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tomdiddlyumptious · 3 years

Note

Tom Holland x zendaya cousin reader where she’s an actress and model /activist she meets Tom on set and reader and z talk about people forcing them to be in competition with each other and people saying z is better because she’s lighter ( colorism) and reader thinks Tom likes white blondes but nope (spoiler ) z Tom and reader start hanging out besides being on set Tom and reader get close they go out to a party and reader and Tom hookup smut (like rough👀)

OOP-

Warnings: SMUT- It wasn’t soft ik that, zaddy kink just for a bit, speaking Spanish on accident because I know how to speak it, and uh crippled walking? Overstimulation, squirt and shit (DONT TAKE THE SHIT LITTERALLY) and language of course ✨

Summary: REEEEEEEEEE-

A/n: god my life is so tragic, and yes I love pink guy 🤺GET BACK🤺 GET BACK I SAY 🤺 this isn’t in bold or anything because I was working on this for toooo long honestly it was requested a while ago, sorry about that!

T.H| I Seen all your exes, I know what you like

You walked after zendaya into the set, your hair into a ponytail, edges laid, you recently got yourself a nose peircing (I just wanted to) you dressed in a large oversized white sweater and some black sweat pants, normal black air forces, you were tired because school was kicking your ass, like forereal.

“Hey Tom!” Zendaya smiled, walking faster to him and hugging him tightly. “Hey z” he smiles back, squeezing her a bit. “This is my uh, cousin, y/n” Zendaya smiled at you and you yawned again, covering your mouth but waving at him, which he gave a tight lipped smile and let out a “hey, how are you” “tired. Bored. Emotionally numb. Mixed feelings, over caked up-“ “haha, I think he gets it” Zendaya cut you off with a wide smile. “Are you playing in the movie?” Tom asked, raising an eyebrow. “I don’t think so” you shrugged. “She’s the real life MJ, don’t mind her, but we are gonna like go now, bye-Tom!” She pulled your arm until you found her trailer.

“What’s up with you!” Zendaya asked as she put her hands on her hips, watching you sit down on her bed. “I HATE SCHOOOOOOL” you complained, throwing your head on her bed as you tried not to cry. “You aren’t crying right now, y/n please don’t” Zendaya rolled her eyes.

“They expect me to know this shit! I barely even know what 2+2 is!” You lifted your head as tears left your eyes, crying. “Y/n, what’s 2+2?” She asked. “Fourrrr” you whined, still crying. “It’s social distance, like cheat or something!” Zendaya said as she mentally started to cackle watching your cry, you sucked your tears up in an instant, acting like you were perfectly fine and took out your laptop...only to cry again.

“I HATE SCHOOOOOOOOLLLL, WHY OUT OF EVERYONE I HAVE TO DO ITTTTTT!” you slapped the computer, zendaya couldn’t take it, she laughed at you. “AND YOUR LAUGHINGGG, IM IN AN EMOTIONAL CRISIS RIGHT KNOW” she started cackling, gasping for air as tears ran down your face. “BAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA” “ZENDAYAAAAAA-“ your voice cracked, coughing on your spit as she just kept laughing, she was on the floor now, holding her stomach.

As you let out a broken scream the door opened, revealing Tom worried, but his face turns confused. “Do I want to know?” He gently asked. “Get outttttt” you whined pointing at the door. Tom smiled and nodded his head, closing the door. You wiped your tears away, sniffling like a child as zendaya just watched, a grin plastered in her face. “Shut up zendaya- I’m hurt” you said petty, crossing your arms as she let out a ‘pffft’ and continued to laugh.

It was about 2 days later, you felt better with jacobs help, he can really do math.

You sat in the chair sighing as you looked at your phone. “Fucking Enews, I’m gonna kill them one day” zendaya groaned, plopping herself in the chair next to you. “What happened?” You asked, the only ones in the room, it was like a hangout spot or something, hard to explain use your imagination

“They like to put us against each other and it’s toxic” zendaya hands you the phone, showing you on tone left and her on the right and “zendaya vs y/n” you only cringe at it “they want people to vote?” You asked and she nodded, you voted for yourself and handed her back the phone. “Forget you” she rolled her eyes, “nope if anything I’m winning” you shrug laughing at her while she tries to snatch your phone.

“It’s only fair!” She said, grabbing your phone and somehow knowing your code, standing up and running with your phone “JUST DONT TYPE IN X!” You yell, chasing her. “Oh I’m typing in x” she whispered, now joining where everyone else was, it was to fast to tell who but you seen Tom, you ran past him and his screen showed a model, blond but you couldn’t see anything else. Your mind was racing as you went full on devil an crybaby running, once you chased her she threw herself on the couch, sighing and laying your phone on her stomach.

“Fuck you” you whispered and she laughed, you grabbed your phone and saw “you voted for me!” You gasped. “What! No I didn’t!” She said, immediately sitting up and raising her eyebrows at you, you showed her your phone, laughing in her face as you tried to do the dougie. “Oh so you wanna get competitive?” She asked, crossing her arms. “I mean I’m in the lead” you shrugged. “Whoever loses has to buy lunch!” Zendaya said, standing up and running past you back to where everyone else was, you followed her while she said “VOTE ZENDAYA!” you shouted your own name and told people to vote you and they didn’t understand until they all got a notification.

Everyone voted and you sat next to Tom, begging him to tell you who he chose. “No y/n I won’t tell you” he smiled. “Pleaseeee!” You clasped your hands together giving him the best puppy eyes you could, he glared at you and showed you his phone. “I give up” on the screen it showed “you haven’t even voted yet!” You said, about to tap your name until he pulled his phone back. “Nope”

The rally went on for hours, it went from zendaya to you, to you to zendaya, zendaya was in the lead by point two percent. “THOMAS VOTE!” Laura shouted. “Alright alright!” He said, he heasitantly tapped a name, he chose it on purpose of course and it was nice for him to be the last person to vote.

Everyone’s phoned dinged by Enews. “ILL TELL EVERYONE!” Samuel shouted, everyone sat in seats watched him, phones turned off. This was absolutely giant for you and zendaya, this was a playful competition so don’t worry about putting each other down.

“The person who won is.....” he added suspense on everyone, aching for the answer already. He sighed and cleared his throat, then swallowed.

....

.....

Almost there!

.......it’s

Oop-

“The winner is y/n!” Everyone who voted for you cheered while everyone who voted for zendaya booed. You and zendaya both laughed together, giving each other a hug. “You owe me pizza” she only shrugged and agreed. “Wait...who did Tom vote?” Jacob asked, everyone now eyeing him, his eyes went wide. “You’ll never know” he only said. “Tell us! The game is over!” “Tell us!” Was chanted as his face started to turn a bit red. “ALRIGHT! I VOTED-“

who did he vote? Idk

Oof

This is a long ass story

Not anywhere near finished yet so stick with me here

I LOVE YOU KRITI

“Y/N” everyone cheered and congratulated you, zendaya asking if you wanted to go get the pizza now, you agreed and asked anyone else if they wanted to go, Jacob and Tom said yeah and you all went, you ordered a noarmal pizza and bought zendaya one to, you really didn’t want to take her money, Tom scrolled through the comments of the Enews post and saw how many people actually didn’t like you which is absolute bullshit, comments about your skin and how you act, his blood was slightly boiling, it isn’t right because they don’t even know you, who gives them the right to talk shit about you?

As the days passed you and Thomas hung out a lot, went to dinner a couple times whiteout anyone else, then had lunch, went shopping, you guys just did a lot of shit together which was cute, you guys got matching socks, shirts, jeans, hair clips and hats, calling your selves idiots and thing number one and number two, you, Tom, daya, haz, and Harry went mountain climbing and that was the worst thing you’ve ever done in your life, you held toms hand so tight, wore a parachute just in case you see a bear and need to jump off, you were just all over the place.

“Do you wanna go to a party with me?” Tom asked in his dressing room, watching you eat your Cheerios with extra sugar as you raise a single eyebrow at him “depends “ you shrugged, setting down the bowl as you laid on his bed. “I think it’s like a house party, one of my friends asked to come, I don’t know” he shrugged and sat down at the end of the bed looking at you. “Then alright yeah, I have nothing else to do tonight” he smiles and lays down infront of you and you put your hand on his waist listening to his small breathes.

It was the day of the party and you weren’t so big on it. You dressed in some baggy jeans and a long sleeeve with a slicked back ponytail and some vans, your hair in a slicked in a ponytail and some long eyelashes with lip gloss, you said you’d meet him there because it took you hours If someone was waiting on you, strange but also very true.

You sighed and rolled your eyes with your hands on the steering wheels, trying to find a parking space but it was packed. “Why does this man have so many freinds? ISNT this only a house party?” You muttered, finally finding a parking spot, pretty close. Tom had called you and told you he was waiting at the door when you had just parked, he knew what your car looked like so when he found it he smiled and it made him slightly over excited.

“Hey babe” he smiled and you returned with “hey love” you both exchanged with tight hugs and he took your hand and pulled you in, the first thing that met your nose was sweat and achol. You silently cringed as Tom tried to contain his laughs, pulling you to the kitchen and to the counter, you could barely jump so he helped you up. “Hungry?” He asked. “Any waffles?!” You said and he chuckled, walking over to the fridge and opening the freezer as his smile got brighter, he took the package and threw it at you, which you catches and bit your lip.

The music boomed through the walls, he got you both a beer and ended up burning the waffles “Y/N!” “IM SORRY!” He quickly shut it, going over to the sink and opening the window, the breeze string so he sighed in relief and walked over to you giving you a strong high-five making you hiss “sorry!” He adorably said with made you smile at him, you both made your way upstairs, grabbing a couple beer bottles on the way.

“So” he said, looking at his bottle. “So?” You asked looking at him confused. “How’ve ya been?” He asked, achol in both of your systems as you shrugged. “Happy with you here” “that’s cute y/n” he laughed, setting down the bottle and looking at you. “So are you like not bored?” “We can like watch something?” “Like what?” “The backyardagains?” He looked at you confused, “a child’s show?” “Hey it’s more interesting then alone or whatever you like to watch” “why don’t we like watch porn hub or something?” “That’s wierder then what I said, but I mean..-“ “backyardagains it is” he put his lips in a tight manner, he tried to find the remote on the night stand but it was on your side, luckily there was on demand so you didn’t have to pay for anything.

you both watched the show, him smiling at laughing at you as you mocked the words. “You must had watched this a million times to know what their saying” he chuckled. “Hey don’t judge me, beer?” You asked grabbing one, when he said yeah you added another and handed it to him. You guys got closer, his hand on your waist while you head was on your chest, which shifted to his hand on your ass when you were all the way on top of him, platonically, but when you both looked at each other he pulled in and kissed you roughly, you batted your eyes at him and sat up, setting your beer aside as he did the same, he took his hand and put it on your neck, tugging you down to kiss him.

