#You Make it Feel Like Christmas | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

adore-laur · 1 year ago

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YOU MAKE IT FEEL LIKE CHRISTMAS

— a holiday addition to the dadrry universe 🎄

❅ ❅ ❅

Red wine is an elixir of reminiscence.

As twilight fades into dusk, you let the velvety Cabernet Sauvignon warm your bloodstream and bring forth memories of the festive seasons gone by. Childhood recollections of sneaking down the hallway before sunrise, captivated by the magical scene made by the plump man who somehow slid down the chimney. Wrapping presents galore while sitting by the twinkling evergreen, the stacks piling higher and higher each year. Baking desserts and listening to Christmas music, the scent of gingerbread mingling with the seaside air. All those moments were nostalgia happening in real-time, engulfing you until they unraveled like a ribbon box of wistfulness.

You're lost in a blissful reverie while watching Harry swiftly round the kitchen island. He's eating the last half of a frosted cookie and untucking his black henley from his sweatpants.

"You've gone quiet on me," he says while chewing, his fist raised to his mouth.

Your vision breaks away from him and refocuses on the entrancing flames in the fireplace. "Just thinking."

"'Bout what?" he asks, reclaiming his glass of wine that he abandoned on the mantle shelf.

"How this will be our eighth Christmas together."

He whistles in a decrescendo and sits next to you. "Really? How are you not sick of me yet?"

"Trust me, you push the limit sometimes."

"Only because I love you."

You roll your eyes affectionately, then say, "I was also thinking about how emotional I'll be tomorrow."

Harry smiles as he begins soothingly rubbing your back. "You always get emotional on Christmas."

At the mere thought of it, you flatten your lips and look at him miserably. The childlike wonder you'll get to witness is nothing to shed tears over, yet you can't help but know you'll feel the pitiful pull on your maternal heartstrings.

"I'm a mess," you say defeatedly.

"No, no, no. Come here and give me a hug." He instinctively reaches for your hand and tugs you toward him. "Bring it in."

You clumsily situate yourself in his lap and curl into his warm body. Your muscles relax, but the tears still spill over. It's irrevocable.

"Why are you crying?" Harry croons, propping his chin on your head and swaying you consolingly. "Hmm? You break my heart when you cry."

Sniffling, you bury your face into his chest and mumble, "She's growing up too fast."

His throat bobs. "I know. It hurts me too."

"But it hurts, like, deep in my soul. Sometimes I physically feel the ache when I look at her."

"She's three." The featherlight touch of his fingertips trails up and down your spine. "That's still young, yeah? And don't forget, we've got a new little baby."

"She's our firstborn, though," you say mournfully, staring at him. You remember exactly what it felt like to hold her for the first time. She changed everything for us. It feels like it was just yesterday when we brought her home, and now she's walking around and doing things all by herself. Where did the time go?"

"I don't have the answer to that, sweetheart," Harry replies, his eyes darting over your distraught face. "Time goes by too quickly."

"She starts preschool next year." You shake your head in disbelief and gape at him incredulously. "Harry, do you hear me? Preschool."

"I hear you." He looks genuinely concerned as he shifts his legs in order to hold you better, cradling the sides of your head to stop it from shaking. It's smart of him to do so since the wine is making you a bit dizzy. "Hey, I hear you. Always. We'll cry in the car together when we drop her off on her first day, deal? Right now, let's focus on tonight and enjoy Christmas Eve. Let's watch our babies grow one day at a time."

More tears sting your eyes and nose like a thousand tiny bees. "Do you feel it when you look at her?"

His features turn sad, yet a ghost of a smile still appears. "Of course," he whispers. "It's embarrassing the number of times I've teared up just from watching her simply exist."

"You know what always gets me?" you ask thoughtfully. A tender kiss is planted on your forehead as encouragement to continue. "When she brings you seashells. It kills me every time."

The corner of his mouth twitches. "I hope she never stops doing that. It melts my heart."

"She's so sweet. We're raising such a beautiful girl."

"Two beautiful girls."

You pout, feeling overwhelmingly sentimental. "I want to wake them up and snuggle with them."

