at the touch.

“I told you to take some medicine Beverly. It’ll help. I promise.”

Oh, his promises. What were they if not idle threats, held over her like an umbrella to catch all the shit that spilled down on top of her. I promise to keep you safe, I promise to help you make this sale, I promise if you keep using that tone you’ll regret it, I promise you won’t be able to walk for a week. Not always idle threats.

Rosh Pinna, Israel

The day was slowly warming up, the early morning sun peeking up to shine on Mount Kna'an.

The house was quiet, a small modest home with wood flooring and cool stone walls. Sunlight was coming up under the blinds, falling over his face.

Stanley Uris groaned and rolled over in bed, pulling the thin grey sheet up over his head. He didn’t want to get up; it was his day off. He should probably do some readings or call his mother, but he just couldn’t tell himself he would do those things today. His head was killing him and he just wanted to sleep more. But sleep would not come. He had one of those internal clocks that as soon as the sun hit the windowpane of his bedroom, he was wide awake.

He threw the blanket off of his bare legs and padded over to the dresser, pulling out a pair of khakis and a neat beige polo shirt. Tossing it on, he folded the collar down, feeling the evenness of the fabric with his fingertips. Perhaps he would go to the HaBaron Garden and read. Maybe that would help his headache.

Picking up his soft blue kippah, he went to the mirror and placed it carefully over his curly blond hair. It sat funny and he spent a moment trying to straighten it, frustration building. When it finally sat just so, he gathered up his bag and went out the door.

The cobbled path was familiar, one he had taken many times, the so-so patting of his clean brown loafers comforting. He studied the inside of his book, pages dull and soft as he read. He knew where he was going like it was ingrained in him - take a left, then a right, another right, four blocks to the left and he was at the park. He didn’t mind the walk. It gave him time to clear his head on days when the asymmetry of the road was too much or if he couldn’t remember if he’d shut the lights off in his bedroom.

As he turned the first left something strange happened. The sounds of his shoes were quieted, as if walking on grass or carpet. It took him a moment to notice it and he looked up, panic striking him. He wasn’t in Rosh Pinna anymore - at least, it didn’t look like it. The air was bitter cold, snow rising over the hills and falling from the sky. Stan could see it all, touch it, feel the cold wind as hit his face, his breath a thick fog. But his body was warm, wrapped up in what felt like a thick winter coat with fur around the hood. His breathing came quicker as his mind struggled to make sense of this - whatever this was. Six words pounded on repeat in his head like a hammer. He was not in Rosh Pinna, he was not in Rosh Pinna, HE WAS NOT IN ROSH PIN-

Toronto, Ontario

The door to the pharmacy swung open, bringing in with it the last blizzard of the season, Eddie Kaspbrak stomping the snow off his boots. A little bell chimed overhead, and he pulled the hood of his coat down off his head. His mother had warned him not to go out in the snow, he was delicate, and if he caught a chill he could catch a cold and if he caught a cold he could get pneumonia and what about pneumonia oh don’t get Sonia Kaspbrak started on pneumonia! He walked towards the counter of the modest little clinic to pick up his regular prescriptions and maybe, Christ he hoped, something that would knock this headache out. The strongest thing they had.

He hadn’t brought the migraine up to his mother, God no. He would have been dragged kicking and screaming to the hospital to await a myriad of blood draws, CAT scans, electrodes stuck to different parts of his body connected to one central pumping machine. No, he couldn’t have that.

The man in a clean white jacket waved at him as he approached, unzipping his coat quickly to let it breathe. The man - Dr. Keene - went around the counter into a stack of shelves filled with small medicine bottles. Eddie let his forearms rest on the counter and he rubbed both sides of his head, trying to alleviate the tension. He heard Keene come to the counter, “You alright, Eddie?”

He looked up and was nearly knocked flat on his back. It wasn’t Dr. Keene’s wrinkle-driven tan face staring back at him - it was a young man, tall, thin, with undereye bags and slightly red dirt colored hair. Behind him wasn’t the pharmacy medicine cabinet but instead a spreading out bathroom, the door open to show an unmade bed in the next room.

