agloriousfemalepresident:

Bill Clinton casts New York’s first electoral vote for Hillary Rodham Clinton

Awarded with Honour

Her blush had almost matched the bruise, when her friend had pointed it out like it was some sort of social faux pas; a bit of spinach in the teeth, or a label sticking out. Like she’d made some sort of clumsy mistake and discoloured her skin in such a way. Silly girl, try to be more careful, try not to let your masochistic tendencies find you tied face down on the bed under the repeated blows of the man she was slowly falling in love with. No siree, that was totally unacceptable in this social circle, thankyouverymuch.

She’d giggled in response, shrugging and brushing it off as if she really had walked into a shoulder-high table corner, giving herself an impact bruise that was about the size of a fist and just as angry. Her friend had looked quizzical for a moment, as if the nonchalance was entirely unwarranted, but after that had let it go. She’d slipped on her cardigan, covered up the offending mark, and waited for the heat to drain out of her cheeks.

The problem was she’d wanted to display it, wear it proudly on her arm like a badge of honour, some medal that she could parade around on her chest, so that everyone knew exactly who she was and what she had done. She’d fought for that bruise, really she had, and she felt like she’d earned it. Helped him build up to using that much force, teased it out of him with playful remarks and pleading requests. And eventually he’d closed that deft palm and brought it down on her arm with enough force to make her wince and cry out. 

But that’s what she’d asked for, and the pain was only momentary, washing away in a sea of numbness almost immediately, her nerves in shock, just a dull throb that felt like it was a thousand miles away, a long distance request to start feeling the pain, to bring her back into the land of the living.

It was thrilling, and she’d clutched herself for almost five minutes, rubbing her arm and staring up at him with punch drunk eyes. He’d stroked her face, half laughing and half looking genuinely worried, before they’d kissed. Hard, desperate, tongues bumping against one another’s teeth as they mistimed the French dive. Eventually they’d found one another, and he’d sucked hers into his mouth before clamping down on it with his teeth, forcing her to tug back, grazing all the way. She thrilled. 

The bruise had come up so beautifully, first just a soft red before it blossomed into a heavy purple, the single cloud on an otherwise perfect day, and she knew those yellowed edges would only encroach deeper as time went on. It was a beautiful reminder of him, a black spot on her vision that kept him in mind. 

And now she’d had to cover it up to avoid odd glances at work. The sacrifices she had to make for love. A sigh.