#bumps my head against urs back...hello via. :'))))

[phantombs]

moonsunq​:

A LUCKY MAN. bright laughter burst out of tiffany’s mouth; it holds an impossible joy with no trace of her usual sarcasm. her heart is engorged in her chest — expanded to twice its size and heaving with love. it is an unfamiliar feeling. peculiar, and beautiful, and terrifying in equal measures. she thinks she’ll keep it, anyway. there is no rough, wild, or otherwise inhospitable terrain she will not brave for cường, even if they lay in the mangled contours of her own heart.

“the risks i take are always calculated.” she allows him to guide her hand to his mouth, and she swipes the balm there with her gentle, lethal fingers. perhaps, cường is right: she should be careful. but what will caution get her that she doesn’t already have? what she craves now is something else entirely. and yes, yes — the possibility of him coming closer, coming too close than she’s ever allowed anybody else to tread — she has considered that, too. and what is more, she wants it. she wants him.

it is not in the callous way that tiffany is used to wanting people. there is always a well-maintained distance, a carefully curated image of her they are allowed to see. with cường, it is different. he has seen her naked in ways other people will never do. he has seen through her sparkly ensembles right to the meat of her: blood, bone, and viscera. and he has never faltered. not once did he look away. “you ever think that maybe i am anticipating your curiosity because i want to indulge it?”

tiffany watches him pull himself up. her eyes are dark and her breath hitches in her throat like a trapped bird. his question makes her blink, and her gaze is drawn to his split, bleeding mouth. “right now,” she answers, and without further preamble she leans in to kiss him. cường tastes like blood, like salt and ash and mint. tiffany cups his cheeks in her sin-stained palms and she kisses him, kisses him, kisses him.

Funnily enough, lucky has ever ill-fitted him. It wears on Cường like a too tight suit, one that cinches and gnaws into waist. It's like skin too fitted for his mad jungle gym of bones, and for his heart three sizes beyond the breadth of any other, it makes its yearning spring naked and stark and true. Lucky, he isn't. And lucky, he can't be. Yet, despite seeing ghosts and breaking under moonlight, she looks at him like treasure and touches him so soft.

Tiffany– Goodness, how she could end him. The knowledge is obvious, of course, clear like April skies when the dawn breaks young, and he starts tumbling through his memories of those men that she’d battered, and every cut and lesion of hers he’d nursed. Her hands are frightening, prone to breaking and snapping, but looking past his lashes, he doesn’t feel any danger. They trail his cupid’s bow, and his split lip thrums. "Interesting," he murmurs. He speaks under her touch, the delicate swell of his mouth something, something close to tempestuous — unnerving. "But no one takes risks unless they want something, right? Makes me wonder what you’re wanting to take risks for now."

Ah. What a wonder, indeed. The air – shadow thick, words-unsaid-heavy – beats about them. It’s like time’s stilled, screeched to a laborious stop, and the stars out the window watch in awe. He does, too. He always does, he admits. He’s seen to the meat of her, the heart and viscera, and she’s seen him, too, stripped bare and feverish. Feverish with aching. And feverish with want. “You're cruel. You shouldn't indulge a man like that. You'll make his thoughts wander. Make him start to think things.”

Make my heart race, he silently asks her. She indulges him again. She kisses him sweet.

Finally. He almost doesn’t react. Silence settles in between them, thick where their chests scantly touch, and reality’s slow to settle. She tastes a bit like wine, maybe a drink before she’d bashed those hoodlums, and where he burns so smoldering like some furnace on high, she's balmier and kinder. He's June and she's fall. Cường — Cường swallows back a noise. A low groan, maybe. He moves at last, letting her taste his blood and green teas, and with the sound of their mouths under the voyeuring shadows, he slips his fingers in tumbling hair. Delicate. Much more than a killer. But-- “If you mean to kill me, I actually think you might.” Breathless. How cute.

