Miranda likes the way Liv's skin bruises under her fingers. She's not a cruel person, or a violent person, but when she bites down hard on that spot where Liv's gorgeous, delicate neck meets her collarbone, she likes the way the blood blooms purple and blue and red underneath her teeth, underneath the skin.
Miranda likes the way her fingers dig into Liv's flesh. When Liv is lying between Miranda's thighs, her clever fingers making Mirry writhe and squirm and scream, she likes the way she can clamp her fingers onto Liv's shoulder and leave half-moon crescents with her fingernails. Afterwards, lying in bed, Miranda kisses them and likes the fact that tomorrow, underneath her elf-princess veneer, Liv will bear these marks that tether her to the ground, and to Miranda.
Miranda rubs concealer off the bruises on Liv's throat every night. The makeup girls apply it to keep them off film, of course elves don't bruise, and modern makeup can hide almost anything, but Miranda likes to see them when she's curled against Liv, bruises linked like a necklace on Liv's collarbone, blossoming in the hollow of her throat like a pendant on an Oscar necklace Liv could not wear in public.
Miranda leaves a bruise on Liv's hip, a place that only she can see. When it starts to fade, she bites the spot hard, Liv's back arching underneath her, and it reappears, dark against pale skin. Lying in bed, she runs her fingers over it, staring at their secret. She thinks of it as a consecration of this affair.
Liv sleeps with her arms around Miranda. Miranda thinks it feels like drowning, to wake up in the middle of the night, immersed in someone else like that. When she startles awake, she kisses the insides of Liv's wrists, gently, leaving no marks, and goes back to sleep content.