You slowly rocking your hips on his member feeling it grow as he let out distant groans, his hand stayed comfterbly on your neck, not squeezing to tight but just right. “Do you wanna?” He asked against your lips and you only nodded. “Say it” he said, rubbing his nose against yours. “I want to” “you want to what baby girl?” “I want to have sex with you” “you can be naughtier than that” he bit your bottom lip, pulling it back with him and letting it go, making eye contact with you.

“I want you to fuck me tommy” you kept your hips moving as he let out a hoarse chuckle “that’s my good girl” he squeezed your throat and you whimpered, he released your neck and made his way down your stomach to the button of your pants, his other hand made its way to your cheek, taking it slow and taking everything in as his small lips were against your plump ones, he undid your pants and they were looser then before, so he climbed down and found-

“Lace?” He whispered against your lips, “thong? Naughty girl” your stomach reeked with butterflies as a pool was comfterbly inbeteeen your legs, he pulled the material back and let it go your back arching as you let out a “shit”. You could feel his hard on against you as you were eager to take off your clothes and just give it all to him. He finally came to where you wanted him, he swirled your pearl before digging in your wetness and pumping it “Tommy” you whimpered, bucking your hips into his hand. “Tell me what you want and I’ll give it to you” he licked your bottom lip before having it enter your mouth, you basically fucked his hand as he lowered down, finding you sweet spot instantly which only instensed the pleasure. You put your head in his shoulder as you pulled down the rest of your pants, lifting each leg to get them off.

He took his hand out of you which made you whine but he shushed you and made you sit up, looking at the white thong and how it squeezed your skin, he lifted the long sleeve, up and over you head to find you not wearing a bra. “Fucking hell y/n, your so perfect” he smiled, taking a boob in his hand while you lifted your hips to work on his pants,he bucked his hips up slightly so you could pull them down, and it stood, you bit your lip and you looked down and seen the outline of his thick member, seeing a small spot of precum leaking through his underwear. “You gonna stare?” He chuckled, you let out a sorry and pulled down the boxers revealing his member, it sprung up to his lower stomach and you bit your lip, he was above average by like two inches but he was also so...large.

“It’s pretty Tommy” you complement which leaves him smiling. “I’ll be prettier once it’s in you” he knew you were just pooling by his words, you both didn’t want to waste anytime so he pulled the thong to the side, sliding his finger through your heat leaving your hips stuttering slightly, “you ready?” You nodded at him and let out a yeah, he took his member and pumped himself a few times before entering you with a groan.

“Fuck y/n your so tight” you softly came down on him, you being on top and holding onto the head board for support as you lifted your hips and ripped them again “mmmm” you moaned, your head tilting back as he watched comfterbly, seeing you in control. You went faster the bed making noise as whimpers left your lips, his hand came up to your waist and held tight, biting his lip as he watched your boobs bounce infront of his face (ew sex 🤢 don’t know her)

He groaned and let out a fuck, moaning at his name as he sat up, looking up at your face and how your beautiful moans leave your lips. “You like that y/n, you like riding me?” He asked, slightly breathing heavy, he messed with the hem on your thong before taking both of his hands to rip it off. “Mhm, you owe me a thong” he sucked hickeys on the pad of your skin, or where ever he could. You rolled your hips, tired of bouncing as your breath was heavy, making eye contact with his darken, lust filled eyes, he didn’t heasitate to kiss your lips, shoving his tongue in your mouth and fighting for dominance, which of course he won, his hands came down to open your legs, fucking himself into you as you whined. “Fuck baby” he groaned when your hands were on his shoulders, clawing them as he hisses in pain but also in pleasure, his hands are tight on your legs which felt so good to you, hearing the clapping noises as you bucked your hips.

“Tommy you feel so good” you moaned, “yeah? My cock wrapped around your tight little pussy, so warm and wet for who?” “For you” your head tilted back, opening your legs more as you begged for more, which he gave to you, he flipped you both over making him on top, he went as fast as he could, your eyes rolling to the back of your head as you choked on your moans “t-Tommy!” “You like that baby?” He asked. “Like it when I fuck into your tight pussy, where you can barely speak, when I bust you fucking open?” “Please please please”

“Please what? Be a good girl and take daddies dick yeah?” When you bucked your hips he laid a slap on your ass, your back arching as you cried and open your legs as open as possible, your chest pressed up against his, he used the head board to pound harder into you, groaning as each thrust, yours moans where high pitched “I’m gonna-“ you swallowed. “Cum? Hold it for me, I’ll tell you when you get it to cum” “your in so deep I don’t know-“ “just try’n hold it” he felt his climax building up. “Please tom can I cum?” You let out a rough high pitched moan, really putting your throat in it, he smiled and moaned at your face, then looked down and seen the way he pounded into you so freely, his cock glistening with your wetness, he took his hand and rubbing your clit messy. “To much Tommy!” You basically screamed.

“Take it for me” your back came off the mattress as your face scrunched, you cum blasting right out of you. “joder joder joder joder, papi me haces correr tan fuerte, dios me haces sentir tan bien! joder papi si, papi si papi si papi si!” You cried, which instantly made him cum right after you. “Fuckkkk” he rode it out, his hand still on your clit, your chest stuttered as your hand went to his wrist latching onto it as he keep swirling around your clit, eager to make you cum again. You were so dazed you couldn’t think straight the pleasure over powering you as you were sure you just peed yourself, “Thomas!” You shrieked

He pulled out. “I could do that all day” he muttered, rolling over to the other side as you both panted, he looked over at you and noticed how you weren’t speaking, “what’s up?” You looked over at him and replied with “I don’t think I’ll be able to walk” he laughed and the door soon opened. “Party is fücking over” his friend said, looking at both of you while your bodies were fully naked, he didn’t care he just wanted you both out, the theme song of the backyardagains playing as he shut the door which left you both laughing, he secretly kept the ripped thong and put it in his pocket of his jeans.

“You spoke Spanish to me, y/n” he laughed as you shook your head no. “Stop that’s so embarasinggg!” You groan and cover your ears. “You called me daddy, I don’t know the rest” “I probably did speak Spanish to you, but I didn’t call you daddy, I couldn’t have” “oh no you called me daddy alright, it was fucking gorgeous, I couldn’t help but cum” “shut up!” You both were walking down the street... well you crippled as he held your hand drinking a slurpii that you got form 711. “How will zendaya feel?” He asked you and you shrugged. “I will tell her soon” “and how you spoke fluent Spanish to me? I bet no one has ever fucked you that good huh?” “THOMAS!”

#tom holland x reader #tom holland #tom holland x black!reader #tom holland fanfic #tom holland imagine #tom holland smut #tom holland au

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gellavonhamster · 5 years

Text

the eye of the storm, or a still life with pineapples

teen and up audiences (?) || Bertrand Baudelaire/Beatrice Baudelaire/Lemony Snicket + guest starring other ships and characters || pre-canon, canon divergence

ao3 link || originally posted in Russian

As famously said by a famous cartoonist and later by an even more famous musician and before them, probably, by many other famous and not so famous people, life is what happens to you while you're busy making other plans. For example, less than half a year ago I was certain that in a little while, I would marry the woman I love, and dance with her at our wedding, which would be held in a place called the Vineyard of Fragrant Grapes. A few months passed, and here I was dancing at the wedding indeed, but not as a groom and not with the woman I dreamed to marry. However, she was also attending the party, and radiating beauty in her refined wedding dress just like in my erstwhile dreams. It was her wedding – her and another man’s, and I didn’t doubt that many guests were surprised I was invited and, on top of that, entrusted with reciting one of the wedding blessings. Then again, there weren’t that many guests: only the trusted long-time associates, most of whom both the newlyweds and I had the honour to consider our friends. Some of them were familiar with the events which had resulted in my bride marrying someone else; as to the rest of them, I hoped they were too well-mannered to whisper behind my back. On the other hand, if they decided to spread some gossip, I would not have minded it much. In these latter days, all kinds of things were being whispered about me behind my back, said out loud, and printed in the newspapers. If I had a chance to choose between the discussions of my love life and the accusations of crimes I had nothing to do with, I would have chosen the former without a moment’s hesitation. Unfortunately, in practice, there were two options: either both the former and the latter or just the latter, and I had no choice anyway.

Even the celebration venue was not what I had expected. The Vineyard of Fragrant Grapes was undoubtedly very lovely at that time of the year, but just like many other gardens, libraries, restaurants, post offices, bookstores, and tailor shops, it had lately become unsafe for the members of our organization. It was far too risky to organize the wedding in a widely known place. That was why the ceremony itself, as well as the celebratory banquet, took place in a small hotel outside the City. It was called The Eye of the Storm, and that name was more than appropriate. “The eye of the storm” is an expression which means an area of calm weather at the centre of a hurricane, both literally and figuratively, and so the present celebration seemed a calm moment at the centre of the hurricane of feuds and treachery that was raging in my life, as well as in the lives of the groom, the bride, and all the guests. An attentive visitor would also notice another eye – the motif used in the design of the hotel, from napkin rings to the moulding on the ceiling. To paraphrase the definition provided above, one could say that the eye of the storm is an area at the centre of a hurricane where the world is quiet.

“Snicket, wake up!” called the lady I was dancing with. “Do you want us to bump into someone?”

“Sorry. I got lost in thought. And we wouldn’t have bumped into anyone: you’re the lead.”

“And good thing that I am. For a moment I felt like I was dancing with a coat rack or something like that. You alright?”

“Of course I am, R,” I smiled at my partner who was none other than R, the Duchess of Winnipeg. “How about you?”

“I’m fine, L. You know me,” she smiled back, but I saw it in her eyes that just like me, she couldn’t stop her gaze from drifting to the bride, who was dancing with her beloved in the centre of the ballroom. “It’s been long since I’ve come to terms with the fact that this is how it’s going to end. It’s only that when I used to imagine all of this before, it was you, not Bertrand, and it was easier somehow. But it’s nothing.”

When I first met R, she was yet to become the duchess and the renowned meteorologist and the multiple fencing champion of VFD. Back then she was just the daughter of the previous Duchess of Winnipeg, now deceased; just a little girl who had just got her volunteer’s tattoo and, being confused and a little bit scared, went to explore the infirmary in search of someone who would explain to her where she was, why she was taken away from home, and where her parents were. That evening, she didn’t find the answers to all of her questions, but she found a little boy – me – who, like her, had just been tattooed and didn’t understand what was going on. We were already friends when we met Beatrice, the woman whose wedding we were dancing at today. When we understood that both of us were in love with her, we promised each other that we wouldn’t let that circumstance ruin our friendship. There is an absorbing Gothic novel in which three friends propose to the same girl, and remain friends after she chooses one of them. Similarly, my friend and I both courted Beatrice, leaving it up to her to choose one of us and not expecting that in the end, just like in that novel, there would be three contenders for her heart, and it would be the third one that she would favour. One could only hope that at that point, the similarities with the novel would end, although taking into account Beatrice’s fondness for bats, she would surely be amused by the prospect of being turned into a vampire.