[writesowhatnext]

semaphore but tastier // cedric diggory

Summary: the reader is Cedric’s best friend and they can read him like an open book

Request: hi! can i request a cedric diggory fic where the reader always bakes him smth and he feels better bc of it? 🥺 thank uu

A/N: I really hope this is okay because for some reason I am totally off my rhythm atm and it is also 1am so context also i love ced so more requests for him when i reopen are welcome

Reader: unspecified

Warnings: Triwizard tournament, injury

Anyone would think that you were conditioning him. For what, exactly, you couldn’t say, but you really couldn’t deny how pleased you were to see that handsome smile on his lips. Cedric was your best friend, though, so of course, you wanted to make him happy; it was only natural. And if you found a way to do that via a means as easy as just baking for him, then why for Merlin’s sake wouldn’t you? That was your story, if anyone asked, and that was what you were sticking to. It was nothing to do with any secret, personal, intimate feelings you had for him and that was that.

The first time, really, it’d been an accident; just a happy little coincidence. You just happened to be holding one of your mum’s home-baked Apple Danishes when you saw Ced looking positively tragic in the library, mourning over his Transfiguration essay. All it took to turn his frown upside down was an eye roll and a carefully deposited pastry in his lap - he was clearly a man of simple taste. It’d always been like that with the two of you, actually: you found that you could read him like a children’s book. A very simple children’s book with very few words and lots of very pretty pictures.

It was because of that that you always knew the one thing that never failed to make his day; one of your mum’s freshly-baked sweet treats. It had even worked when he broke up with his girlfriend, something you were not as ‘unnervingly pleased about’ as your friends had teased, thank you very much. Food was your go-to, though, and it always, always worked. Well, mostly always.

Cedric wasn’t upset often. Somehow, it was as if it went against his very nature to be anything but smiling, anything but quietly confident and wonderfully charming. So, when you strolled towards the Great Hall, spotting him and quickening your steps to fall in line with his steady gait, you were surprised to see him scowling.

“Hello,” you grinned, raising your eyebrows as he turned to you, the wrinkle between his eyebrows ironing out slightly at the sight of your smiling face.

You both stopped to wait for the staircase and his brows sunk again, his jaw clenching.

“Hi,” he said, exhaling out of his nose. You smirked, grabbing his chin gently and pushing his cheeks together, making a face. Your fingers lingered on his chiselled jaw.

“Why do you look so cross, Mr Grumpy Pants?” you asked, letting go of him as you started up the stairs.

A reluctant smile tugged at his lips, but you could tell that despite his amusement, there was still something bothering him, creasing his brow.

“Seriously, Ced,” you said, bumping his shoulder as you walked side-by-side down the corridor. “What’s up?”

He stopped short, looking down at the cobblestone floor. You took a moment to trail your eyes down his profile.

“Do you think I should put my name in the Goblet?”

Your eyes darted to meet his grey gaze, your mouth drying up at his words.

“For the Triwizard Tournament?” he said as if he needed to.

You frowned, opening your mouth before closing it again quickly.

“I might need more than a strudel for this one,” you said, trying to make him laugh. Despite your hesitance at the idea, you were glad to see him chuckle, shaking his head at your little joke.

To say you were nervous would be an understatement. The whole concept of Cedric, your Cedric, being part of the deadliest wizard competition in history was throwing you for a loop and he hadn’t even been selected yet. As you sat in the Great Hall, though, at the Halloween Feast with your heart in your throat and your eyes solidly on Cedric, some part of you knew that no one else could be the Hogwarts Champion. Not if he couldn’t.

“Do you think he’ll be picked?” your friend asked, leaning backwards to get a better look at the already selected  Durmstrang and Beauxbatons champions. You didn’t need to ask who she meant.

“Yes,” you said, surprising yourself at how shaky your voice was. “I’m almost certain.”

“Oh, right, because he’s so handsome and brave and smart and kind and wonderful,” she mocked, her voice barely audible over the clapping.

