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⭑ settle soft and as pure as snow. tom riddle x reader
summary. he’s tender the way snow is. devout as a prayer that it will clear come spring.
tags. gn reader, ooc tom to 99% of the world but man do i love the 1% to whom it isn't, short little blurb, fear of death / discussions of mortality, fluff, hurt/comfort if you squint but mostly comfort, just. lovers! being lovers! kind of a sequel to your kitchen table in that it's as much an analysis of tom's fears and desires as it is an x reader, i needed this so i wrote it idk what to tell you okay
note. in my long absence i hit 1k followers (!!!???) and while i've struggled to write anything substantial, i really enjoyed this and wanted to share something to somewhat express my gratitude :') have some healed tom (inspired by hozier) and as always, my requests are open in case something sparks inspiration. in the meantime, thanks for everything!!
word count. 791
He’s so suited to this. Beautifully, frustratingly so — born in its longest night and shaded in its sundry tones; its stellular blues and soft, powdery whites — Tom Riddle is December made mortal. (An offensive turn of phrase, you’re sure, but he’s suited to mortality too.) You think he used to charm his cheeks not to flush but relented the effort at some point, some years ago with you, because the cold splashes them pink to his ears now, snow dotting his tousled hair. He has the integrity still to deny your caps and earmuffs with a signature scowl, but — one day.
It’s a walk through the night for no particular reason, with no particular direction. There’s moorland past the trail that winds around your shared abode, tall and dense and magical. It satiates something in him. The unknown. The need for it.
Sometimes he gets restless and doesn’t tell you, only stares furtively from the northernmost window, fingers conjuring spirals of ice on the sill absentmindedly. You take his hand and kiss the cool digits one by one. To remind him of intention.
It’s the decay, you presume. A little voice always tugs him that way, but it gets louder this time of year. With everything shedded, rotted, buried and slumbering, Tom endures watching the cycle he hates most echo into spring. Rebirth, yes, but not how he pictures it. What he knows in the steepest dusks is that one winter will come where he will not wake up again with the flowers, where you might vow to tend whatever garden someday blooms over his grave, a name etched into the stone that none but you will remember. Many winters after that, when you follow him into death and the house is mildewed and lichen clusters his favourite window, the grave will wear until even that is gone to time.
It terrifies him.
So you walk. Intention. Your hand is in his.
The magic of a simple charm warms you somewhat, but you enjoy the subtle sting of cold. You can feel it because you’re alive. It’s the same life that strung you to him in a way that can’t be severed, and now you make new trails in pathless woods and wonder at constellations, spiles broaching syrup into buckets from the trees. You collect them for potions. You invent new ones together, and tease him over a coughing fit in cauldron smoke that immortality is more than living forever.
He kisses you quiet, but he’ll listen later. There’s so much time.
You wonder if it suits you, too — winter — by the way he tends to you when it comes. Doting. You would never have imagined considering him having such a virtue when you met him, but he’s… tender, the way snow is. Devout as a prayer that it will clear come spring. Stinging, soft, ephemeral. You weather him. But how he keeps you warm when the night drags on, and talk of constellations turns to talk of grief, he shelters you.
When your back is bare and you’re laid away from him, he traces the skin like he’s never seen it before. It’s a wonder, you think, to learn the mechanisms of touch like a foreign language. Perhaps it would feel the same for the first thousand times. How many winters did he trace the cool tile of his bedroom wall just like this, with skinny fingers scraping at the mortar on another empty birthday? There are questions even now you think to ask but don’t. He offers the answers mostly as he’s reminded of them: that a clearing in the moors evokes a memory of a bad field trip, a mantelpiece of tchotchkes echo a stolen box in a burning wardrobe, that most things, at times, feel fleetingly disparate, ready to be returned to their right place. Tea will go without sugar again as he will go without you.
Nonsense. This is yours, you tell him, the word sewn between you.
His pink cheeks are all the colour you see in the dark. The tree sap is sweet and light. You write a letter to a potioneer in New Guinea to draft, and turn left instead of right the next night, a new forest discovered within the first. Your New Year’s Eve is a swell of light in birthday candles, laughing into his cheek at some bad joke until the sound is smothered by a kiss he breaks too soon by laughing too. It’s a sound you can’t invent or imagine, words failing you even when you find them for everything else he is.
Spring comes one unsuspecting morning, twice and twenty times, greys strewn in the black of his hair. You smile with crow’s feet into winter again.
taglist. @lyis @indimoss @poddzi @esolean @d1anna @maripositanoctruna @mentally-in-northern-italy @ronniemaximoff1234 @moobell55 @jaerang @ramayantika @saltwaterbythesea @acube07 @togenabi @adazito @kitcat334 @blaurghhh @shutupfinn @jaymeeshayden @lilu842 @leaosee @garfunkelworld @definitely-not-captain-america @multiplefandomstan @mangoesareorange
some doodles of the girl
Dad Reiner doodle anyone?
The feminine primal urge to give this man a happy family is stronger than I... One day I'll write a fanfiction about it...
Pspsp...ask box open for reiner brainrot/drabble requests<3
tw loud
Yippee 💀🎉
In fairy princess church exploder we trust💝💐✨🧚💐🧚✨💝🙏🏼✨🧚💐💝💝💐💐✨🙏🏼🙏🏼🧚
(The backgrounds gone ignore that ☠️)
shitting myself as I listen to Chappell Roan to cope with my tummy hurting
