lilmisslydiamartin:

iamthefirechild:

Oh, god, she’d never tasted that particular flavour of patience before. It was sour and she couldn’t decide which of them it hurt more. Summer took the wine glass, sniffing it before throwing back a long swallow.

“You’re going to tell me that you aren’t interested,” she said, low and with barely any inflection. Just like that, the butterflies were gone. This — was familiar. Painful, but she knew this ground. “That you don’t do serious relationships,” she went on. The glass turned in her fingers.

“The words you use might be different, but what you want to say to me is that you hurt too much to let someone else in. That you’re tired of being hurt. Being forgotten. Not finding answers.” Summer looked down into the wine, then up at Lydia’s face.

Lydia’s jaw dropped for a moment as the girl spoke, then snapped her mouth back shut. Alright then. That had been… absurdly easy. Of course, there was the question of how she had known all of that, but, moving forward was likely better than lingering on a topic.

“There’s also the fact that you’re not nearly six feet of pure defined muscle with a dick attached. I kind of have a type, and I want to stick with that. A character flaw, I know, but I gladly accept it. I tried once with one that didn’t fit my object of desire, and it was terrible. So…”

Lydia just shrugged her shoulders, and took a sip of her own wine. Honesty. Pretty much the best policy for the day. “You’re welcome to stay and celebrate the New Year with me, and I’ll even give you a peck at midnight, but that’s it, sweetheart.”

Summer fought down a blush as Lydia described her ideal partner. She took another swallow of the wine, hoping that would cool her face. It helped the blush, but even that little bit of alcohol, running through her bloodstream, began to unravel her control over her powers.

Putting the glass down, she finally sat down on the couch, as far back in the corner as possible. Away from temptation. “Will you tell me about it?”

lilmisslydiamartin:

iamthefirechild:

Summer had expected surprise. She had /not/ expected the quality of surprise. Almost … disappointment. She had to swallow hard when Lydia bit her lower lip; did the other girl not realise how that looked? How tempting that was?

She didn’t know what to say, which she mentally berated herself for. All that effort, and when the moment came she was tongue-tied. But Lydia was so beautiful, and so intriguing, and /so/ self-possessed. Hands clenched even more tightly around book and purse, she stepped in front of Lydia and into the house.

Summer stood uncertainly in the foyer and, reminded, offered, “I brought something for you.” She held out the book.

The girl seemed to forget words, but Lydia was so absurdly used to this that she didn’t even miss a beat. She would allow her a few moments to gather her thoughts and her wits before trying to press her into talking again. With the book held out, Lydia reached for it and opened to see what it was. She smiled softly, and had to admit, the girl was good. Such a pity. She had had every intention of letting down her admirer harshly, or with a one round thing if they were hot, but this poor girl…

“Thank you,” Lydia said, looking up at her. “It’s a very sweet gift.” She had nothing else like it, and it would certainly find a home on her bookshelf.

Walking into her living room, Lydia set the book down on the coffee table, then picked up the half drank bottle of wine and filled an empty glass. She offered it to her fellow ginger while picking up her own, and took a sip. “Alright, now come sit down so we can talk. You’re probably not going to like my answer, but, I promise it’s not without valid reason.”

Oh, god, she’d never tasted that particular flavour of patience before. It was sour and she couldn’t decide which of them it hurt more. Summer took the wine glass, sniffing it before throwing back a long swallow.

“You’re going to tell me that you aren’t interested,” she said, low and with barely any inflection. Just like that, the butterflies were gone. This — was familiar. Painful, but she knew this ground. “That you don’t do serious relationships,” she went on. The glass turned in her fingers.

“The words you use might be different, but what you want to say to me is that you hurt too much to let someone else in. That you’re tired of being hurt. Being forgotten. Not finding answers.” Summer looked down into the wine, then up at Lydia’s face.