Chapter Text
"Ya know, I think the bathtub alone might justify what we spent on this place. This is my Christmas wish, actually."
They're facing each other from either end of the tub, mirrored glasses of wine and messy buns, the steaming water adding color to their cheeks. One of Sharon's legs rests on Lydia's torso, and her free hand absentmindedly massages Sharon's foot. There's music playing, muffled, from the bedroom.
Sharon sinks further into the water with a contented hum and nods in agreement for a moment before musing, "I do wish you'd told me that before I spent so much time deciding on your gift."
"I love any gift from you. You have excellent taste."
"Yes, that's true," Sharon agrees with a smirk. "And it's better than last year. We barely knew each other last Christmas."
"What a difference a year makes. Now we know each other so very well." She squeezes Sharon's foot playfully, waggling her eyebrows. "Like now I know how fucking good you look in a bikini – I mean, how could you not with that body, but Jesus Christ, honey. You nearly knocked me off my feet in Saint Martin."
"The rum nearly knocked you off your feet in Saint Martin," Sharon corrects. "Now I know Maestro can't handle her liquor."
"Hey! Watch it, kid. I haven't drank that much in decades."
"That's because you never come out with me." Sharon's huff is punctuated by a playful pout Lydia has to stop herself from wiping away with a kiss.
"Oh? The hangover I'm still nursing from that birthday party last month says differently," Lydia quips with a dramatically exasperated sigh. "Another thing I didn't know this time last year: how undeniably – albeit understandably – popular you are, and how many events I would consequently be plus one-ing."
"We just look so good together, darling. It'd be a shame if I didn't show you off every now and then."
Lydia – whose idea of heaven is going out with Sharon on her arm, wearing a dress she bought for her, towering over her in high heels that make her long legs look even better somehow – fully understands, and often thinks she couldn't have found a more perfect match based on aesthetics alone. Even well into adulthood, there's a part of Lydia that hopes any boy who made fun of her for wearing her brother's old clothes in middle school knows she ended up with a hotter wife than them.
As if Sharon can read her mind, she adds, "And I like how riled up you get when a guy tries to talk to me."
"Yeah, yeah. 'Riled up' is a nice way to put it," Lydia scoffs with a dismissive huff, but she sits up and reaches to pull Sharon closer. "One of these days I won't be able to control the impulse to clobber them."
The tacit understanding between them that she's only partially joking makes Sharon laugh, as full and rich as the merlot helping it along, and she obliges to slide on top of her. She straddles her hips with a knee on either side, and the silkiness of her skin and the graze of their breasts and the brightness of her eyes as their bodies meld together are enough to make Lydia's head spin even without the wine.
With the addition of the wine, it makes her nearly feral with lust.
Wet, soapy hands cup Lydia's face right before wet, soft lips cover her own. Her toes curl and a sigh gets caught in her throat because Sharon's tongue swirling through her mouth, gliding over her own, is divine. One of Lydia's hands grips her ass and the other rests in the exquisite dip of her waist, ensuring Sharon doesn't move, because under no circumstances should she move, absolutely must stay pressed against her, preferably forever. They fit too perfectly together to part, and Sharon doesn't seem to have any qualms, instead somehow managing to deepen the kiss.
After a few searing moments, she pulls away with a nip to Lydia's bottom lip, almost enough to draw blood, and a smirk that adds to the blooming ache between Lydia's legs.
"Looking forward to it, actually. I like when you lose control."
"I know you do."
Sharon rolls her eyes with a teasing smirk. She nips at her bottom lip again and murmurs, "You just know everything, don't you, handsome?"
Before Lydia can answer, Sharon starts kissing her way down her jawline, to her neck. When she lets her tongue dart out along what she knows is a particularly sensitive patch of skin, Lydia feels her own breath quickening. She also feels the upper hand slipping in whatever unspoken, unnamed game they're playing, and she tries to keep her composure.
"About you, yes." She's slightly embarrassed by the twinge of hoarseness in her voice, completely beyond her control. Sharon smiles against her neck for a moment before pulling back to face her.