You turned to her, making a face and pretending to mouth what she’d said, earning a slap on the arm. You were too busy squabbling to hear Dumbledore’s preamble, but you sure heard it when he read out the name of the first Hogwarts champion. At the time, though, you weren’t to know there’d be a second. The whole hall erupted at Cedric’s name and despite yourself, you found you were jumping to your feet, cheering and clapping along with everyone else, whistling and finding yourself swept along by the glee of it all, proud actually, of your best friend.

It wasn’t until the dragons that the true fear and nervousness sunk in. You were on autopilot as you crept around the Waiting Tent before the first task, your stomach in knots as you hoped somehow you would find him. Ever since he’d told you that Harry Potter had told him about the dragons, you’d been dreading the day, probably more scared for his safety than he was. You were far too distracted by the thought of something happening to him and the weight of the cream pie heavy in your palm to be completely focused. A rock twisted under your foot and you lost your balance. With a yelp, you ended up pushing through the tent, the fabric separating around your hands as you landed on the floor with a thud. You groaned, officially winded by your own clumsiness.

“Y/N?” a familiar voice said softly, riddled with confusion

You looked up to see Cedric, the man of the hour, with an amused smirk and raised eyebrows.

“You alright, Ced?” you asked casually as if you hadn’t just tripped straight through the wall. Shifting to get up, you were grateful to feel his hands on your arms as he helped you to your feet.

“Better now.”

He grinned at you for a moment, the yellow of his uniform tinting his skin perfectly. You blinked.

“I uh-“ you swallowed, blinking again. “I brought you this.”

You offered him the pastry in your outstretched palm, frowning at how sad it looked, slightly crushed and deformed by your little fall.

Opening your mouth to apologise, you squished the dessert in your grip, surprised as Cedric threw his arms around you, pulling you into him tightly. A grunt left your lips and if you weren’t already disorientated by the hug, the sound of a shutter and a bright camera flash made sure to do the trick. You both pulled away sharply and you would’ve fallen again had Cedric not placed his hand on your back to steady you.

“Wow,” a woman said shrilly. “Isn’t young love beautiful?”

You opened your mouth to correct her, but your words lodged in your throat when you noticed the floating quill beside her head. Your brain connected the dots and you found yourself taking an instant disliking to Rita Skeeter, a journalist Ced had complained about when he first got interviewed.

“That’ll make the front page if today goes poorly,” she mused, pursing her lips and tilting her head to the side. “And what a pretty page that’ll be, a couple like you.”

“Excuse me,” you said indignantly, immediately defensive. You didn’t get to finish before she was accosted by the Durmstrang champion, Krum.

“Sorry about that,” Ced said, his hand leaving your back as you turned to face him, his fingers skimming your arm distracting you entirely.

“Sorry about this,” you replied, lifting up the almost unrecognisable cream pie in your hand, the filling squeezing into the plastic bag around it.

“Don’t be, I think it has a certain charm.”

“I’ll give it to you now in case-“ Your voice broke.

“Hey,” he said, cupping your elbow gently. “I’ll be fine.”

Your vision blurred with tears and even his fingertips brushing your cheek lightly couldn’t salvage the sinking feeling in your stomach.

“Do you not trust me?” he asked a playful grin on his lips. You glared through your tears, pushing against his chest softly.

“You know I do.”

“Then you know that I’ll be fine. It’s just a dragon, what’s the worst that could happen?”

You inhaled, but he’d known you long enough to know the lengthy list of your response and insisted on stopping it in its tracks.

“It’ll be okay. Besides, I have to eat this…” he paused, frowning at the decimated pastry in your hand.

“It was a cream pie.”

“Ah.”

“Champions!” Dumbledore yelled, thundering into the tent and reminding you that you definitely were not supposed to be there. You looked at Cedric as he turned back to you and it was clear that you both reluctantly knew that you had to leave. You stared at him for a moment, brows drawn together, before you shoved the bag you held into his hand and gave it a squeeze. Leaning up, you pecked him on the cheek and immediately stepped away, not quite ready to deal with the aftermath of that particular decision.