“I do know you, R,” I confirmed. “And that is exactly why I am worried.”

“Oh, come on. If you want to know, today I feel much better than over the last two months combined. Look around, L: even in these trying times we’re surrounded by noble and trustworthy people. My dear friend got married and is happy. I am dancing at her wedding in a wonderful dress and in an excellent company, and who knows,” she winked at me, “perhaps it’s in that excellent company that I’ll meet someone who would help me to let go of the past at last.”

“You will meet – or you have met?” I asked, intrigued. My friend smiled cryptically. “Who is she?”

“Look to your left. See a beautiful girl in a peach dress standing by the window?”

The girl was beautiful indeed. Something about the features of her face seemed familiar to me but I didn’t know her name, which was what I told R.

“Sally Sebald,” she told me, with the same conspiratorial look. “The little sister of Gustav, our Monty’s new… assistant.”

If “our Monty” had heard the way R had spoken the word “assistant”, he would have definitely pretended to be offended to the marrow of his bones. However, at that moment he was busy dancing with that very assistant. The music stopped, and the band bowed in response to the applause, then proceeded to flip through the sheets, selecting the next piece to play.

“I’ll leave you for a while,” R announced. “I must ask her for a dance. Promise me you won’t just stand by yourself ruining everyone’s mood with your long face.”

“I promise. Go for it,” I squeezed her hand, wishing her luck. “And I’ll go grab a bite.”

With that, I made my way to the cold table at the opposite end of the ballroom. “Cold table” is an expression which here means “a buffet-style table with the dishes that the guests are expected to help themselves to” not a table that is cold to touch, although I couldn’t have had any idea if that particular table was cold to touch before I ever touched it. As I was eating mushroom tartlets, I watched the dancers. Here was my brother waltzing with Olivia Caliban, and there was my sister, talking animatedly about something to her partner during the dance – and looking, as I was pleased to notice, like after all the recent troubles and worries she was finally at peace. Some of the guests might have been watching her too and wondering who she was dancing with: Frank or Ernest? That was, of course, the wrong question, while the right question would have been “How many Denouement brothers are there, actually?” I shifted my gaze to R, who was dancing with Gustav’s sister, then to Gustav and Monty and then to Ike and Josephine Anwhistle and so, looking over the dancing couples one by one, I finally met Beatrice’s eyes as she looked at me over her husband’s shoulder. My heart sank. That ballroom was full of people I held in great affection, and still I had to abandon them tomorrow, to flee abroad in order to save myself and everyone who was closely associated with me and could get in the firing line because of that. I didn’t know when I would see all of them again. Just the thought of it made me suffocate with grief.

“Snicket,” someone said. I turned around. There was a woman standing next to me, one that was different from the other guests for two reasons. Firstly, most of the invitees were the same age as the bride and the groom, while this woman was much older. Secondly, I have never met anyone with a hair as thick, long, and unruly, presently already greying. Even if she had tried to arrange it in some sort of a hairdo on the occasion of the party, all the pins and clips clearly were already lost, unable to tame this natural disaster. “Do you mind?”

“An interesting question. For a well-mannered person, there’s only one answer to it,” I observed, “which could be in equal measure correct or incorrect depending on how much…”

“Snicket,” my chaperone interrupted me, annoyed, “I asked because you’re standing by yourself ruining everyone’s mood with your long face. If you’re fine with being in such condition, I can leave you alone.”

“I didn’t mean to offend you, Theodora,” I objected. “Shall I pass you something? The salmon sandwiches are really good.”

“Thank you, I’ve enough for now,” she showed me a full plate. For some time we stood there eating and not saying a word, enjoying the music, the meal, and, to the lesser extent, each other’s company. Finally, Theodora said what she apparently wanted to say from the start.

“I grew wary when I saw you here, quite honestly,” she began. “I knew you were invited, as astonishing as it may be, but I was still surprised you’ve showed up. I’ll admit I feared that at the last moment you’d… pull some trick. I even told Bertrand about it, but he just waved it aside.”

“Well, that just proves the student has surpassed the teacher when it comes to getting other people,” I shrugged. “I suppose you wouldn’t trust me, but I didn’t even think of ruining the ceremony. Believe it or not, I sincerely wish Bertrand and Beatrice nothing but happiness.”

“You’re a peculiar person, Snicket.”

“Am I? I thought I am insufferable and lack respect for my elders.”

“And that, too. It won’t ever cease to amaze me that you and Bertrand hit it off.”

My brain instantly came up with a couple of presumably witty responses concerning how well we hit it off indeed – the champagne might’ve been to blame – but I restrained myself. There were some things she’d better stay unaware of.

“Life is full of surprises,” I observed instead. Theodora looked at me dubiously.

“I’d like to believe you’re telling the truth,” she said. “That you really came here to congratulate them on their marriage, and not to wallow in self-pity or make them doubt they made the right choice. You’re a peculiar person, Snicket, and that is precisely why I feel I really might be right to believe that. Care to ask the old hag for a dance?”

“With pleasure,” I agreed. This conversation was somewhat upsetting me, and it appeared I was already failing to keep the promise I gave R anyway. “May I have this dance, Theodora?”

The look on her face told me she was expecting some other answer, in which I would have pointed out, for instance, that I see no old hags here, but she still gave me her hand, and we went dancing.

***

The celebration ended late into the night. Many kind words were said to the bridal couple, many wonderful songs were sung, and the young Quagmire, evidently inspired by the example of his friend Bertrand, seized the moment to propose to his beloved. Finally the time came for everyone to head home. I was hanging around the hotel lobby and making my adieus to the guests: some of them were waiting for their taxis to arrive while some preferred to make use of the secret tunnel that connected The Eye of the Storm to a number of VFD buildings in the City. I was bidding farewell to my friends: sometimes a handshake, sometimes an embrace, and sometimes simply an exchange of phrases which would’ve seemed nonsensical to the uninitiated. My future appeared to me full of uncertainty and loneliness, and the volunteer’s work kept becoming more and more dangerous with every passing day. If I was destined to never meet my comrades again, then I wanted to remember them precisely the way they were that evening: happy, content, elegantly dressed, and with a newly found confidence that we may still be bound to witness the victory of nobility, valour, and erudition over cunning, avarice, and bad taste.

“We’ll meet you by the road junction at nine,” my brother said, clapping me on the shoulder. He was obviously worried. I didn’t want him to worry about me – I was doing that myself just fine. “Are you sure you don’t want to leave earlier? You could get there in time to catch the…”

“It is highly likely that our enemies have infiltrated the crew of the Prospero. You know that yourself,” I didn’t let him finish. “I’ll take the train. Don’t fret about me, Jacques. Better try to get some sleep. Or…” I cast a sidelong look at Olivia, who was standing nearby and apparently waiting for my brother, “spend the time until morning the way you see fit.”

It was twilight outside The Eye of the Storm, but I had no doubts Jacques blushed.

“You’re taking a lot of risk, L,” he said, displeased. “Are you sure it’s worth it? After all, everything has changed now…”

“I know,” I said. Deep down, I wasn’t sure indeed if it was a good idea. If it was appropriate now, no matter how much we wanted to believe it was. But I couldn’t act differently. Firstly, I had given a promise. Secondly, if I changed my mind, then – who knows – I might miss the last chance to feel happy that I’d get in my life. “I am only sure that if I leave now, I am going to regret it. See you tomorrow, Jacques.”

He frowned but said nothing more and, after hugging me once again, got into the car and left. I headed back to The Eye of the Storm. My brother and Olivia were the last ones to leave; presently the only ones staying at the hotel were the employees and the newlyweds. I sneaked a look into the ballroom and saw them talking about something to the hotel owner. The bride laughed at something and took her groom – her husband – by the hand. I was standing there in the dusk and thinking: what if my brother was right? Wouldn’t it be better for me to leave before it’s too late – just like that, without saying goodbye? I shook my head, chasing these thoughts away as if they were circling me like Snow Gnats, and hurried to the second floor. At the very beginning of the corridor, a bored-looking hall porter was sitting on a chair and cleaning his nails. I approached him.

“Mr. and Mrs. Baudelaire are wondering if the still life with pineapples displayed in the ballroom is for sale,” I said.

The hall porter raised his head to look at me.

“Unfortunately it isn’t. It’s the only thing our owner has to remember his late grandmother by,” he replied, and gave me the key from the luxury suite. There was no further conversation between us; I took the key and headed to the suite.

I entered the room, closed the door behind me, and looked around. As it is commonly known, luxury accommodations differ from the regular hotel rooms in the number of amenities and the refinement of the furnishings. In the present case, one of the indisputable advantages of this suite in comparison to the other rooms was a bookcase with a great number of books on its shelves. I looked over the room, checking, among other things, the presence of weapons and fire extinguishing tools hidden under the bed in the event of the enemies of the bridal couple finding out where the wedding was taking place and deciding to pay a visit. Then I took a collection of poems by Oscar Wilde from one of the shelves and immersed myself in reading, hoping for once I wouldn’t get much time for that.

Indeed, I didn’t have to wait for long. There was the sound of steps and voices, and the just married burst into the room – it struck my eye that they were still holding hands. They didn’t notice me because as soon as Mr. Baudelaire shut the door behind him, Mrs. Baudelaire pinned him against that very door and kissed him. Since she threw off her high-heeled shoes the moment she ran into the room, she had to stand on tiptoe to kiss him, which looked absolutely adorable.

I watched those two who had clearly forgotten at that moment about the world around. Without a doubt, the Baudelaires were a beautiful couple. Beatrice was lovely even wearing an old tracksuit covered in dirt after the annual orienteering competition held in the city sewers – presently, in a white and golden wedding dress, she looked like an angel. Bertrand, handsome and well-built, looked dapper in a cream-coloured suit with a tea rose on the lapel. I was feasting my eyes on the both of them, all the while racked by doubts as to whether I’d better withdraw through the window before they noticed me. I even started to reflect on how wide the windowsills of The Eye of the Storm were, but then the Baudelaire spouses pulled away from each other and finally realized they were not alone in the room. My presence did not surprise them in the slightest.

“You’re here,” Beatrice said, and her face lit up with such joy that I shook all the thoughts about the windowsills out of my head.

I put the book back on the shelf.

“I asked the hall porter about the painting with pineapples,” I said. “It is not for sale.”

“What a pity,” Beatrice replied merrily, ran up to me, and kissed me on the lips.