"Surely not everything."
"Fine. Maybe not everything," she concedes, and it satisfies Sharon enough to return to her neck. Lydia sighs softly, but swallows hard before continuing, unable to accept defeat, "But pretty close, I'd say. I know the bikini thing, and how much tea you drink, or rather, how many half empty cups you leave around the house. How delightful you are with your sister's kids. How you use triple the recommended amount of bubble bath."
Sharon presses a final reverent kiss to her collarbone before sitting back on her heels. Lydia's eyes, as if controlled by a magnetic force, immediately land on the aforementioned bubbles running down her breasts. Her nipples are hard and rosy and delectable, and Lydia bites her own bottom lip in reaction to how badly she wants them – needs them – in her mouth, wouldn't even think twice about the taste of soap. When she manages to tear her eyes away to Sharon's, Sharon is frowning at her with faux concern, the playful, naughty streak that Lydia insists will be the death of her shining through.
"You're not enjoying the bath, baby?"
"Oh, I'm very much enjoying the bath, baby," Lydia mimics with a hum and another shameless ogle of her body. Her hands reach up from where they rest on her hips to cup her breasts, suppressing a moan at the warm, soft weight of them. "May I propose a new house rule that allots a percentage of time to you being wet and naked?"
"Only if it also applies to you." Sharon's gaze flicks down to her lips, her neck, the swell of her breasts teasing what's just below the bubbly surface of the water. She strokes a thumb along her jawline, and when her eyes meet Lydia's again, Sharon sports a melancholy smile that indicates an unwelcome change in her mood. Lydia's hands drop back to her hips, and she eyes her with an expectant frown.
"You know I'll miss you tomorrow, right? I'll wish you were there with me the entire time."
Tomorrow morning, like the Christmas before, they'll sleep late, and have their coffee in bed, and exchange thoughtful, heartfelt gifts, confirming again and again that whatever atoms they're made of have some overlap and must have been intelligently designed. Then Sharon will go to her sister's, leaving Lydia alone and both of them lonely.
Sharon's coming out was difficult enough without the additional insult of the publicity attached. Lydia, to this day, wonders how many of the opinion pieces written about them and hateful messages sent to the concert hall had been from Sharon's family. They hated Lydia, generally – her Americanness, her arrogance, her rejection of most traditional values. But most importantly they hated her gender and sexuality and the hand they played in defiling the otherwise perfect Sharon, who ostensibly has no agency of her own and is incapable of making her own decisions.
She'd admittedly given no thought to the prospect of in-laws or how best to interact with them before the Goodnows, but she also considered herself charming and sociable enough when it matters before the Goodnows. Their contempt is unfair, and frustrating, and heartbreaking for Sharon to have to confront and for Lydia to have to watch, and not the least of which humbling. Rarely faced with inadequacy, it's even worse feeling it for something she can't change if she wanted to. There are a number of attributes about herself that Lydia is fine being disliked for, and none have anything to do with her sexuality. And while she hates the invasion of privacy and the judgment from people who don't know her, worst is the deep-rooted shame she hasn't felt since her teen years, that she thought she'd squashed -- that she had squashed -- decades ago.
She tried various diplomatic tactics, met with outright harshness or vague aloofness, before retreating her efforts at Sharon's suggestion. Truthfully, any attempts had been more for Sharon's sake than her own anyway; she has no desire to be around people so apparently unreasonable and rigid. Her relationship with Sharon is between the two of them, and the opinion of any outside observer is less than meaningless, and she's very secure in that.
She wishes every day that Sharon felt the same, and more than ever in this moment. Lydia catches herself a split second before her eyes roll in frustration. Sharon is so fucking sincere, so fucking sweet, but any discussion of the implied topic has ended with her in tears, and dealing with crying, even Sharon's, is one of Lydia's weakest skills. Even worse, her hope that they'd imminently make love begins to fade. But Sharon looks too good right now and feels even better, and she's determined to salvage the operation.
