141 & insecurities
You know when someone makes a comment about something you can’t change about yourself and then you never forget it? Sometimes not even meanly, just as an observation of something you never noticed. And then you never forget. For example:
Your laugh is really loud. Can you quiet down?
Wow, you have a lot of hair on your arms and hands.
Your tits are different sizes, like. Significantly.
Oh, your pussy’s pretty fat. Is it swollen or does it just look like that?
Soap who notices you start to cover your mouth when you laugh. “What, am I not funny enough?” he asks you. “Where’s your giggles now, huh? C’mon, show me that smile.” When you finally laugh, loud enough to hurt his ears in a way that echoes so pleasantly, he grins wickedly. “That’s better. How am I supposed to know if I’m being funny if you’re all quiet?” He loves when you’re loud. It feels like winning when he makes you laugh. And it fucking feels triumphant when he gets you to scream his name as he fucks you.
Gaz who holds your hand so delicately and rubs his thumb over the back of your hand and the hair there, and runs his calloused palms up and down your arms, smoothing over your hair. He touches every part of your body, hair and all. Over your legs, your arms, your pussy. He’ll eat your cunt like it’s his last meal with any amount of hair. Full bush, baby, he can handle it. He doesn’t mind it. In fact, he doesn’t really notice it at all. It’s just you. And he happens to like all of you a whole lot.
Ghost who is obsessed with your tits. Both of em. The smaller one and the bigger one; the one that’s shaped nicely and the one that’s not as even. He doesn’t care. He doesn’t notice. Because tits. Perfect ones. Ones he’s allowed to touch and grab and suck on and bite—even if you smack at him after. Ones he stares at, almost hypnotized, when they bounce up and down as he fucks you. He comes home and lays between your legs, head on your stomach, with both arms reached up under your shirt to cup your boobs with rough hands, and he sleeps like a baby.
Price who grabs you by the hips and sits you and your fat cunt right on his face. He runs the head of his cock over the plush labia, spreading them open, and then sinking into your hot, wet pussy. “I can see your cunt through your leggings,” he says when you’re standing in front of him and he’s sitting on the bed, eye level with your crotch. You’re about to say you should change, but he breathes, “Christ, that’s sexy.” He notices what you look like because he wants to get a face full of your pussy so he can draw it from memory when he’s away. He doesn’t care—why would he? It’s hot. You’re beautiful. You’re his. He loves it. He loves you.