I was not destined to tie the knot and start a family. When I was engaged to Beatrice, I tried to ignore the thought of it but it was always with me, in some hidden corner of my mind. It was there when Beatrice accepted my proposal and in the early days of our relationship and when I was twelve years old and Theodora was telling me that her previous apprentice, the same young man who was half-smiling now as he watched me kiss his wife, would become a husband and a father, while all that awaited me was loneliness. I was not destined to find the happiness harped on about by writers and telenovela characters and the designers of those advertisement posters that featured parents and two children, always a boy and a girl, carelessly consuming cereals or ice cream. But I knew happiness of another kind, and while the creators of cereal advertisements would hardly be able to appreciate it, I suspected that some writers could have understood me. I was kissing the woman that wasn’t mine in the eyes of the law and the society yet still was mine as much as I was hers – that is to say, with all her heart and all her soul – and I was happy. That was more than enough.

Beatrice pulled away from my lips.

“I was mad the whole evening I couldn’t just come up to you for no special reason,” she told me. “Couldn’t dance with you, not even once.”

“It is important that as many people as possible are sure we’re not together anymore,” I reminded her. “You have plenty of your own enemies, Beatrice. You shouldn’t have to deal with mine to boot.”

“I refuse to believe that any single one of the people who were here today…” she started, but stopped short. Perhaps she remembered how fragile the bonds of friendship can be, and in how much danger they can be put both by ambition and the sense of duty. Perhaps she remembered about the family whose manor she used to visit as a child and about a night at the opera and the poison darts; about the articles in The Daily Punctilio and the stolen sugar bowl. I pulled her close. I didn’t want her to think about those things on the day of her wedding.

Bertrand coughed. I met his eyes, and felt Beatrice softly push me away. It occurred to me that kissing the wife right in front of her husband’s eyes is extremely improper, so when he approached me I decided to atone for my behaviour, and kissed him too. If Beatrice always kissed with all the fervour of the woman who could fight off a giant eagle with her bare hands, then Bertrand always did it with all the thoroughness of the man who enters a lions’ cage without fear because he has studied their habits in all detail and thought out all the actions required in case the situation gets out of control. I didn’t see Beatrice’s face the moment my lips touched Bertrand’s, but I knew she was smiling.

I ran my hand over his chest and felt for the tea rose.

“Been wondering all evening if it’s natural or not,” I said. My head was spinning. I still hadn’t fully got used to the effect these two had upon me, and this might have been our last night together.

“Artificial,” Bertrand said, took the flower out of the buttonhole, and put it into my pocket. “Take it. As a keepsake of this day.”

“Thank you,” I said. As I was looking at him, I hoped yet again that if Beatrice’s children (who were bound to be born one day: she’s always wanted to become a mother) take after their father, they’ll inherit Bertrand’s features, not mine. I wouldn’t mind to pass on the colour of my eyes or my hair, but certainly not my innate tendency to corpulence that created certain inconveniences when it was necessary, for instance, to exit the building through the basement window. As to Bertrand, he was outrageously good-looking from head to toe – I remembered vividly how it used to annoy me back when I had just met him. I used to be itching to hit him even though he never actually provoked me in any way. I didn’t want to admit for a long time that what was hiding behind that was simply the longing to touch him. “But I think that can wait. I am not leaving yet, after all.”

“Will you stay till morning?” Beatrice asked hopefully.

“I am to meet Jacques and Kit by the road junction a mile from The Eye of the Storm at nine o’clock. They’ll take me to the railway station – not the nearest one, but the one after – where I shall board the train at nine twenty-nine.”

“It’s five minutes to two now,” Bertrand observed, glancing at his wristwatch.

“About seven hours,” Beatrice said, taking a step towards Bertrand and me, and put her hand on my cheek. “Almost the whole night.”

“Your wedding night, by the way,” I reminded. “Are you sure that…”

“Lemony Snicket,” she interrupted me petulantly, and slapped me on the lips lightly with the tips of her fingers, “yes, we are sure, we’ve discussed all that more than once, we told you the password that got you the key to our room for a reason. If the world was simpler and quieter, you would’ve been getting married today as well. Consider this as your wedding night too. And before you’ve managed to make some other silly statement: yes, we’ve discussed that as well.”

I looked at Bertrand. He nodded without thinking twice.

“The fact that Beatrice and I are married now doesn’t change a thing,” he said. “Remember that when you return to the City. You will return one day, won’t you, Snicket?”

I was about to answer honestly, “I don’t know”, but I just couldn’t.

“I’ll try to,” I said. That was also true. I would have given anything not to leave the people I loved more than anything else in the world, but since I had no other choice, all that was left to me was to make every effort to come back to them sooner or later.

“All right,” Beatrice said. “All right,” she repeated, and it seemed to me I saw tears glisten in her eyes and I felt scared. She stopped me with a motion of her hand before I could say anything to her. “We’ll talk about that later. Are you feeling sleepy?”

“Are you suggesting I go to sleep, Beatrice?”

“I suggest you accept that you’ll only get to sleep on the train.”

With that she pushed me to the bed – a large bed, the kind that three people would fit on with ease. Beatrice moved towards me and I moved back until I fell on my back right on the blanket. Beatrice lifted her skirt a little and climbed first onto the bed, and then on top of me.

“Careful, Snicket,” Bertrand said as he noticed that my hands slid under her skirt. He sat on the bed and bent over me. “She’s got a dagger in her garter. Sheathed, of course, but you never know.”

I grabbed the tip of his necktie and pulled him closer.

“How interesting,” I said. Beatrice was straddling me, rising a little and then pressing herself to me again, and I was moving towards her in sync. “Do you also have anything hidden underneath your clothes, Mr. Baudelaire?”

“See for yourself,” Bertrand offered, and kissed me.

The storm was raging outside the hotel, yet only figuratively. Clouds were gathering over all the fearless and well-read people who have dedicated their lives to science, literature, and keeping the world quiet. But I and those two that I loved were in the eye of the storm: literally, because that was the name of the hotel, and figuratively, because that night we weren’t thinking about the schemes of our enemies and the everyday dangers that befell our friends. I was happy in a way the one whose beloved has just married someone else rarely is, and here, in the eye of the storm, nothing could take that happiness from me – at least not until the morning.

#asoue #a series of unfortunate events #lemony snicket #beatrice baudelaire #bertrand baudelaire #duchess of winnipeg #s. theodora markson #jacques snicket #lemonberry ice #beatrice x r #snicketverse #my fic #gella talks snicketverse #tbh i really didn't even try to fit it into canon timeline #i just wanted to write some light-hearted self-indulgent ot3 fic and i went for it

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freakin-edikan · 5 years

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More Unpopular Smash Onions

I have a lot of Smash Onions and here are most of them in one post. Be warned it’s long and stupid

Bayonetta Should Not Have Been in Smash Ever

The whole point of Bayonetta is that she whips out these crazy combos and super strong witch tricks to defeat her opponents. The only problem is...barely anyone else can do that because they’re not supposed to because it’s Smash Bros and not Street Fighter. There was no way to nerf Bayonetta without ruining her, and there was no way to keep the Bayonetta feel and style without her dominating the game.

Cloud Should Not Have Been in Smash Ever

He was too fast, he was too strong, he had a projectile. Sakurai specifically said he knew Ike had exactly these stats when Ike was added to Brawl in 2008. He intentionally left them out so as to not let Ike become too strong. But years later, Cloud strutted into Super Smash Bros. for Wii U/3DS with these same attributes anyway. He’s a lot more tame now, but how many Peaches had to die?

The Zelda Characters Got the Short End of the Stick

A game with 30 years of history does not deserve to be represented by three Links, two Zeldas, and one Ganondorf. It’s clear that the development team was banking on the games sticking to its Ocarina formula, which is why they tried so hard to keep all the designs from one game and didn’t introduce anyone who wasn’t a Triforce bearer. By the time they finally stumbled on the idea of giving characters designs from different games, they had run out of space for any newcomers specific to particular games in the series, and the potential for new characters had run out.

I’m aware that Zelda isn’t as popular in Japan as it is in the United States; however, seeing how big Super Smash Bros. and its audience is, I think its representation could be a little better than that.

Zelda Got the Short End of the Stick

You mean to tell me it took 17 years for someone to look at that trainwreck of a moveset and finally do something about it? Y’all ugly.

There Doesn’t Need to be 15,897 Marths

If the devs over at Sora Ltd. played their cards right, our Fire Emblem lineup could have consisted of a balance of characters and assist trophies that could show off the most prominent aspects of the series. My idea is this:

Characters

Marth

Ike

Lyn

Robin

Assist Trophies

A Manakete (from any game)

A Pegasus Knight + Triangle Attack (any game but preferably the ones who made it famous—so Palla, Catria, and Est.)

A main villain (person, any game)

A main villain (monster, any game)

Ephraim?

Micaiah.

...and some cute lil spirits/stickers/trophies with some lore or references or something. If you ask me, we got the characters we got because of poor planning. I might not know the ins and outs of the process, but that’s what it looks like to me.

I Am Singling Out Corrin Specifically

This pick feels like an impulse because of the fact that FE14 was new, but besides that, I (a salty Peach main and Bandana Dee fan) first thought the character was busted. Never before had we a character with such ridiculous range—I thought Shulk’s energy sword Sunday was pushing it. It looks like Corrin set a precedent, though, because tall, adult characters who can reach across the entire stage seem to be the norm nowadays.

The Mario Characters are Out of Character

I think it’s telling when you can’t convey the character of Mario properly. Mario in Smash rather quickly moved away from his friendly everyman balancedness to a very aggressive, very angery Man who apparently just beats the living daylights out of people as the Smash Ultimate music blares in the background. Mario in his games is so much more friendly, eccentric, comical, fun. Smash Mario is way too serious; he doesn’t even smile in his renders anymore. I know, it’s a fighting game; you have to be serious to some extent. I just find this a little odd considering, um...

Peach was pretty similar when she first came to Melee. But when Brawl came around, her headbutt was replaced with hearts, her explosions with hearts, her diplomatic walk with a ditzy skip—it’s all incredibly suspicious. I talked about this before, but I think Smash makes Peach look dumb. I feel like it tries too hard to appeal to the girl who couldn’t pick any of the boy characters because they were icky so she picked the prettiest, girliest girl and that’s Peach. Her character feels like it’s making a mockery of her. (I mean, who remembers the tea time? I remember the tea time.) Nearly all of the nuance in Peach’s character is gone; I like the Toads and it feels like she’s commanding an army, but she herself with the rainbows and the hearts...I don’t know. It makes me. Uncomfortable. Peach has displayed far more competence before; she’s a very intelligent individual, but in Smash it’s not showing.

If I thought Peach was bad, imagine how I feel about Daisy! They barely changed a couple of animations and visuals but no attributes. It feels cheap and lazy and even though she’s an echo fighter, other “clones” had at least a little more thought put into them. And no “Hi, I’m Daisy”??? Preposterous. I think it goes to show that you really can’t make a clone of Peach because her moveset is too unique, and tinkering with it makes it fall apart. I think this was a bad call.