"Don't," he says with a wary laugh, "or they'll be cranky little devils tomorrow morning."

"I love waking them up, though."

"So do I," he agrees in a way so sincere that it makes you even more emotional. "Although tomorrow we'll be the ones woken up first."

You sigh dreamily. "That's true. I love it when they open their sleepy eyes, and the first thing they see is me. And then they smile."

To provide your children with a sense of happiness, even if they're not fully conscious of it yet, is the greatest gift you could ever possess.

"Being their first smile of the day," Harry says softly, "is what being a parent is all about, you know? Getting to see their faces look more and more like yours each day. Hearing them laugh and holding them in my arms. I always think to myself how fuckin' lucky I am to be their dad."

Letting a teardrop fall, you finally succumb to the wine-drunk dramatics. "They love you so much."

It's his turn for his eyes to sparkle with tears. "They're my girls. My best friends."

"You are everything to them. The way they look at you and listen to every word you speak is so amazing. I can't think of anything quite like it."

Tracing the pad of his thumb across your cheekbone, Harry says, "They have my favorite parts of your face. When they smile, their eyes shape and light up the same way yours do." He hums thoughtfully and dances his gaze around your features. "Got their mom's nose, too."

You wipe your tears and take a sip of wine, letting him continue admiring you like a work of art in the Louvre. You do the same to him, obsessed with how the light from the flames flickers over his skin. Your lucky stars are definitely out tonight.

"I want you to get gray hair," you blurt, not even realizing what you said until Harry retracts his head with a bewildered expression.

"I beg your pardon?" he asks through a shocked laugh, reaching for his wine glass. "I'm only thirty-two! Good grief, woman."

Shrugging, you imagine the inevitable physical change. Maybe the one curly strand of hair that always falls over his forehead will start to lighten into an ash color. Or perhaps it'll start with his stubble turning a salt and pepper two-tone. Either way, you know you'll be all over him when it happens.

"It'd be hot, just saying."

"You're a dirty liar," he murmurs around the rim of his glass, his voice slightly muffled.

"A dad I'd like to fuck is what you are. Sue me."

Harry smirks gradually, his lips stained with a delectable shade of scarlet. "What," he enunciates slowly, "has gotten into you tonight?"

"Nothing," you say coyly. "You're just really attractive when you drink wine."

His pupils appear darker and more dilated as he intensely stares at you. His cheeks are tinted with a flush due to the alcohol. Whenever they draw up in a smile, his dimples emerge, and he's genuinely never looked more kissable. Because his mouth... oh, his mouth.

When Harry sets his wine down and finally lingers it near your ear, his berry-scented breath sending shivers across your entire body, you're his entirely. He then speaks in a drawl that makes you tighten your legs around his waist. "I think this wine has gone from here"—he hovers his fingers over your stomach and then trails them up to your temple, tapping twice—"to here."

You swallow a noise of desperation. "I want you to kiss me."

Nipping your earlobe, he asks, "Where, baby?"

"Your choice."

"Sure about that?"

"Yes. Don't test my patience."

He doesn't say anything and promptly lays you down on your back, the carpet providing cushioning as your husband hovers over you with his hands placed on either side of your dizzy head. The room spins, but all you focus on is him.

He takes his time and leaves slow, practiced kisses on your lips, coaxing them open with his wine-flavored tongue. It's as clear as day that he's never lost his temptation. If anything, it's grown now that he knows how to get specific reactions out of you. If he nudges his nose against yours, you'll take control of his mouth. If he reaches for your ankle, you'll spread your legs further apart. If he walks his fingers down your inner thigh, well, you won't hesitate to flip positions.

Eight years with him prove he knows every instinct of your body like no one else does.

"Harry, we can't," you say when he starts rocking his hips. "I'm not cleared yet."

He stops and groans against your shoulder. "Fuck."

The doctor hasn't given you the green light to have sex again since giving birth a month ago. If you're being completely honest, you're almost dreading when it'll finally happen because of how it felt after having your first child. It wasn't pleasurable, it didn't last long, and you weren't feeling the best about your postpartum appearance. Harry had been gracious and attentive, but, for lack of better words, it sucked.

