More About Christmas - It’s About Balance Holiday One Shot
This isn’t Kansas City – obviously – but that’s coming sooner rather than later. I was struggling with whether or not I’d do Christmas-y things since not everybody celebrates but… I just… I have to. Apologies to those who don’t partake, for whatever reasons. I wish you a joyous holiday, and a stress free season.
It’s for our Teenage Dirtbag, but it can be read as a standalone without a problem.
Oh, yeah. Smut. x
Gemma and Anne are trimming the tree in front of you. It’s a
beautiful thing – huge, full, and dripping in ornaments and lights that are
casting a soft glow around the darkening room. They’re mumbling to each other
as they coordinate where to place what – there’s two Baby’s First Christmas
ornaments, a wobbly looking snowman that had been handmade for some Christmas
past, and shiny baubles that reflect your worried frown even from your spot on
“Love, would you like to help?” Anne asks you warmly as she
searches for the perfect branch to place her next ornament. She’s got a thick
Christmas jumper on that is the opposite of ugly and tasteful snowmen adorn her
“Thank you,” you manage a smile. “That’s alright. I wouldn’t
want to interfere – seems like you two have a plan.”
“Not really,” Gemma says as she reaches on her toes.
“Whoops!” she exclaims under her breath when she nearly teeters a bit too far
to hang her bauble on a prized branch towards the top. “We’re actually better
at it when Harry’s here. He’s all chaos for the first part of it until he
settles down, so we’re able to organize when we’ve got to beat him back.”
You laugh, but it’s fleeting, his name reminding you of his
present absence. You chance a glance down at your screen, but somehow you feel
more deflated than before when you find nothing new from him.
“You might as well help, you know,” Gemma says as she picks
up another ornament before replacing it in favor of a new one. “Wallowing isn’t
going to bring him here faster.”
“Sweetheart,” Anne warns Gemma gently. “We’re all worried
and we want him to be here.”
Gemma is silent and you feel hot and uncomfortable. Both she
and Anne have been nothing but kind to you since you’d shown up without Harry,
a lump in your throat when you told them that he’d gotten delayed in Los
Angeles because of the weather in New York and his flight had been pushed out a
day. London, too, has been earning a snowfall that they’d previously assumed
he’d miss, and the roads to Holmes Chapel had been covered in a thin coating of
fluffy flakes on your drive over. So far, you’d heard of no cancellations to
“What one can I have?” you ask as you set your phone down
and pull your feet from under you to stand. Anne hands you a star ornament and
you stand as tall as you can and place it on the highest branch you can reach.
“Funny,” Gemma remarks as she pushes an icicle so it twirls
back and forth. “That’s where he puts it, too.”
Our favorite three! It’s a little sad, a dash of sweet, and a dollop of smut at the end of it all. It’s part of the Snowbound sandbox, but it also works as a standalone relatively well. Enjoy. x
Note: i’ve proofed some of this, but do need to go back because I have the *nagging* urge that something is there that I can’t find….
“Why are yeh lookin’ at me like that?”
He’s got a small, incredulous smile playing around his mouth
and there’s a twinkle in his eyes, but yours are sharp on him. He’s got a skip
in his step as he sets a glass of milk down in front of his son, who is chewing
contently on mouthful after mouthful of progressively soggier cereal, and he’d
been singing in the shower this
morning – belting out carol after carol, adding in his own arrangements and
note changes. He is, by all accounts, in a good mood.
You’re worried, though.
“When do you have to go?” you ask him from your chair.
You’re still in pajamas – festive, plaid flannel ones, with snowflakes
sprinkled over the red legs, and the black, long-sleeved shirt of his with a
hole in the neck – one that you’d long ago taken away from him – hangs off your
shoulder on one side.
Harry’s green eyes dim slightly, but only for a second.
“Soon,” he says, pushing the sleeve of his jumper back to look at his watch.
“Now,” he amends with a sigh.
“Daddy?” your son asks, the word wet sounding through his
mouthful of food. “Are we baking today?”
“We’d better,” Harry says. “’Else your Gran will hang me if
we show up with nothing.”
It’s when he leans down to kiss the top of your son’s head
that you see a crack in his façade and your heart clenches in your chest. He’s
got his eyes squeezed shut and the set of his brow is that which can only be
described as wistful while he lingers, keeping his mouth tight to a head of
curly hair that so resembles his.
“Be good fo’ your mum,” Harry says while ruffling his son’s
hair, rolling his eyes when the child ducks his head out from under his
“Eat your breakfast, please,” you tell him as you stand,
abandoning your tea. “I’m saying goodbye.” You skip once across the kitchen
floor to stick close to his father’s heels as you follow him out of the room.