Bowser Jr. seems fine. He’s just a kid with some toys and it shows. Bowser...can at least walk straight, nowadays. But...

Luigi Baby I’m So Sorry That a Ugly Ass Bitch Would Even Do That

So when Smash 64 came out in 1999, Luigi had had his own voice for 3 years. Smash had decided to take Mario’s voice clips and pitch them up instead. This didn’t change until Brawl.

Luigi is Mario’s taller, slippery-er, eccentric younger brother, and Smash played the eccentric up to 11. (I mean, who remembers the Negative Zone? I remember the Negative Zone.) The hip bumps? And the weird dances? And the being able to fall over and be so round that he can just roll back up? I’ve never seen him do that anywhere but Smash. I don’t know who that is with the green hat in Smash. But it’s not Luigi.

The great thing is that he plays like Luigi! But he sure doesn’t act like it. And neither does Mario. And Mario and Luigi don’t play off each other at all, either. They’re so awkward to put together in this game; it’s like an attack on the sibling family unit.

We Don’t Stan Rosalina

We don’t stan her

“We Made Up Lore About EarthBound Hoping No One Would Notice Also We Really Like Pollyanna and the First Eight Melodies and We Exclusively Reference Mother 1 But We Still Won’t Put Ninten in This Game”

Ness is supposed to have defensive and support PSI because he has the highest physical offensive stats—and the lowest IQ—in EarthBound. He can’t use PK Starstorm, or PK Fire, or PK Thunder. He can use PSI Shield and Brainshock and Paralysis and um, PSI Rockin, and though I don’t mind using Ness and Lucas as they are now, I still can’t help but notice how inaccuracy-laden all the EarthBound references were, and that a moveset focused around trapping an opponent to go in for the beat down intrigues me.

Listen, no one else in this game has made-up lore about how their friends taught them certain moves after the end of their game, and how they channeled their big finisher into smaller bursts of energy while taking on the friend’s (much weaker!) signature move as their Final Smash. You could probably explain the magic Zelda uses as they come in crystals anyone could theoretically use, but the framing that they use for Ness and Lucas? It’s pretty silly.

Okay, about Ninten...he doesn’t have to be in Smash. But what’s the point of saying “Mother (Series)” and then making this weird conglomerate of ideas that doesn’t actually get the point across? All three games communicate very different ideas, but hardly any of what’s in Smash portrays any of it very well.

Where’s Bandana Dee

Where is he

Realistic Guns

Joker is about to enter this game with a literal fucking glock and I’m not okay

Final Smashes is the Same

It’s either a Mega Laser, a Giant Stage Hazard, a I’m Gonna Just Ram Into You Like Nobody’s Business, or a Barage of Attacks With One Final Hit. For all the crap I give Peach’s Final Smash, at least it’s different. Oh, there’s a new kind now: the We Stole Snake’s After We Thought He Was Never Coming Back And Oh God He’s Here. Oh No He’s Back. He’s Angry Oh N-

Kirby and Jigglypuff

They haven’t been great for years! I want them back to being good again.

Okay so Jigglypuff was OD’ing in Melee. But insta-death shield break just doesn’t tell me you care about them!

Speaking of Caring About Kirby

I see y’all only putting Kirby’s Adventure and Kirby Super Star content in your game. Look, whoever made Kirby 64 and friends disappeared the same year Sakurai left HAL Laboratory. The new Kirby games acknowledge all of Kirby’s history, and they take many cues from Smash. Smash is a big game, but the least it could do was reciprocate some of that.

The Music Selection is Underwhelming Me So Far

And it’s not the sheer number; I think that’s incredible. My problem is many of the songs are remixes with multiple versions. There are multiple versions of Light Plane from Pilotwings, multiple versions of Magicant, multiple Ballads of the Goddess, a billion Mario Main Themes. There are so many different musicians arranging for these games; are they all sitting there thinking “I’ll do you one better!!” making the same songs again? Some series have one song being remixed over and over while the rest of the soundtrack is just ripped from the original and chucked into the game. Other songs are just weak, which I expect, but they’re just so...mild.

The original music in Smash Ultimate I think is also pretty weak. It’s the same problem Brawl ran into and the only difference is the Ultimate themes are better orchestrated. The arrangement became stale to me and I think it’s because the game is so big that it couldn’t tie itself together as neatly as Smash 64 could (although only one, maybe two people worked on Smash 64’s music).

Stage Hazards

I don’t remember if it’s possible to turn them off but I am tired of the goddamn Flying Man.

So I think that’s about it. Thanks for reading and on the off chance that someone responds to it, you don’t have to go through the entire thing just to pick it apart bit by bit, I don’t want anyone to have to slog through that unless they want to, I guess. Happy New Year!

#smash ultimate #thinking about video games

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elfnerdherder · 7 years

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The Fault in My Code: Ch. 12

You can read Chapter 12 on Ao3 Here

Chapter 12: Two Burning Hazel Eyes

In his dreams, he lay in sinking sand. He didn’t resist, and when flower petals were gently laid across his eyelids, his nose, and his lips, he allowed it. Each breath he took sunk him a little bit lower, but he was relieved to find that as long as he was sinking, they were too. He pressed palm to waiting, wanting palm, and he sighed.

He got a call two days later from Johns Hopkins Hospital at approximately 7:42 A.M. Jack’s voice was curt, clipped. Aggrieved.

“He didn’t go after you. He went after Chilton.”

The video from surveillance didn’t give them a view of the vehicle used to transport Chilton, but it did give them a blurred, grainy image of Dolarhyde wheeling him to the top of the hill beside the Baltimore State Hospital for the Criminally Insane, lighting him on fire and pushing the tall-backed wheelchair hard enough to get it going.

Jack didn’t know there’d be audio, but Will did –Chilton wired things his own way, after all. He hovered in the doorway and nodded to Jack to play it. While the screams of agony disintegrated to crackling whimpers of pain, Jack grimaced and stepped out to make a call. Will rewound it and let it play again, watching the way the sounds filled the entire room and sucked up everything with it. He played it a third time. He played it a fourth time. He swallowed so hard that it physically hurt. Each time he played it, he stayed in the doorway so that it didn’t devour him.

“He may not live, and that’s something I need to prepare you for,” the doctor told them in the hallway. The burn unit was quiet, apart from hurried steps and mechanical beeps and whirs of constant machinery. “We’re going to do the best we can, but he’s in a lot of pain, and really I don’t feel it’s that important for you to question him.”

“The one that did this is a serial killer,” Jack said bluntly. “We’re trying to keep him from doing this to anyone else.”

Will didn’t bother trying to reason with the doctor –he left that grunt work to Jack. Hospitals took him to dark places, places where the walls were grey and didn’t reflect anything more than the dour circumstances occurring within them, bouncing back the negative until it was all Will could see, all that he could ingest. Down the hall, someone sat on a chair and cried silently, shoulders heaving with the effort. They weren’t screaming; not a soulmate, then. People whose soulmate had just died screamed and screamed and screamed with the pain of it. He thought about Chilton’s screams and gnawed on the corner of his lip.

Cold fingers pressed unconsciously to the scarring along his neck, and he turned to look at a painting of the hospital, a small dedication etched into a gold plate below it. The last time he’d been in a hospital, Molly almost died. The time before, he’d almost died. There was a negative connotation to them, something that smacked of life and death being cradled within the same palm, a child too eager to squeeze to see which one fell out between the cracks of his pudgy knuckles.

“Will?” He looked back at the sound of his name, and Jack had his hands stuffed into his pants’ pockets. “Where’s your head?”

“Is he going to let us see Chilton?” Will asked.

“He said Chilton managed to ask for you, in between putting him under to help with the pain. He’ll let us in since you’re who Chilton asked for.” The dip between Jack’s brows was set-in, deep from many years of bad news and worse coping mechanisms. Will had the wild urge to brush it away.

“He went after Chilton, not me,” Will said.

“Where’s your head?” Jack repeated.

“Decidedly not on fire,” he replied. They stared one another down, and Will pushed out a breath of unease. “I’m fine.”

The room reeked of antiseptic and charred skin. Will walked with trepidation, aware of each footfall and the sound of the material of his khakis rubbing together at the thighs. The room was cool, cooler than outside in the hall, and the deep-set tub Chilton had been placed in to aid in regulating oxygen and fluids was even colder to the touch. Will passed his hand along the side of it, then drew away, guilty.

He didn’t have to steel himself to see the gristly image, but he did have to prepare for the sight of his lipless mouth. They hadn’t mentioned that part, the lips missing like they’d been ripped off by some great, ugly beast. No, no; a Great Red Dragon. His nose itched, and Will scratched it, ignoring the pointed look Jack gave him at the movement.

“Frederick, it’s Agent Jack Crawford and Dr. Graham,” Jack said, and the eyelids, blessedly still in place, flickered. At a deep, pained inhale, the smell of burnt flesh was nauseating.

“I’m sorry this happened to you,” Will said quietly. Chilton’s teeth flashed white against the black and red. His eyes opened, and he fixed a pained stare on Will that seared him.

“Yu…seh…ne uh,” he rasped, muffled and agonized. Will balked under the accusing hazel eyes. “Yu nu…he sah ee az ah het.”

“What’s he saying?” Jack asked. “Can you tell?”

“Yu uut yor hand on ee…ike a hucking het,” he managed, and a shudder ran along his body, his eyes rolling back into his head.

Will stared down, dispassionate. “You set me up. You knew he’d see me as a pet. You put your hand on me like a fucking pet.”

“Both the Hess’ and the Panters’ had pets,” Jack murmured.

“Not anymore,” said Will quietly.

“Did you see anything, Dr. Chilton?” Jack asked.

Chilton struggled for words, eyes half-lidded. “1L-8432B. 1L-8432B. 1L-8432B. 1L-8432B. 1L-8432-”

He continued chanting it in a low, harsh undertone until the doctor saw them out so that they could bring him under again. Will paced in the hall, and Jack tracked his movements.

“Is that true, Will?” Jack asked. Will stuffed his hands into his pockets and grimaced at the too-clean floors.

“Did I set him up? Did I put my hand on him like a fucking pet?”

“Did you?”

“He wouldn’t have believed it if I didn’t. He’d have thought it was posed, but for me to reach out, I…” Will raked his hands through his hair, falling back against the wall. His lungs felt too big for his chest. “I had to make it believable. I wasn’t trying to make him a target.”

Silence. The only kind of silence you could have in a hospital, which was to say not very. There were always people moving, machines going, people dying –to say one couldn’t hear the sound of the dead was to say one wasn’t Will Graham, and he could hear it very, very well. He focused on breathing, on compartmentalizing, on not hearing the sound of Frederick Chilton dying.

