Fic: That Side
E-mail: the_smooth_one910@hotmail.com
Rating: PG-13. Ish.
Warnings: It's het. Yeah, yeah, I know, but I couldn't resist!
Feedback: Always appreciated.
Pairings: Liv/Orlando
Summary: Both know they shouldn't walk on that side.


She knows she shouldn't, knows she should stay away from that side. One hand in her purse, the other on her thigh. One set of fingers wrapped around her lipstick tube, the other squeezing flesh so hard, she knows there will be a mark there, a mark no one but herself would try to kiss away.

She knows she shouldn't ever cross to that side. One eye fixed on the screen, the other on a boy, a stupid, normal boy who means nothing to her. That's what she tells herself. A boy who means nothing, just another faceless blur, a dark blur, nothing at all.

She can't bear to cross over to that side. One ear committed to a conversation she SHOULD care for, the other listening to a meaningless boy sputter meaningless nonsense. He is fake, there is no doubt nor surprise in that. The fame has warped him, she's seen it so many times, he does nothing but present a movie star facade. She wonders if he feels anything, if nothing surprises him anymore. She wonders, very briefly, what he would do if she walked up to him and bit him, hard enough to draw blood, on his ear. Or his neck. Or his Adam's apple.

She refuses to think of his reaction, for she dare not venture onto that side. She stands now, one leg asleep, the other sore. One step is confident, the other faulty, and she tells herself she's had enough, of his meaningless chatter, of this meaningless party, of this meaningless boy. She wants to slap some sense into him, make him realize he had to be more careful, that he couldn't tease and expect no consequences.

She shouldn't walk onto that side. He means nothing, he means nothing, she tells herself as she walks over to him, as he gives a group of women a whorish smile. Starfuckers, she almost snarls aloud, but she only has to give them a look, and they are frozen.

"Liv," he says, smiling no whorish smile, but chaste and purely. He does not have the nerve to cross that line, to walk on that side. Suddenly his eyes widen, and for the first time in months, this meaningless boy says something with actual feeling. "You're bleeding."

She looks down at her exposed legs. One is milky white, the other stained with blood from a mark no one would ever kiss away. She looks up at him, merely nods, waits for him to say something. She tells herself she does not want this meaningless boy with a stupid name to kiss the mark away. She doesn't want that, because if she did, that would crossing over to that side.

She could never allow that, so she just walks away, ignoring his eyes on her. Both know it's a fine line, a line that could never be crossed, a side that they could never walk on, for fear of the destruction, the change, the ruins it would cause.

She knows this. She's accepted this. She doesn't mind so much anymore. She doesn't even think about him anymore. He and his lips were meaningless now, just part of a side that can never be crossed, for she had barely survived it the first time...a second time would destroy her.

It wasn't that much different anyway. She used to bleed, too, when she was on that side. The only difference now is that she's the one who brings her blood forth. It's a lot better than letting someone else do it.


How many hobbits can we fit in a bed?
This ain't floating my boat!
Home, Jones!


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