"Did I ruin the moment?" you ask, your skin prickly with embarrassment.

"No," Harry breathes out. "Hell no. Look at you, baby. I'm unbelievably hard right now."

"Should we... can we—"

"We can just do foreplay if that's what you're asking. It's completely up to you."

Your tipsy brain thinks of one thing and one thing only. "Thigh."

His eyebrows twitch as he licks the corner of his mouth. "Hmm? You're mumbling."

"Thigh," you utter again.

"My what? I can't hear you over the fire."

"Harry," you grit out impatiently. "You know what I'm saying. Please, before the mood is actually ruined."

"You wanna ride it?" he asks for confirmation.

"Yes. Now shut up."

"We have to be quiet, darling."

"I can be quiet. Can you be quiet?"

"With you on my lap? Probably not."

Looking up at the ceiling and taking a calming breath, you say, "This is so risky. I hate you."

Harry tuts. "Why do you hate me?"

"Because you're so..." you trail off, searching for the right word. "So alluring all the time. And I can't help myself when you look at me like you do. It's aggravating."

"Personally, I think it's just your hormones talking." He jerks a thumb over his shoulder. "The baby monitor is on the couch, love, so don't worry. We'll make this nice and quick."

"Fine. Okay."

He stretches his legs out while you position yourself over his thigh. Your underwear is already damp as you begin slowly grinding over the thick muscle. He's hard under his sweatpants—a sight you've missed seeing and being able to do something about it. His hands latch onto your waist to guide your movements, and he moans as his whole body shudders from the first sexually intimate contact he's had with you in a month.

"Someone's got an appetite tonight," he says proudly. "It's okay, so do I. But we gotta be quiet."

A salacious thrill runs down your spine because of his determination to get you off. As you use his thigh and grip his shoulders, the fire beside you heats your already ignited body. He searches for your lips, his skin glowing, eyebrows pinched with pleasure. His broad chest provides support as you lean into him, feeling the pulse of your forthcoming orgasm grow stronger. You need it desperately. You're attempting to keep any noises from escaping, but it's been so insufferably long since you've felt him this way. Moans, whimpers, and panted breaths unabashedly break loose.

"Look at me," Harry says lowly. "What did I say? Do I need to cover your mouth?"

"You're making noise too! Don't—"

His large palm covers the lower half of your face, cutting off your sentence. "What did I say?" he repeats.

You roll your eyes and continue circling your hips over him to offer some relief. "I'm almost there," you mumble against his hand. "I'm close."

"I'm so gone for you," he murmurs, removing his hand and kissing your neck. "You're something else, do you know that? Gonna make a mess on my lap?"

You whine into his mouth. "Yeah. Do the thing."

Harry purposefully flexes his thigh muscle, the movement putting heavenly pressure on your clit. It does the trick, and you come as he stifles your moans so no innocent ears hear, his own groans muffled as you kiss through the climax.

"I missed doing this with you," you whisper, grinding against him one last time.

"I know." He grunts, his body stilling. "I know, honey."

"And I love you. You're so good to me and our family."

"We're perfect together, aren't we?"

"So fucking perfect," you say as your eyes flutter shut. Every breath you take is heavy, and your lungs fill with pure contentment.

"Let's get you cleaned up." He hooks your legs around his waist, and his elbow accidentally knocks over his wine glass. Dark red liquid pools on the hearth, the dying fire reflecting off it. "Shit. Goddamnit."

"Harry," you groan as he clumsily untangles himself from you and jogs to the kitchen.

❅ ❅ ❅

Your eyes shoot open when a startling noise resounds in the pitch-black bedroom. It doesn't register until your mind slowly fades into consciousness and you realize it's Harry's ringtone.

The bedside clock displays 5:39 a.m. It's Christmas morning. Who in the world is calling so early?

You remain still until Harry is eventually woken up by it. The mattress creaks as he stands and takes his phone to the master bathroom. You turn the bedside lamp on, and after five minutes of incoherent mumbling coming through the cracked door, he shuffles out with a crease between his eyebrows.