"I know." Lydia hopes the short answer indicates her disinterest in any further discussion. It doesn't, and she has to stop herself a second time from rolling her eyes.
"It'll get better with them, I promise."
"We talked about this. It's okay. I'll miss you too." It's nearly impossible not to sound dismissive, what with how badly Lydia wants the subject dismissed. She pats Sharon's hip with a small smile. "Water's getting cold, eh? C'mon, let's dry off. I'll pour us a nightcap."
Sharon lit the fire place with hope that it'd be comforting, but there remains a lump in her throat and a chill in the air. When they first saw the house, Lydia insisted that the stone and glass were too cold and unforgiving, that it'd cost a fortune to stay warm in winter, assuaged by Sharon's insistence they could fill it with enough plush rugs and blankets and drink enough mugs of hot tea that it'd be a nonissue. Sharon regrets it now, feeling chilled to the bone, though probably with little to do with the actual room temperature.
"New house rule: there will be absolutely no sulking on Christmas Eve," Lydia announces, emerging from the kitchen and taking her place in the chair beside Sharon. She offers her one of two steaming glasses. "We're okay, honey. Everything's okay."
Sharon can't recall many times she's felt less okay – in fact, she wants to cry, or scream, or sleep for a week. The only reason she isn't is because those are the reactions of a silly child, and Lydia must, at best, already think she's behaving like a silly child. At worst, she must think Sharon isn't committed to her, that she's too easily influenced, that she'll give into her sister and mother's derision and leave. And becoming the exact type of sniveling, hysterical woman that Lydia can't stand would be particularly unfair since it's all her fucking fault anyway. Instead, Sharon accepts the drink with a grateful but sad smile. She takes a sip; it's strong, and even if it doesn't immediately lift her spirits, it's warm.
"You're right. I'm sorry I'm no fun," she says, focusing on the cup in her hands. It's perhaps the first time since laying eyes on Lydia that Sharon actively chooses to look away from her, but Lydia's gaze is more tender than she deserves right now, and she finds it nearly impossible to meet. It stings in an unfamiliar way. "I just wish I didn't have to decide like this."
"To be fair, the decision isn't really yours. Unless Heike left you in charge of the guest list, which I highly doubt she did, and you so rudely left your wife off it, which I highly doubt you did."
"You know what I mean. I shouldn't have to choose between spending Christmas with my family or my wife. You're my family too now."
"Yeah. It is pretty cruel," Lydia concedes, though even that doesn't seem adequate for the situation. "Anything I can do to make it better, honey?"
"No, I should be asking you that." Sharon shakes her head, and when she finally looks at her again, Lydia wonders if anyone has ever been so concerned about her wellbeing. "I'm so sorry to leave you here by yourself, darling. Next year will be different, I promise – either they'll finally come around, or I'll finally be brave enough to stand up for myself, and for you."
"Your family is important to you, Sharon. There's no expectation from me that you lose something important to you. And you know I don't mind being alone."
"It's Christmas, Tár! It's the most important fucking holiday," Sharon says in a rare, frustrated snap. "What if we have kids? Will they be invited to Christmas dinner?"
"We'll cross that bridge when I finally put a baby in you," Lydia offers, her best attempt to diffuse any further explosion. She takes pride in the hint of a smile it pulls from Sharon and gestures to the drink. "The good news, blondie, is this just might be the best hot toddy you'll ever have. Now it could be the Macallan, yes, but the lemon to honey ratio is all me, and I think I perfected it."
"Thank you. It is good."
The halfhearted response to her joking and bartending adds to Lydia's desire to get out of the situation. Not only is Sharon upset, but the unspoken inadequacy hangs in the back of Lydia's mind – if she can't make Sharon feel better, then surely no one can. And if they can, she'd welcome their advice.
"Hey, cheer up, please." She pokes at Sharon's calf with her foot for a moment before standing when she receives no response. She heads to her study and pulls a record from the stack of holiday albums they'd had on rotation for weeks. Ella Fitzgerald comes through the speakers at the same moment she reenters the room.