I’ve got my guys hunting down the license plate number he saw,” Jack said at last. “It’s probably a fake, but he may not have swapped it out in time.”

“Tattler posted that just a few days ago,” Will said heavily. “That’s not long to get this done and done. Taken care of. He’d had a plan like this for a long time, looked at that high-backed chair for a long time.”

“I’m not following,” Jack said.

“He didn’t just go find it, you know?” Will rubbed his face, scratched at the spaces where Chilton’s eye at been visible, even when closed. “That’s an old chair, an old place. He looked at it a long time, thought what it’d be to light it up. He thought about that chair, saw that chair.”

“You think he’s either owned it, or knew someone that owned it?” Jack asked.

“Common enough to see him wheeling it around wouldn’t be a big deal. Chilton wrapped up, I bet it looked mighty like an old person, sedated and drooling.”

“And only a few days to get here, take him and make it happen,” Jack mused. “I’ll start checking old folk’s homes. Something closeby, something close enough for Baltimore and Minnesota, and a van big enough to wheel him around in.”

Once Jack was gone, Will scuffed his shoes all the way down the hall, starting at the door to Chilton’s room and ending at the elevator. He looked back at the small black marks, and he nodded to himself. From his sins to him, it took precisely forty-two black scuff marks.

Barney sat at the cage to maximum, and he stared down at the envelope in Will’s hand with a calm, detached expression.

“I know Matthew wasn’t the only one,” Will said. “You spied on me for Chilton, now I’m asking for a favor that will pay better than his hourly.”

“And just what kind of favor is that, Dr. Graham?” Barney asked.

“Nothing untoward. No video, no audio. Twenty minutes.”

“I could lose my job,” Barney said.

“The one that’d take your job is currently missing 90% of his skin,” Will replied impassively. “He won’t think to know, if he even lives.”

If Barney was troubled by the ease in which he discussed his boss’s potential demise at the hands of Red Dragon, he didn’t show it. He eyed the envelope, took it from Will calmly and opened it, counting the money; after he finished he counted again. He sighed, squinted at the multiple screens of monitors, and after a deliberate nod of his head, he pressed a few buttons. The screen that Will eyed in particular went black.

“He’s still in his glass cell,” he told Will as he unlocked the doors.

“I assumed as much.”

Without partitions, the entire hall was open to Will as he looked about. No other inmates could see him, but he still felt exposed as he set the chair down and looked at Hannibal’s back. He stood facing his blank wall where the art once was, like he could imagine where each sketch once resided.

“Word travels fast, Will,” Hannibal said after a moment.

“Even in maximum?”

“Especially in maximum. Orderlies, nurses, cooks…the silence in this hall after medication leaves echoes that bounce about, caught within this renovated cell of mine. Poor Dr. Chilton, victim of the Great Red Dragon. Victim of Will Graham, too, I’d imagine.”

He turned around, and Will wasn’t surprised to see a small, delighted smile that belied the calm measures of his voice.

“We have twenty minutes,” Will said.

“Clever Dr. Graham,” Hannibal praised. “Outsmarted by Chilton, so he finds colorful ways to not only attempt to draw out our little killer, but punish the administrator that has your soulmate locked up, too. A delightful coup in one fell swoop.”

Silence. Will chewed his words around, dwelling on the niggling whisper in his ear at how good it felt to see Hannibal so utterly proud of him. It radiated off of him, like some god damn Christmas tree lights. He wanted to shove the feeling away, lock it up with the rest of his ugly thoughts, but he found himself relishing in it, a warm hum in his stomach.

“Dr. Chilton thinks I set him up,” Will said. “I didn’t.”

“You did,” Hannibal replied amiably. “The same way you attempted to set me up, the difference being that Chilton was not smart enough to see.”

“I didn’t know that he’d see Chilton as a pet,” Will protested.

“Didn’t you?” Hannibal purred. “For the name of a man that was able to keep Barney’s nephew out of juvenile detention, I was able to see the newspaper article, dear Will. A hand on the shoulder, a gesture of comradery between two doctors? He killed the pets first, and your claim by touch privilege made Dr. Chilton your pet.”

They stared one another down, Will focusing more on the maroon eye rather than the blue. A sliver of guilt wormed down his spine, settled low and painful like he’d slept funny.

“What had you told me?” Hannibal wondered out loud. “How good it felt for you to do bad things to bad people? Dr. Chilton surely regrets getting on your naughty list, my dear.”

“Let’s entertain the thought that hypothetically, that’s exactly what I did,” Will rasped out.

“I can do that,” Hannibal assured him.

“Will it have the intended effect?”

“It may, but then again it may not. He’s shy, after all, and you’d need to make a bit more of a public appearance if you wanted to draw him into the light of day. After this, I doubt Jack Crawford will allow you in such a place without at least seven men around you at all times, much less a place where you could sit down to chat with the man.”

“Then it ultimately failed,” Will said, and he lowered his head to rub the furrows out of his brow. A headache coiled in his temple, as painful as it was welcomed. Maybe if he continued to feel guilt over Chilton, it’d absolve him of the actions taken that’d killed the man.

May have killed the man. The verdict was still up in the air.

“You have another idea, though, otherwise you wouldn’t have come here. You didn’t come to me to get a pat on the back and a gold star for wallowing in the beautifully darker aspects of your person. You can do that without me. I’ve seen your dreams.”

“You know nothing of my dreams,” he said.

“I have seen every single one of your dreams since the night we first connected.”

“You haven’t,” Will snapped, neck hot. “Maybe some, but not all of them.”

“In sands we sink, in fields of poppy I brush shards of glass from your hair, and before mirrors I hold the very pieces of you that you resent most of all,” Hannibal said, staring him down intently. “You hold a blade to your neck, and I suture back the skin that you dared sunder.”

Will looked down, embarrassed. He’d felt the first intrusions of Hannibal in his dreams after the initial connection; it hadn’t occurred to him to ask if Hannibal still found himself seeing all of them. Uncommon, but not impossible. Perhaps the lack of consistent physical and visual contact made his mind reach out in other ways, desperate. When he’d called on the phone, Will half-suspected it as him playing mind games, but maybe not.

Had he actually been attempting to genuinely comfort him, of all the fucking things?

“Does it make you uncomfortable to think that even now, I can see the parts of you that you dearly wish to ignore?” Hannibal asked.

“It will fade,” Will assured him. “Your dreams will be your own again.”

“On the contrary, I enjoy seeing this aspect of you. The Will Graham that you hide away behind such a hard, stoic mask is far more entertaining and enlightening. I find him interesting. I find his dark humor, his willingness to do what is necessary utterly refreshing. Far more interesting than the innocent, demure, uncertain man that you portray to the public with your aversion to eyes and your grief therapy.”

“…Glad to entertain,” Will managed dryly.

“I’m curious about the dreams where you try to take your own life. It’s not you that you’re trying to kill, is it? I always sense the self-loathing, but you find yourself too useful to just…bite the bullet. You'd only do something like that if it served a purpose.”

“We’re not going to talk about that.”

“Quid pro quo, dear Will. You have an idea, and I may have enlightenment.”

“We have less than twenty minutes, Hannibal, I-”

“Shouldn’t argue with me, then,” Hannibal replied, voice carrying over Will’s smoothly. “Time is ticking.” Will gritted his teeth and looked up to the infuriatingly amused expression.

“…It’s more of…a memory,” he admitted after a beat. He unconsciously rubbed the scar tissue at his neck, under the collar of his shirt.

“I’d have been uncertain of that before, but before Dr. Chilton found it necessary to take away any ‘privileges’ he’d granted me, I did read the other article the dastardly Freddie Lounds wrote about you.” Lecter said ‘dastardly’ like one said ‘daring’ or ‘adventurous’. There was an undertone of almost-affection, of history.

“Freddie Lounds writes trash,” Will growled.

“She’s certainly taken a dislike to you, hasn’t she?” Lecter waved a hand lightly when Will opened his mouth. “It made me look at other articles, ones regarding the Minnesota Shrike and your lovely work with him. You were admitted into a psychiatric institution in November of 2014. A suicide risk whose wrists were strapped down. It wasn’t a suicide attempt, though, was it?”

“…No,” Will murmured.

“You thought you were killing Garrett Jacob Hobbs again.”

“…Yes.”

“A severe depressive episode after having to use deadly force on a person you were only going to interview, coupled with the way that you were able to so aptly crawl into the spaces between the breaths of a killer and find yourself there with them,” he concluded. “You were released after two weeks, but the damage by our dear Miss Lounds had been done.”

“Why make me answer when you already know?” Will asked, agonized. He looked away from Hannibal and pressed his face into his hands, letting out a quiet, sharp hiss of breath.

“Is that the only life you’ve ever taken?”

“Yes.”

“And after taking it, it festered inside of you so grotesquely that you lost the taste for consulting on psychological profiles.”

“Yes.”

“He wasn’t the only one to lay down beside you at night, when dreams unfolded, but he was the only one you were unable to pry from your skin in the aftermath.”

“I’m going to do something, Hannibal, and I need assurance of your utmost cooperation,” Will said, looking back up at him again. Rather than the amusement from before, he was uncomfortable to see something almost akin to sympathy on his face. He gritted his teeth and glared. “Can you give me that?”

“Assurance of my utmost cooperation,” he echoed back to him. “Is this something Jack Crawford would approve of, dear Will?”

“I don’t know yet.”

“…Don’t tell me, then,” Hannibal decided. “I want to be surprised.”

“You want to be surprised?” Will’s brows lifted, and he scratched the back of his head.

“Yes. As much as I would enjoy knowing, there is something satisfying about the idea that you don’t need me to make these dark little machinations. You make enough morally grey, ambiguous decisions all on your own, dear Will.”

Will nodded, and silence fell between them, something smacking of bad decisions and tasting like the aftermath of a lightning strike. Will stood and walked to the glass that separated them, and he sat down on the concrete floor, back pressed tight against it. He straightened his shoulders, glanced to his watch, and sighed quietly.

“Five minutes,” he told Hannibal.

He wasn’t quite sure how he knew, but he was very much aware when Hannibal copied his movements, back pressed to the barrier, heartbeat steady. Will imagined that even with the glass between them, he could feel his heartbeat syncing with his own, and he tilted his head back to look at the ceiling.

“Something is changing inside of me,” he revealed.

“Changing?”

“Like I’m not in my own skin. Someone else is in my skin.”

“They were always there, Will,” Hannibal objected kindly. Will resented the kindness. “Growing, shifting perhaps, but don’t lie to yourself and say that it was never there. I preferred it better when you stared me in the eye and told me you’d kill yourself if it meant that I hurt, too. I believed that far more easily than your claims that you were any form of innocence before you walked down this hall and met me.”

Silence. Silence was best. Will nodded along to Hannibal’s words, found his own burning self-loathing embedded in the very real threat. He didn’t want Hannibal to hurt, though. That in itself was far more terrifying than taking a knife to his throat again.