"Who was that?" you ask sleepily while stretching your legs under the covers.

Harry silently paces before saying, "My boss."

You yawn and rub your bleary eyes, then lean against the headboard. "Wishing you a Merry Christmas? That's nice of him."

"No," he replies in his husky morning voice, blankly staring at the wall behind you. "He, uh... he asked me if I could come to work today."

Silence pierces the atmosphere for several seconds before you finally ask, "What?"

"Three people have called out already."

You whip your head toward the clock. "It's not even six yet."

"Tell me about it," he says with zero emotion. I don't even know what to say. I told him I'd call him back once I've woken up a bit more."

Harry is most prone to being grumpy in the mornings. You hate that he's in a sour mood before the sun has even risen.

"Just tell him you're not going to. We'll get jumped on in less than an hour to open presents."

He runs a heavy hand down his face, stopping it under his lips. "It would only be for the first half of the day. I can make it back home for presents in the afternoon."

"What are you talking about?" Either he's sleepwalking, or he's gone mad. Maybe you're having a bad dream. "Christmas is an all-day thing, Harry. It always has been."

He struggles with words before saying, "My work relies on me. I need you to understand that."

Now you're wide awake with irritation. "Are you joking? You're on paternity leave. Never in a million years would I have thought you'd put work before your family."

The first nerve is struck, and it's written all over Harry's face.

"That's such a fuckin' low blow, and you know it," he says angrily. "I have always, always put our family first."

"You're sure as hell not doing it now!" You throw your arms out to the side and get out of bed.

"You're starting an argument on Christmas? Really?"

"Yeah, I am," you reply pettily.

Harry towers over you with a clenched jaw, pointing at his chest. "I demoted myself so I could be with my family more."

"Oh, don't you dare pull that card on me."

"I'm not pulling a card on you! I'm defending myself for crying out loud!"

"Lower your voice," you hiss at him. "Our daughter doesn't need to be more upset than she already will be when she finds out her dad isn't home on Christmas morning."

You struck below the belt, and now he's wounded.

Harry's stoic expression crumbles into one of devastation, his shoulders sagging with undeniable hurt. "Can you just listen to me?" His tone wavers with emotion. You immediately lower your defenses and swallow down guilt. "Please," he adds quietly. "I hate arguing with you. I hate it so much."

"I'm sorry," you choke out, hiding your face in your palms. "I didn't mean it."

Strong arms wrap around you, his hands spreading on your back. "I know you didn't mean it. We both need to calm down, okay? Can we sit?"

You nod and mumble, "Sure."

He lowers you to the floor and says, "Let's just talk this through. Tell me we're okay. Tell me it's just holiday stress getting to us."

Your head starts to pound from how deep your eyebrows plunge. "Why are you speaking like that? We're fine."

Harry's tired eyes bore into yours. "Because we're saying hurtful things, and the thought of losing you is unbearable."

"You're not losing me. I'm allowed to be frustrated."

"Then please let me know what's going on in your mind. I always have to remind you to talk to me; otherwise, nothing gets resolved."

"I already told you," you say while playing with the knotted string on his pajama pants. "I don't like how you're considering going to work instead of being here. That hurts my feelings."

Harry kisses your face and murmurs, "I'm sorry, love. It's early, and I'm in a weird headspace. It's all that damn wine we drank last night."

"Do you have a headache?"

"A brutal one."

You rub your temples. "Same here."

"Listen," he says, "I'm halfway through my paternity leave, so I think a part of me feels guilty for refusing to go in, considering I haven't worked the past month."

"I get that, but can you understand where I'm coming from?" you ask, still being showered with his tender morning kisses. "Any other day, I'd be fine with it, but it's our baby's first Christmas. Look me in the eye and tell me you'd seriously rather be at work preparing food for rich people who need to dine out for the holidays."

"You know I'd rather be here. I always want to be here with you guys."

"Then call your boss and say you're not coming in. You can't always be a yes-man. Otherwise, you'll get walked over."

"Am I really a yes-man?"

"Sometimes."

He slumps against you. "I don't want you to think I don't fight for our family."