It is the first time you and Harry have been able to spend time together alone after the birth of your daughter. You feel a little bit guilty leaving your three month old daughter alone. But you know she is in good hands - with grandma Anne. It costs Harry and you many misgivings to leave your daughter at his mother’s home. Anne waved her right hand in farewell and the other hand rested on the buggy which she pushes softly back and forwards. You climbed in the Range Rover and waved back. He started the motor and drove out of the driveway. His jaw was clenched together and you squeezed his thigh softly. He gave you a wan smile.
You are glad that you have time with your husband. The first three months were filled with horrible, sleepless nights, fights with Harry about which one of you have to get up and feed her. You want to be the perfect Mum, the Mum who can do everything, doing the laundry while she cooks a perfect menu,which she serves her husband, with perfect makeup and a beautiful dress in the evening. You tried it. Yes you tried it but you failed. You felt like a mum in the last time not like a desirable woman, not like a super mum, who can do everything. How often were you crying, and how often did you call your mum for some advice? Sometimes you felt so stupid because you thought you have to know what your baby needs. You were overworked. The whole everyday routine was new for you and Harry and sometimes you thought to yourself you were not able to be a good mum.You hid your tears but Harry knew it. He saw it as he came home. He knows you and one look in your face discloses you. But he said nothing to you, he hugged you and kissed your hair. You regained new strength from his hug and his presence. Everything was easier with him.
He works, thank god only half days, but sometimes he has to spend the whole day in the studio. These days seem endless, and often your mum or Anne comes over and helps you.
You wake up, mostly before Harry, and habitually dressed in the same clothes like yesterday. You wear leggings and one of Harry’s old jumpers, as if it had become a uniform. Your hair is in a ponytail or in a bun because her little fists can grab very tightly.You feed your daughter and kiss Harry goodbye.
After you change your jumper because your daughter spit up on it, you take a walk with her in the park and shop for some groceries. And if Harry comes home in the afternoon it’s allowed you to take a short shower while Harry plays with your daughter. Sometimes you stand in the doorframe, drying your hair with a towel and watching how he plays or speaks with her. Then you stop in your movement and you feel how your heart jumps in delight and you know everything – every tear, every fight – is worth it.
But the intimate togetherness is gone. You fall asleep on the sofa while Harry puts your daughter to bed. You want to talk to him but often you can’t keep your eyes open. It’s like a ritual every evening he carries you with his strong arms to your bed and kisses you on your forehead, and you smile softly with closed eyes. Snuggling into his side and he covers your body with the duvet.
And in the morning the same procedure starts again.
So you are looking forward to being alone with your husband! But Harry left the hotel room after breakfast. He has an appointment at the tailor because he needs a perfectly suitable suit tonight.
Three Wisemen and a Lemon Curd - Thirty Minutes and a Lemon Curd Christmas One Shot
It’s January 6th! The end of Christmas, for real. Better late than never on this (thanks, technology!), though, so here it is at last as a final gasp of the holiday season! Happy 2017 to all. Enjoy! x
Warning: daddy!kink… I tried to keep it out of Christmas, but, well….
Harry hasn’t touched you since you’d mentioned it.
With your family.
Technically, you’d told him as you’d straddled his lap and
he’d held onto your hips with an unblinking, nearly terrified look in his eyes,
it wasn’t Christmas. It was a few days after
Christmas, because you’d agreed to spend Christmas with Harry, Anne, Robin,
Gemma, and her newest beau ages ago.
He knows your family – he’s met them, even, several times –
but he’s not… well… it’s just… that detail about the fact that he’d deflowered
you and thrown you into a whirlwind romance that has you picked over by the
vultures of the press. He’s not been around them since that news broke.
“You’re not going to tell
them that,” you’d rolled your eyes at him. “I’d prefer if you didn’t, actually,”
you’d said while kissing his forehead to seal your request.
He’s treated you like you’re a nun or he’s a priest since
then, though. Your first semester at university had ended a few days ago, and after
not visiting you for even one weekend since the beginning of December, you’re
to spend the entirety of break with him in his flat. Anytime you sidle closer
to him or teasingly hold mistletoe above your head, though, all he does is give
you a chaste little kiss and maybe a
squeeze around the middle before mulling over the next item on the Christmas
prep list. Anything that dares to venture under the belt is swiftly nipped in
the bud as if he’s only ever had wet dreams and the thought of acting on them
makes him want to jump out of his skin. His reasoning, he’d explained to you
after the first few celibate days, is
to keep his mind focused and clean. He’d prefer not to remember your moans,
asking him to cum, please, when he’s
asking for the gravy to be passed his way at the table.