“Please be safe, Ced.”

True to his word, he was okay. You’d almost had a heart attack when the Swedish Short-Snout got close to him, but you were beyond happy to see him in the Hufflepuff Common Room, sitting like a king with a mushed-up cream pie in his grasp. You were not at all impressed to see the burn on his face, though, and you were in half a mind to chew him out over it until he spotted you across the room. Immediately, he was stalking over to you and you found yourself doing the same, rushing towards him. You met halfway, throwing your arms around his neck and burrowing your head into his shoulder, breathing in his scent.

“I told you I’d be okay,” he whispered, his free hand rubbing gently up and down your back so lightly you thought you might faint.

He waited until you were there to open the egg and you definitely wished he hadn’t when a horrible screeching noise filled the air. The days that followed as he tried to figure out the contraption, you realised that the Triwizard Tournament had taken over your entire life. For months, what would happen next and more importantly, Ced’s safety had become your first priority and undeniably, that thought scared you. You listened dutifully, as a good friend should when he told you about the advice from Professor Moody to open the golden egg underwater, or when he talked about Harry or the next task, but anyone could tell you were distracted as you tried to imagine what you would do if anything happened to him. Your mind ran away with ideas of something happening to him with you having never told him how you actually felt.

“So,” Cedric said, elbowing you and breaking you out of your reverie one lunchtime. You’d imagined him a lot in the recent days and as you turned to him, your heart stopped a little to see his face in person, as handsome as ever.

“Why are you being strange?”

“I’m not being strange,” you said, though it came out more like a question.

“So, why have you been staring into the distance for the last fifteen minutes, then?” he asked, raising his eyebrows and biting into an apple.

You felt heat rush to your face and you looked down, trying to hide.

“At first I thought you just wanted to let me down gently.”

“Gently about what?”

You shoved the food on your plate around with your fork, desperately unhungry.

“The Yule Ball.”

“What about it?” you asked, frowning as Ced leant over your forearm and placed a strange looking bun on the table in front of you.

“I want you to go with me,” he said softly, his eyes nervous as you made eye contact. Why on Earth would Ced be nervous, you thought, assuming you were mistaken.

“You want to go with me?”

You’d been examining the bun closely when you looked up at him, your fingertips sinking into the delicate white icing as you froze. You couldn’t quite keep up with what was happening and you found yourself blinking far too much, your chest tightening in the process.

“You don’t have to-“

“Don’t you want to go with Cho Chang? Or that Granger girl? Or-“

“Why are trying to talk me out of asking you?”

You looked down, desperately aware of his eyes on you as you peeled your fingers from the sticky icing.

“What’s this?” you asked, nodding to it.

“Something to sweeten the deal,” he said and you could hear the distinct smile in his voice. “Also, you looked sad and you always bake me things with I’m sad.”

“Did you bake this?” you turned to him, frowning, the sound of your heartbeat growing louder in your ears.

“No,” he scoffed, shaking his head and taking another bite of his apple. “I’m just very nice to the house-elves.”

You smiled, huffing a laugh at his pleased expression.

“I don’t think I can go with you, Ced,” you admitted, swallowing gruffly and avoiding his eyes. “To the ball.”

“Why not?”

His voice was small and you wish you hadn’t known him well enough to hear the hurt in it.

“Because to you, it would just be as friends.” You paused, an odd regretful relief flooding through you. “And I like you way more than a friend should.”

“I’m not asking you as a friend,��� he said.

You frowned, your eyes lifting up and to the side, before you turned to face him, surprised to see him quietly cocky and not at all like you’d ruined his life by admitting your feelings, as you’d expected you would.

“As a best friend?” you asked, your voice unmistakably hopeful.

You watched a smirk play on his lips and a mischievous glint sparkle in his eye and something you’d never felt before stirred in your chest. He finally broke eye contact, shaking his head and looking down.

“I think you know the answer to that.”

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