You frown. "I don't think that. I will never forget when you demoted yourself. Yes, I was furious when you first told me, but then I realized how important it is for you to be present and bond with your children."

"I'll call my boss and tell him no." He hugs you and gives you a sweet smile. "Only if you promise you're not mad at me."

"I'm not mad," you say, fondly pinching his cheek. "Now get your butt up and bring me some Advil."

He gestures a salute. "Yes, ma'am."

❅ ❅ ❅

You're woken up again, this time by a slight pressure on your legs and two little hands shaking your shoulders.

"Santa came! Mama, Santa came!"

"Shh, shh, shh." You hush her lisped voice as you open your eyes. It takes a minute to become aware of your surroundings, and you eventually see Harry passed out on the bed by your feet, wrapped in his white robe and lying on his back as he sleeps. After your talk, he took a shower to clear his head, and he must have fallen asleep again.

"Can you wait until I get your sister up?" you whisper. "Then you can jump on Dad."

She nods, her messy curls bouncing every which way. You quietly get up and wander down the hallway toward the nursery. Surprisingly, your baby girl only cried twice throughout the night.

Once her diaper is changed and she's dressed in a festive onesie, you return to the bedroom with her cradled in your arms. You're greeted with a barely awake Harry, who is trying to tame the wild beast. Playful growls, followed by shrieking laughter, echo off the walls. You could've guessed that she wouldn't listen.

His eyes instantly soften when he sees you holding his new favorite person. "Why is your little nose all red?" he says to her. "You look like Rudolph."

You pass her over before sitting on the edge of the bed. "She loves untucking her arms from the swaddle at night, so she gets cold. She's an escape artist."

"A cute escape artist," he says, looking down at his girl. "Look how cute you are. I'm gonna eat your cheeks. I'm gonna do it!" He pretends to munch on her chubby cheeks until her happy noises fill the room.

After thirty minutes of warm snuggles in bed and letting the sunrise peek through the curtains, everyone eventually gathers in the living room to start the day. Harry, now in a much better mood, immediately goes into full dad mode so that everything runs smoothly and no one is crabby on Christmas.

"What can I make my lovely wife for breakfast?" he asks, dressed in jeans and a red knitted sweater.

"French toast and eggs, please," you answer, feeding the baby in your lap a bottle. She has a little Santa hat on. "Can you grab me the burp cloth?"

"Got it." He turns to his daughter, who's watching cartoons on TV. "Lovebug. Come here for a second."

She gallops over to him, fresh as a daisy, and he swoops her up to set her on his hip. "Hi," she says.

"Hi, sweetheart," he says while fixing her loose socks. "Dad needs your breakfast order."

"Reindeer pancake!"

"And?"

"Juice!"

"And?"

She hums, thinking long and hard. "Cookie!"

"Uh-oh." Harry gasps, looking at her with wide eyes. "Haven't you heard? Santa ate all the cookies!"

Her face drops. "Why?"

"We left them out for him, remember?"

"But… but why?"

"Because that's the spirit of Christmas." He kisses her cheek and then sets her down. "Go organize the presents while I make breakfast, okay? No peeking. Behave."

Once the family has full bellies and excited smiles, it's time to open presents. Everyone has their respective piles stacked in front of their feet, some from under the tree, some from the four stockings hanging on the mantle. It's crazy to think there used to only be two there.

"Who's going first?" Harry asks with a steaming mug of tea in his hands. He sits beside you on the couch and carefully slides the portable bassinet closer. Her Christmas plans include getting milk drunk and sleeping all day.

"Me!" says your daughter, crawling into his lap.

"All right. Pick a good one, little lady."

She chooses a rectangular box from the top of her stack. "That's one you need to open with your dad," you tell her. "Harry, open yours that has the same wrapping paper."

He grabs an identical-looking present and helps tear open both boxes. After pulling out the tissue paper, he picks up a pair of white aprons, one big and one small, with ladybugs stitched to the fronts. You tried and failed to find ones that said lovebug, but you figured the sentiment would be appreciated.

"A ladybug!"