At five minutes, he stood up and walked away without looking back. He did pause, though, at the empty cell that was normally occupied by Dr. Abel Gideon. He frowned at it, puzzled, then stopped at the cage where Barney waited, eyes lazily tracking the seconds ticking on the clock by the computer.

“What happened to Abel Gideon?” he asked.

Barney looked like he wasn’t going to answer, but he sighed quietly. Maybe there was a bit of guilt in his spying on Will –maybe a bit of understanding at Will’s situation. “He’s in solitary.”

“Why?”

Barney’s expression soured. “He killed Matthew Brown, that’s why.”

Will blinked and struggled not to let his emotions show. It was a sucker punch, though, and he had to take a slow, uneven breath as he gaped at Barney, blinking contact-covered eyes, doe-like in expression to belie a dark, wicked tendril that unfurled in him.

“…How…did that happen?” he asked slowly.

“He complained of stomach pains –been having stomach pains for a while,” he said, and his glare darkened. “Matthew Brown was getting a physical at the time. Gideon overpowered the nurse, by the time we got in there the bastard had him impaled on an IV stand with her on top. Eyes gone.”

Will forced himself to nod, although he could feel his heartbeat behind his eye. Matthew Brown, dead. Gone. No half-connection told him of the loss; he dazedly wondered if Gideon had thought to merely destroy the eyes or if he’d hidden them like Matthew had.

“I’m sorry,” he managed, and Barney shook his head. Grief soured his lips, made his brow dip down low.

“I know he did wrong by you, Dr. Graham, but this…these bastards are animals,” he said, voice heavy with unshed tears. “He didn’t deserve to go like that; not by Abel-fucking-Gideon.”

Will thought to tell him he didn’t know Gideon would do that, but a quick breath held the words in. The worst way to sound guilty was to try and not sound so god damn guilty.

“No one deserves to go like that,” he said instead. “…I’m sorry.”

“You were just trying to get him the help he needed. No sorry necessary,” Barney replied.

He nodded to Barney and left the institute, hating the stark realization that no matter how much he tried to think it was someone else inside of his skin, the fact of the matter was that he was very much in control of everything he did.

Things like Matthew Brown’s death included.

Molly called him that night, while he lay in bed and stared at the ceiling. He thought about not answering, but he reasoned that his stained and ugly skin wouldn’t reach her through the phone. He washed his hands before answering, just in case. He thought of Matthew Brown’s eyes and Gideon’s compliments to Will’s use of politeness. He didn’t have to be kind to Gideon, but he was. He didn’t have to be cruel to Matthew, but he was.

“The town this safehouse is in boasts a ‘soulmates day’ where the kids who have already found their soulmate skip school and go to a large fair in town,” she informed him.

“Appalling,” he murmured.

“The adults think it’s quaint, and they don’t say anything about it. If someone without a soulmate shows up, they’re asked to leave.”

“Is the population under 20,000?”

“How’d you guess?” she said sarcastically. A beat. “I’m going mad here.”

“I’m sorry,” he said, and he rolled onto his side. Red Dragon’s shadowed outline lay beside him, staring back with no eyes.

“You say that every time, Will. Every time we’re on the phone.”

“It in no way lessens how much I mean it.”

Silence. A quiet, soft noise, much like the sound one makes when they’re trying to withhold a sob. “…I know. I know, Will, I’m sorry. I just get so mad sometimes, you know?”

“I deserve it.”

“Not at you, at…at me. At Jack Crawford, at the fucking FBI, at the maniac that did this. Then sometimes at you, for having such a need to help people that you’d risk yourself like this. At me, that I saw that and still told you that you should, said you should just…fucking help people. That you risked yourself like this, and now you’ve…” Her voice trailed off. She tried again, then fumbled, and the noise radiated against Will’s teeth.

“How’s your shoulder?” he asked when she couldn’t continue.

“It’s fine, it’s fine,” she said, brushing away his concern like cobwebs. “I’m thinking that I’m going to go to my parents, Will.”

“Your parents?”

“They’re four hours from here, and they want to come get me. They don’t want me cooped up like this, and mom says she wants to see my shoulder for herself, make sure I’m okay.”

“I don’t know if-”

“I already bought the ticket,” she interrupted. “I told them not to come get me when I’ve got a ticket and a plane will be better on my shoulder than a car ride. I leave in two days.”

“Oh, Molly,” Will sighed, and he closed his eyes tightly, pressing a palm to them. “Molly, it’s not safe.” He was just saying it to say it, though. She’d already bought the ticket. She’d already decided.

“I’m going to be okay. He couldn’t get me, so he’s going to try and get you, right? He won’t try and find me.” She sounded confident in that. “Besides, if the truth gets out about you having a soulmate, I wouldn’t matter anymore. He’d go after the soulmate, not me.”

There was the sensation that he’d been gutted by those words, and he stayed silent for several moments, letting the pain spread. He reminded himself that he deserved this. He thought of Matthew Brown, told himself that he definitely deserved this.

“He’s nothing compared to you,” he managed, and god he sounded so fucking pathetic.

“A he,” she mused, and he shuddered at the sudden sound of a cold laugh. “I wondered if you’d tell me more. Are you going to tell me more about him, Will?”

“I hate him,” Will said. “I want to be with you.”

“Oh, Will, but you ache for him, don’t you? It hurts, right, baby?”

Too many new terms of endearment from her. He preferred her better in the mornings after they’d made love, when she teased him and called him ‘honey bunches’. He always scrunched his nose at it then, but he’d kill a man to hear it now. Will sat up in bed and shook his head like she could see, like he could show her just how much he wanted it to be untrue.

“Molly, I don’t want him, I want you. We choose each other, right? That’s what makes us so right for each other? We choose, and that’s why it’s so god damn great with you. I want to be home with you. No matter who or what crawled into my brain, it’d always be you. In a thousand lifetimes, I’d always choose you.”

“Do you remember when we first met eyes on that stupid train, and I started crying because I thought, ‘this is it. This is how God gets me.’?”

“Yeah, yeah.” Will nodded emphatically. He’d been too awkward to be a real comfort, patting her shoulder at arm’s distance before passing her a tissue when she didn’t stop. He managed to get her number and stumbled from the train, dazed and afraid.

“…Then we chose each other after because it made sense. We weren’t going to be forced, so we should date.”

“We choose each other, every time,” Will said, heart pounding. It was going to be okay. It was going to be okay.

“…I think I need to think a lot about if I want to keep choosing, Will. I think that I need some time to think if I want to keep choosing someone that was chosen by someone else.”

Oh.

“Oh.”

“I still love you, but I’ve got two blues, and you don’t anymore. It’s not your fault, I don’t…blame you, but I’ve just gotta think about it for a bit, okay?”

“…Yeah. Yeah, okay, Molly.” Will nodded. He nodded harder when she didn’t speak, and as the silence built on the crackly line, he dipped his head down, pressed his forehead to his knee and let out a sharp, silent sob of breath. “Okay, Molly. Okay.”

“Are you breathing, Will?”

“I’m breathing,” he managed, and he looked up at the ceiling like he could see the cracks forming that’d send it crashing down on him. “I…I’m sorry, Molly.”

“Oh, Will,” she said, and it undid him. He set the phone down and curled up, arms wrapped tight around his knees as he trembled all over, trying to stifle the noises that kept falling out of his mouth. When he couldn’t quite get control of himself, he slapped at the phone screen and hit end, and he stood up, pacing the confines of the hotel room to expel the terror that was quickly working its way up his shins, his thighs, his hips, his back, to his neck where breath came short, where small gasps went to die.

“You took her from me,” he said to the shadow of Red Dragon sitting cross-legged on his bed. “You took her from me, you god damn…you took Molly away from me!” he shouted, and he grabbed the picture frame boasting the drink specials of the week from the entertainment center, launching it at the bed. It smacked against the headboard, fell limply to the pillow with a soft noise. The shadow didn’t move, didn’t speak. Will fell to his knees and hit at the floor, gasping for breath, gasping for a shred of something that didn’t make him feel like he was dying all over again.

“I’m going to kill you,” he seethed into the carpet, inhaling the taste of dust bunnies and dirty shoes. “I’m going to fucking kill you.”

#LiaS scribbles #the fault in my code #hannigram #hannibal #hannibal fanfic #hannibal soulmate au #soulmate au #will graham x hannibal #someone help will graham #rather #someone save people from will graham #haha get it?#hannibal is behind bars #hannibal is sassy #will graham is a bit of a dark bunny

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junker-town · 7 years

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NBA mock draft 2017: Finding the best player available for every team

This mock draft is presented by BPA — best player available.

This mock draft might as well be a big board. After drafting for fit in last week’s mock, this time we’re going with the “best player available” for every team in the first round. It’s resulted in a dramatic change from how the board broke last week.

The biggest difference in this mock from last week? The rise of the big men. While traditional bigs plummeted when we were looking for fit, they shot up the board while searching for the best player available. Creighton’s Justin Patton rises to No. 16 from No. 29 while Wake Forest’s John Collins checks in at No. 19 after sliding to No. 28 a week ago.

It’s going to be fascinating to see what happens to all these bigs especially after an NBA Finals series that had Kevin Durant and LeBron James playing center at times. We’ll know soon enough: we’re now less than two weeks away from the draft.

1. Boston Celtics - Markelle Fultz, G, Washington

You can expect a fresh wave of rumors about Boston’s trade options with the No. 1 pick as the draft approaches, but it would be a shock if the Celtics don’t walk away with Fultz. This is one of the best backcourt prospects in a long time: a big guard who can score from all three levels and plays with a rare creativity.

My guess is that Fultz’s role next year will be as a microwave scorer off the bench. He’s talented enough to put up a few 30-point games as a rookie and give Celtics fans a glimpse of their future. Long-term, I’d expect him to be one of the best guards in the league. If the Celtics can hit the jackpot again with the Nets’ pick next year, they could really start to build something special.

2. Los Angeles Lakers - Lonzo Ball, PG, UCLA

The Lakers won’t pass on Lonzo Ball, will they? It’s possible, but ultimately I think Ball’s combination of shooting ability, vision, and feel for the game gives him the edge over Josh Jackson and De’Aaron Fox.

Ball is a hard player to evaluate simply because we haven’t seen many players like him before. He’s not great in the pick-and-roll and his wonky shot motion prevents him from shooting off the dribble going right. Ball still dominated the college level despite all that, transforming a listless UCLA program into the best show in the country. Steph Curry and Draymond Green didn’t fit into a box either. They turned out alright.