"You like this one, right?" Lydia confirms, glad when the beginning of a smile accompanies Sharon's nod. Instead of returning to her seat, Lydia reaches for her with both hands, pulling her up when Sharon clasps them. She sings along as Sharon settles into her embrace, "Maybe it's much too early in the game…"
In Lydia's arms, Sharon marvels, not for the first time, at how her mother and sister could protest something so solid and warm, someone who brings her this so much comfort. It's genuine and good, what they have – two people caring for each other and challenging each other and making the other laugh. Not to mention there's a spot on Lydia's shoulder that seems crafted for her cheek to rest, and Lydia holds her like she's so precious, always, and Sharon can't recall being more at ease with a person than right now as they sway around the room in their bathrobes.
One of Lydia's hands cards delicately through her hair and the other, firm at the small of her back, keeps Sharon pressed against her. She thinks she could fall asleep standing up, exhausted by the storm of emotions and lulled by the alcohol and the music and the coziness of Lydia's embrace as they rock back and forth.
"I like when you sing," she murmurs into the warmth of Lydia's chest, annoyed with the frailty of her own voice, its confirmation that she's behaving like a silly child.
"Yeah? I'll sing all night if it makes you feel better."
Sharon pulls away enough to face her, arms looped around her neck. She leans in for a peck that leads to another, deeper kiss, and she can't manage to wrench her mouth away for several long moments, not that either of them want her to. It's passionate and desperate, how their tongues search the other's mouth, the whimpers they both swallow.
When they do part, Sharon presses her forehead against Lydia's with a shaky sigh, and if she was close to tears before, it takes all her resolve to keep them at bay now. Her Lydia, who would sing to her all night if it made her feel better, who holds her like she's precious, who remembers her favorite songs and will do so presumably forever.
"I've turned you soft, Tár."
Lydia scoffs, "Oh, that's nothing. I turned you gay and in doing so ruined your relationship with your family. No small feat."
She silences Sharon's laugh by kissing her again, just as passionate and desperate as before. Every part of Sharon's body is buzzing toward Lydia, heart thumping in her ears, and there's arousal deep in her stomach that's becoming more and more difficult to ignore. She'd bet good money the same is true for Lydia, saw that look in her eyes – the one that's almost predatory, like she's going to devour her – in the bathtub.
"Remind me again why I let you do that?" she teases, her voice is a touch rougher, a touch lower.
"Because we can share clothes," Lydia offers matter-of-factly, and she grips her ass to pull her even closer. "And because I taught you the marvel of a strap-on. Very diligently, I'll add."
"You're definitely right about the clothes," Sharon hums, eyes sparkling wickedly. "Probably right about the strap-on, too. Care to confirm?"
"If you don't get your sweet ass to bed."
In their room, robes discarded, Sharon sits at the edge of the bed with Lydia standing in front of her, and they work together to secure the harness so it's snug on Lydia's hips. Sharon grabs the dildo, smooth and black, just big enough, and situates it in the harness, and already her mouth is watering. She's never been more attracted to a person, and if a person more attractive than Lydia exists, she hasn't seen them. She loves the way the straps hug her curves, loves the softness of her hips and the weight of the dildo between her legs.
The sight is lost when Lydia drops to her knees, firm but gentle hands urging Sharon's legs apart. Lydia glances at her center, and Sharon knows she's wet, but Lydia's smirk, both satisfied and hungry, makes her whimper. She dips her head, warm lips finding the satiny skin of Sharon's inner thigh for a lush kiss. Without warning, she sucks with enough pressure to leave a mark, and Sharon's moan is rough and needy and might embarrass her on a different day. She repeats the action over a few more patches of skin, what will become a constellation of desire. When she's satisfied with her work, Lydia runs her thumb over one of the reddish smudges marring the otherwise pristine alabaster. She kisses it softly, as if it might hurt, and her eyes are ablaze when she looks up at Sharon again.