You take a candid picture of her with your phone. "I know, baby. You and Dad can match when you cook together."

Harry squeezes your shoulder and whispers, "Thank you."

It's your turn next, and you choose a gift from Harry. You open a small box that contains a gift card to a local spa establishment.

"You deserve a day without me or the kids," he says softly. "I'm forcing you to not be a mom for a day."

You look at him while holding the card to your chest. "Thank you so much."

"Word on the street is that they give better massages than I do."

"Well, they've got some tough competition."

Harry laughs and kisses your cheek, then picks out a gift you've been waiting for weeks to give him. He didn't ask for it, but you like to surprise him. He unwraps it with a giddy smile, eventually pulling out two picture frames crafted from an assortment of seashells.

"I made them using the shells she's brought you over the years," you explain. "I hope you don't mind."

Harry runs a hand over his mouth as his eyes dance over the two pictures. One of them is from when his baby girl was born a mere month ago—the two of you sat in the birthing tub with him staring at you with a breathtaking smile after she clung to him. The other picture is from the day his first daughter was born—him sitting in the hospital bed while holding her with his forehead resting against hers, his hands almost taking up her entire body.

"That's you, lovebug," he says to her while pointing at the picture. "Look at how tiny you were. You changed my life that day and made me the happiest person in the whole wide world."

"Me?" she asks curiously.

He taps her nose. "Mm-hmm. And look at you now. All grown up."

"Do I still make you the happiest in the whole wide world?"

"Every single day. We're each other's first smiles forever, right?"

She nods delightedly. "Yeah."

Harry hugs her tightly and then glances over at you, doing a double-take when you bring your knees to your chest and inhale deeply. "Are you going to cry?" he teases with a smirk.

"No," you reply unconvincingly, clearing your throat and not-so-subtly wiping the corners of your eyes. "Okay, who's next?"

After a bunch more presents are unwrapped and toys and sparkly bows are scattered on the carpet, there's only one box under the tree with no name.

Harry crawls over and grabs it. "This," he says theatrically while standing, "is for all of us. Let's have mommy do the honors."

The box is set in your lap, and Harry stands before you, bending forward to place his hands on your thighs.

"You're way too close to me right now," you tell him.

He glances up at you through his eyelashes. "I need to gauge your reaction."

You roll your eyes and begin tearing the tape on the box's seal. Once you open it, your heart skips a beat when you see four plane tickets sitting on a bed of sand.

"Surprise," he whispers.

Mouth agape, you take them out and flip them over to read the tags attached.

Your tag reads: For my wife. Italy the first time made us fall in love all over again. Let's do it a second time.

Your eldest daughter's tag reads: For my lovebug. I'll buy you all the raspberry gelato and ciabatta bread you want. I'll even throw a lasso around the Italian moon for you to keep.

Your newborn's tag reads: For my baby girl. I'll show you the sea that emulates your beauty. You'll show me how lucky I am to hold and love you.

In all your years of knowing him, you don't think he's ever done something more romantic than the scrawly ink attached to a gift from a memory so dear to him.

"We're seriously going back to Italy?"

He crouches and squeezes your thigh. "End of July."

Your daughter doesn't quite understand the significance of what's happening since she was small when the family last went, but she's smiling as she absentmindedly sifts her hands through the sand.

You lean forward and give Harry a hug. "You're so perfect. Thank you. I can't wait."

"You're welcome. Come with me for a second," he murmurs in your ear. He heads to the kitchen and quickly dumps the rest of his cold tea into the sink.

You follow him into the bathroom, leaving the door slightly cracked. Harry flicks on the light and then stands in front of you. "You," he emphasizes while cradling your cheeks, "are the fuckin' love of my life."

You accept his fervent kisses and mumble against his mouth, "Did you like the seashells?"

"Are you kidding?" He kisses you once more. "I almost lost my composure out there."

"See? I'm not the only one who gets emotional."

"I love you so much," he says, soft and sincere. "This will be the best trip of our lives."

You admire his bright eyes and dimpled smile. "I'm so glad you stayed home. You make it feel like Christmas."

❅ ❅ ❅

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