#yes im projecting onto the whumper of this story. look away /lh

[honeycollectswhump]

Like Blood and Oxygen

[masterlist]

CW: mental breakdown, obsessive thought patterns

The chandelier casts a golden light across her bedroom, a candle spreading the sweet smell of vanilla, and it makes Mireille want to vomit. It makes her want to reach into the fire, to take it into her palm and squeeze and choke the light out of it. It makes her want to rip the chandelier down, execute it on the ground, stamp on each jewel until it cracks and shatters beneath her bare feet. 

Instead Mireille paces in front of her mirror, as tall as the ceiling, golden frame like artwork –fucking artwork, it’s fucking art, she is fucking art–, money spent on a horrid shade of gold, more money than her stupid fucking servants will ever have, and

What.

Does.

It.

Matter.

Why care at all. 

Because her stupid fucking nightgown sits horribly on her curves, silky red doing nothing but making her skin crawl and no one will see her anyways it doesn’t matter but it does. For the hundredth time she fumbles with the fabric, draping it on her breasts, flowing over her hips, just long enough to cover what it has to. Maybe instead it should cover her whole like a grieving widow or a burial shroud for all she’s worth. 

She could rip her skin off with her teeth, undress herself to the bone, bare veins and sinew if that would make her be something. Mireille knows what she should look like, she knows, every fiber knows, and yet the gown hides her waist and there is no one to touch her, to see the work of art she has spent her fucking life creating and what worth has art if it isnt being looked at. 

They should be grateful, grateful to lay eyes upon her smooth skin, shining blue eyes, luscious hair, her voice and her body and– 

And yet they don’t. They do, but not really. 

Not. Enough.

It’s not enough, none of it is, but how is that her fault? It’s not. Of course it isn’t.

Mireille has friends, and they love her, they fucking love her. She’s gorgeous and elegant, each movement deliberately poised, it's like second nature, it’s her nature and her job. She leaves kisses like burns and burns like kisses and both leave a mark on the world that will never fade. 

Instead, it will twist and scar, a never healing wound but at least it is a reminder.

Mireille should be at the center of their thoughts, the center of their world, their universe. She should be their star and their sun, granting them warmth and light when she feels like it. They should strive for nothing more than to please her, read her thoughts and treat her right, touch her right and kiss her in worship that comes from the heart. 

She doesn’t need to ask for it, she shouldn’t! If they were the right people, they would know, instinctively. They would know the meanings she so carefully covers in words and jewelry, would read it like the bible, would examine every intention. They would know and they would love her.

Love her like she was created to fit their souls, to fulfill them. Only her closeness is sweet relief, wishful satisfaction. Love her like warmth, like the sun, like blood. Love her like oxygen. 

Love her.

Love her.

Love her.

Please.

Taglist: @whumpsday, @2in1whump, @sodacreampuff, @webbo0, @toyybox, @sowhumpshaped, @clickerflight let me know if you want to be added or removed :)