"Something to remember me by tomorrow."
With a wink and a firm hand to the middle of her chest, Lydia urges Sharon to lie back on the bed. Then her mouth is on her cunt, tongue warm and wet and instantly maddening gliding through her. Sharon breathes a moan directly from the pit of her stomach, relieved and gravelly. She feels it all, feels Lydia, her tongue working its way inside her and her hands reaching for her breasts – her love, palpable, through her entire body.
Then, frustratingly, Lydia pulls away, relishing in the futile cant of Sharon's hips at the loss of contact. She nuzzles her thigh, taking a moment to appreciate the rise and fall of her breasts across the plane of her stomach before kissing a trail up her body. She urges Sharon further back on the bed and towers over her with a smirk. Leaning on an elbow, one of Lydia's hands cards through Sharon's hair, gently brushing it away from her face, and the other rubs soothingly over Sharon's thigh. She kisses her, mouth hot and wet and tart with her own arousal; it makes Sharon shudder.
"Ready for more, love?" she asks, voice low and teasing, though she apparently has no real interest in it. Before Sharon can nod – the only communication she's currently capable of – the hand at her thigh is gone, and Lydia glides the toy through her center, circling her clit, torturously slow.
Sharon accepts the modicum of relief for a few agonizing moments, blinking up at her before a breathy, pleading, "Lydia."
Her voice is too desperate and sweet for Lydia to not take pity. She guides the toy to her entrance and pushes the tip, just a fraction, into her. She wonders, silently, if it's possible to climax from the sight of Sharon's eyes, locked on hers, glazing over and how she's sure she can feel her clenching tight around her strap. She grips an impossibly supple hip, sliding in deep enough to produce a gasp.
With a firm hand on her chin, Lydia leans down to kiss her, slow and deep and filthy. She circles her hips, the slight movement pulling a whine from Sharon's throat that she swallows. It's shamelessly wanton, and she expects Lydia to look smug when they part for air. Instead, Lydia looks at her with more than a hint of tenderness behind her eyes and a fond smile.
"Look at you. What a gorgeous girl," she hums, "Can I move, honey?"
Sharon nods frantically, reaching up to cup her face and pulling her in for another searing kiss. Then Lydia props herself up on one hand beside Sharon's head, and her free hand grips Sharon's hip, and she finally, finally starts to move in slow, firm strokes that curl her toes. She's kissing her senseless again; before Sharon has time to release a relieved, deep groan it ends up mostly caught in Lydia's mouth.
Lydia immediately finds a spot inside her that makes her brain short circuit, drags the tip of the toy across it with every thrust, holding her open with a firm hand to a thigh and ensuring that she feels every bit of her. Sharon wants to feel every bit of her, can't ever be close enough to her but will absolutely try forever, addicted to this specific, delicious torture and the specific, delicious silkiness of Lydia's skin. She hooks her other leg around Lydia's back, finding newfound leverage to roll her hips.
There's only genuine desire and love in the way Lydia strokes in and out, how they move together, never rushed or urgent. It's not long before they're both panting softly, warm breath mixing together, until Lydia closes the space and has Sharon wondering what life was like before being kissed like that. Her moans are soft, and then Lydia's mouth is on her neck, and the most dominant sound comes from between their legs. The wet sound of the toy moving in and out of her is filthy, and Sharon suspects they'll need to change the duvet, but she couldn't care less. Her hips and mouth and hands all seek more, more, more, completely out of her control – Lydia is in control, and Lydia will take care of her, make sure she gets the release she's almost frantically seeking.
Lydia's hips are also getting wilder, and she pushes herself up, hovering over Sharon with her arms caging her head. The leverage allows her to thrust just a bit deeper, and it shouldn't be enough to take Sharon's breath away, but it does. She loves the fullness, whimpers teetering on pitiful with every thrust out. Her eyes roll back before squeezing shut; Lydia allows it, lets her get lost in the pleasure for a few moments. She can tell from the frequency and the obscenity of Sharon's moans that it won't be much longer.