“Jesus Christ!” Eddie screamed as he toppled backwards. His eyes squeezed shut as he hit the ground and when he opened them, Dr. Keene was leaning over the counter, concerned.

“Goodness, Eddie, are you alright?” His voice wavered.

Eddie looked around frantically, patting his coat pockets for his inhaler. What the fuck was that? He found the inhaler in the breast pocket and fumbled to pull the cap off and shove it into his mouth, taking a deep breath as the medicine hit the back of his throat. What in the actual fuck was that?

He made eye contact with Keene, breath coming in pants. “Nothing, I - I…” He paused. “Nothing, just not been getting a lot of sleep, I guess.” He rubbed his eyes, as if to emphasize the point, though it was mostly to clear his vision.

“I’ll uh, I’ll get the prescriptions later,” he said hurriedly and pulled himself up off the ground, not hearing Keene’s cries as he left, not even bothering to zip his jacket up as he left, the wet snow punching him in the stomach. It felt like he couldn’t catch his breath, rapid in and out in and out in and out.

“What the fuck was that!” Eddie screamed to the howling wind.

Tiana Appreciation Week Part II || Day Six
        Favorite Park Memory: Seranaded by the Princeton Footnotes (x)

   Now to be fair, I have not been at the Disney World parks since I was ten, which was definitely before Tiana made her grand appearance into the parks. But I count this as a memory because my one friend showed me this video knowing how much I love Tiana and how much she means to me. I only hope that someday soon that I’ll be able to go to the parks and actually meet her. And hopefully, I don’t cry like a big baby because Tiana is honestly everything to me.



Despite being blighted with technical issues, the trio come out smiling.

By Sarah Jamieson on 22nd August 2014

It takes a certain strength to look a headlining slot at Reading festival in the eye and keep on marching forward to meet it. It takes a whole other level of steely determination to be faced with problems beyond your control, in the middle of that set, and still come out smiling. For anyone in doubt that Paramore weren’t the right band for the job, tonight’s show is enough to silence them. 

For the most part, their seventy five minutes on stage are seamless and slick. Bounding across the stage like nobody’s business, Hayley Williams is the insatiable ball of energy fans have come to know and love. Her turquoise hair bouncing as she skips from one side to the other, there’s no doubting her abilities as a frontwoman, as a leader. From the pop-infused fun of ‘Still Into You’ to the prowling menace of ‘Ignorance’, her powers know no limit. They’re mesmerising to watch on stage.

Then, the first wave of technical issues hit. What feels like the entire PA cuts off halfway through their ‘Brand New Eyes’ cut, but nevertheless - and somewhat blissfully unaware - the trio continue on unfazed. Coming back to life, they get through two songs without issue, but as suddenly as it returned, the power cuts out once more. 

The next few minutes are undoubtedly a little confused - with even Reading and Leeds organiser Melvin Benn appearing on stage at one point - but as Williams gathers her bandmates to sit on the corner of the stage together before deciding to play ‘The Only Exception’ a cappella, they transform a could-be disaster into an intimate moment that most bands wouldn’t dare dream of. 

Plugged back in and back to full speed, ‘Last Hope’ is intoxicating, ‘Let The Flames Begin’ powerful and its newer extension ‘Part II’ incendiary. With Williams, silhouetted against their wall of lights, on her knees in the middle of her stage, her bandmates slamming drums either side of her, they summon a potent intensity. With ‘Ain’t It Fun’ they dance around like no one’s watching. 

If tonight was about winning Reading over, Paramore are leaving victorious.

Paramore played:

Still Into You  

That’s What You Get  

For a Pessimist, I’m Pretty Optimistic  




The Only Exception 

Brick by Boring Brick  

Misery Business  

Let the Flames Begin  

Part II  


Ain’t It Fun