3. Philadelphia 76ers - Josh Jackson, SG/SF, Kansas

If I’m a Sixers fan, I’m praying Ball falls to No. 3 (it’s worth noting actual Sixers fans do not feel this way). Assuming he’s gone, Jackson feels like the next best pick. A lot will be made of Jackson’s shortcomings as a shooter when discussing his potential fit with Ben Simmons, but what I like about him is his unselfishness. Philly already has a certified stud in Joel Embiid and another potential one in Simmons. I don’t want to draft a perimeter player that’s going to take a bunch of shots away from those two. Jackson won’t. He has high basketball IQ, impressive passing ability, and just always seems to make the right play. When you factor in his ability to defend, he’s the third best player in this draft to me.

4. Phoenix Suns - Jonathan Isaac, F, Florida State

The truth is that players No. 4 through No. 10 in this mock can be rearranged however you want. I’m giving Isaac the edge because a) he’s the biggest, and b) he has the highest defensive potential.

I see Isaac as a full-time four who can play spot minutes at the five rather than a three. At small forward, his handle and shot would be more of a question mark. In the front court, he can focus on becoming a monster defensively who can switch every screen, while also serving as a spot-up shooter on offense who primarily takes open looks when the defense collapses on someone else. Some will criticize Isaac for a lack of assertiveness after only averaging eight shots per game at Florida State, but I want a player who plays well with others rather than someone looking to get his. He should fit in well within a team dynamic in the NBA from day one as his skill set continues to develop.

5. Sacramento Kings - Dennis Smith Jr., PG, NC State

The case for Dennis Smith over De’Aaron Fox: Smith averaged more points, assists, rebounds, and steals per game, and he’s also a better outside shooter. He doesn’t have Fox’s straight-line speed (no one does), but he’s even more explosive attacking the rim. The truth is that Smith’s college situation at NC State did him no favors. The Wolfpack fired coach Mark Gottfried in the middle of the year, missed the NCAA tournament, and never gave Smith a national stage to play on. He’s a little short at 6’2, but I’d expect him to be a productive pro for a long time.

6. Orlando Magic - Jayson Tatum, SF, Duke

I wouldn’t be surprised if there are multiple teams with Tatum at No. 2 on their overall board. He’s a big wing with classic go-to scoring ability. At this point, he’s most comfortable getting buckets out of the high post, but he’s also only 19 years old. His three-point shot looks pretty good and it’s a safe bet to assume NBA range will come in time. I just don’t know how much better he’s going to make his teammates. A player like Isaac seems more malleable in a team situation.

7. Minnesota Timberwolves - Malik Monk, G, Kentucky

Monk vs. Fox is a fun debate because they’re the exact same size with completely opposite games. My case for Monk: he’s significantly better as a shooter, flashed some potential as a playmaker, and is just as much of a stud athletically. And yes, I’m well aware it’s highly likely Fox makes this take look extremely bad in a few years.

8. New York Knicks - De’Aaron Fox, PG, Kentucky

My thing with Fox: how good can a point guard be in the modern NBA if he really can’t shoot? Now, it’s possible Fox makes major strides as a shooter as his pro career goes on. He hit 74 percent of his free throws in college and his form doesn’t look totally broken. Mike Conley is a popular comparison for him and Conley certainly improved considerably as a shooter since entering the league from Ohio State. Fox also profiles as a hard-working, high-character player who should get better. I just can’t get past that shaky jump shot for now.

9. Dallas Mavericks - Lauri Markkanen, PF, Arizona

Fox at No. 8 and Markkanen at No. 9 shows just how strong this draft is within the top 10. I think Markkanen is a much better prospect than the No. 9 overall pick from two years ago: Charlotte’s Frank Kaminsky. Consider that Kaminsky hit 42 threes at a 41.6 percent clip in his breakout senior season for Wisconsin two years ago. Markkanen just drained 69 threes at a 42.3 percent clip as a freshman. Markkanen would be an elite shooter at any position, but getting it out of a legit seven-footer makes him worthy of a top-10 pick.

10. Sacramento Kings - Frank Ntilikina, PG, France

Ntilikina is a super long 6’5 point guard from France who projects as a 3-&-D ball handler in the mold of George Hill. There are a lot of teams who could use that type of player right now. If he reaches his ceiling, I envision Sixers fans complaining that the Colangelos should have just taken him at No. 3.

11. Charlotte Hornets - Donovan Mitchell, G, Louisville

I like the Avery Bradley comp for Mitchell: he’s short for a two-guard (6’3), but he’s a mega athlete, a ferocious defender, and has some potential as a shooter and creator.

12. Detroit Pistons - Zach Collins, C, Gonzaga

The ideal center in the modern game can protect the rim, make threes, and hang with a guard on the perimeter out of the pick-and-roll. I’ll give Collins the first two. His shooting stroke looked promising in a relatively small sample (10 made threes at 47.6 percent) and he also blocked 69 shots in just 17.2 minutes per game. I think it’s fair to question his ability to guard the perimeter. Some scouts also worry that he’s not a “next play guy,” meaning he too easily gets down on himself after he screws up.

13. Denver Nuggets - OG Anunoby, F, Indiana

Anunoby’s breakout came when he smothered Jamal Murray in the 2016 NCAA tournament. Given how good Murray looked for the Nuggets as a rookie, that’s an encouraging performance. Unfortunately, Anunoby didn’t make the jump many expected this past season at Indiana, which ultimately ended with a torn ACL. Still, this is a big, strong, and long defensive prospect who should be able to defend at least three positions in the NBA. He’s worth a late lotto pick.

14. Miami Heat - Jarrett Allen, C, Texas

Allen is a mega long (7’5 wingspan) and quick center who could develop into a rock on defense and a capable putbacks/o-boards/lobs guy on offense. I don’t see him developing his perimeter offensive game much beyond that. He ended the year as only a 56.4 percent free throw shooters went 0-for-7 from three, and had 84 turnovers to just 27 assists.

15. Portland Trail Blazers - Justin Jackson, SG, North Carolina

It’s hard to hate on Jackson too much after what he did in his junior year at UNC. He finally blossomed as a three-point shooter (105 makes at 37 percent) and shut down Malik Monk on defense in the Elite Eight. He’s also by far the oldest potential lottery pick this year and isn’t that athletic or that great of a shooter. I like him more if he can defend shooting guards rather than small forwards.

16. Chicago Bulls - D.J. Wilson, F, Michigan

Wilson was a late bloomer who finally put it all together at the end of last season for Michigan. There’s a lot to like about his tools: 6’10 with a 7’3 wingspan, he’s a combo forward who can handle the ball and shoot from deep on offense while providing some measure of rim protection on defense. He feels like one of the biggest boom-or-bust guys in this draft, but someone will talk themselves into his tools.

17. Milwaukee Bucks - Ike Anigbogu, C, UCLA

Everyone’s favorite comp for Anigbogu is Rockets center Clint Capela. Capela is pretty good! If you can get a similar player at No. 17 in this draft, he’s worth the pick.

18. Indiana Pacers - Luke Kennard, SG, Duke

luke kennard wore PG 1s to his workout with the Pacers lol

— Whitney Medworth (@its_whitney) June 6, 2017

I’m sold.

19. Atlanta Hawks - Justin Patton, C, Creighton

Patton is just starting to scratch the surface of his offensive skill. He has a developing shooting stroke, showed a little bit of a handle, and has the quick hands and quick feet required to make an impact on defense.

20. Portland Trail Blazers - Harry Giles, C, Duke

Giles is a medical decision at this point. He’s had two major knee injuries and a third operation just before the start of his freshman season at Duke. If he can regain the form he showed as a recruit, No. 20 is way too low.

21. Oklahoma City Thunder - Terrance Ferguson, SG, Adelaide (NBL)

On paper, there’s a lot to like about Terrance Ferguson. He has great size for a two guard at 6’6, he’s super athletic, and he can get hot from three-point range, as shown by the six threes he hit in last year’s Nike Hoop Summit. The game just seems to move a little too fast for him sometimes. The key will be continuing to improve his decision making.

22. Brooklyn Nets - Rodions Kurucs, SF, Latvia

I am but a lowly college basketball guy, so I can’t tell you much about Kurucs. I do know he’s a 6’8 wing who looks fluid athletically with a developing three-point shot. Here, watch a highlight video instead:

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23. Toronto Raptors - Anzejs Pasecniks, C, Latvia

I’m just going to leave this here:

Anzejs Pasecniks does not move like your typical 7'3 guy. Showing very impressive stuff here at his Pro Day. http://pic.twitter.com/BU2VZBzQlG

— Jonathan Givony (@DraftExpress) June 3, 2017

24. Utah Jazz - Semi Ojeleye, F, SMU

Ojeleye committed to Duke out of high school and decided to leave for SMU midway through the Blue Devils’ championship run in 2015. He was unstoppable this year for the Mustangs, averaging 19 points per game and winning conference player of the year in the American. He’s unfathomably jacked, he can score from all three levels, and he had a 40-inch vertical. His quickness is his biggest question mark.

25. Orlando Magic - T.J. Leaf, PF, UCLA

Leaf led UCLA in scoring as a freshman by shooting 61.7 percent from the floor and 46.6 percent from three. He’s a 6’10 stretch four who could draw comparisons to Ryan Anderson.

26. Portland Trail Blazers - John Collins, PF, Wake Forest

Collins was basically the most efficient player in college basketball this past season. He’s an automatic scorer on the interior and a great rebounder on both ends of the floor. The problem is he doesn’t have much shooting range and he struggles defensively. He reminds me a bit of Enes Kanter — not bad, considering Kanter is an $80 million player in this league.

27. Brooklyn Nets - Isaiah Hartenstein, C, Germany

Let’s just quote what DraftExpress said here after watching him at April’s Nike Hoop Summit:

Hartenstein has developed the reputation as a 7-footer who can space the floor and attack from the perimeter but after a week in Portland he showed his initial value may be more as a hard-playing, 250-pound big who can make his presence felt on the glass and play with activity defensively as his offensive skill set continues to develop. Hartenstein may very well turn into a threat from NBA three down the road, but he showed that he has quite a bit of room to improve in that regard. His overall skill set offensively could use some polishing. With that said, Hartenstein has NBA tools to fall back on at 7' 1 with a great frame and impressive mobility. - Source:

28. Los Angeles Lakers - Tyler Lydon, PF, Syracuse

Like T.J. Leaf, Lydon is a 6’10 shooter who is a solid rebounder and wants to prove that he’s more athletic than his rep suggests. How would we view Leaf vs. Lydon if Lydon was the one playing with Lonzo Ball every night?

29. San Antonio Spurs - Kyle Kuzma, PF, Utah

A versatile 6’9 forward who shined at the draft combine in Chicago. If his jump shot is for real (he hit 32 percent from deep last year), he can have a long career.

30. Utah Jazz - Derrick White, SG, Colorado

White has a complete skill set for a guard. He can score, facilitate, and hold his own defensively. Just ask Arizona: White hung 31 points, six rebounds, and five assists on the Wildcats in the Pac-12 tournament.

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