"Look at me," Lydia finally commands lowly, a firm but caring hand grabbing Sharon's chin. She obeys, and this time it's Lydia's breath that's taken away, her sweet, desperate panting, her eyes, as intensely blue as ever, blinking up at her. "So fucking lovely like this, baby girl. You're close, aren't you?"
Before she can respond, Lydia reaches a hand down between them, finds the slick, hard bead of her clit with her thumb and rubs. Sharon hisses and jerks, looking up at her with eyes that warn of an impending implosion. Lydia makes the thrusts and the circles of her thumb a bit harder, a bit faster, and offers an encouraging nod.
"I know, angel. Let go for me, okay?"
Every swipe of Lydia's thumb over her clit is searing, almost electric, and every thrust is determined and mind-numbing, and Sharon cries out when her orgasm slams into her. It's louder and more desperate than she expected, but it's seemingly the only way to survive the white-hot pleasure exploding from low in her belly. Her hips chase more, more, more, and somewhere in the haze she recognizes Lydia cooing in her ear, encouraging her, easing her through the climax that threatens to devastate her. The arousal evident in her voice only adds to Sharon's, fueling each wave that continues to wash over every last inch of her. Lydia rocks into her, gently, until Sharon's hips stop meeting hers. She soothes her whimpers with an adoring smile.
"Such a good girl, Sharon."
Despite the toy still nestled in her, the micro movements of their breathing proving enough to make her hips twitch involuntarily, Sharon begins the seemingly impossible task of steadying her breathing. One last playful, tortuous bump of their hips together makes Sharon's toes curl, and then Lydia's gone, and she sighs at the distinct emptiness. Spent, she manages to roll on her side into Lydia's embrace.
"Yes, that is a very convincing argument for lesbianism."
"Can I bring anything to your car?"
"No, thank you." Sharon drops a stack of wrapped gifts by the door and steps into the coat Lydia is holding out for her. "Unless you have Xanax?"
"I wish," Lydia jokes, smoothing down the collar of the coat for a moment before giving her shoulders a squeeze. "Promise you'll call me if things get out of hand, or you have too much gluhwein, or both. I will happily pick you up."
"I know." Sharon smiles gratefully, sheepishly, in an effort to hide how the prospect of spending the day apart still makes her want to vomit. "Promise you don't secretly hate me?"
"I'm pretty open about the things I hate, darling. Though I am jealous of everyone who gets to look at you in this outfit all evening."
She takes a step back to give her a once over, and Sharon blushes but twirls theatrically. A tough critic, she often wonders if getting a compliment from Lydia will always send a thrill down her spine.
"I'm glad you like it. I'll wear it every day for the next week, if you want."
"Hmm," Lydia hums, hands gripping Sharon's hips, playfully squeezing. "Could be nice. But what if, instead, you wear nothing at all every day for the next week?"
"I'll consider it," Sharon muses, a smirk melting into a genuine smile. "Merry Christmas, my love."
Lydia smiles and lifts up on her tiptoes to kiss her, slow and deep and messy enough to smear her lipstick. She wipes it with her thumb when they part.
"Merry Christmas. Now get out of here before they try to get me arrested for kidnapping you or something." She punctuates it with a quick smack to her ass. Sharon gives her a warning look that says she doesn't appreciate the joke, but she can't stop the corners of her mouth from twitching with a smile. Lydia presses a kiss to her cheek, ushering her into the elevator. "Give everyone my worst."
Sharon snorts a laugh, then rolls her eyes over at her. It's the last look Lydia gets at her as the elevator door closes.
With Sharon gone, it's any other day, any goodwill and cheer leaving with her. Lydia makes her way to her study and sits at the piano. She's been working on a piece for months and wonders if this uninterrupted time will prove fruitful.
She turns to the page she marked to find a sticky note with Sharon's elegant, neat penmanship.
- New house rule: there will be absolutely no working on Christmas day.
And another,
- Love you.