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The Unlovables

The Unlovables

Everyone loves a hero. As long as they're youthful, hot, charming and conventionally attractive. Meanwhile, all the old, ugly, broke down, difficult-to-love, bastards out there are toiling away in lonesome obscurity trying not to daydream too much about what a relief it would be if someone came along with a soft touch, and a kind word, and the promise that it'll be ok.

Whether canon or fandom branded them as such, whether it's well deserved or not, there's lots of unlovables. They know most beasts never transform for their beauties. They've probably noticed that even in the Disney version Quasimodo ends up alone ffs. Still, props to them for maintaining a shred of optimism about finding love. Even if they'll never admit to being hopeful.

So if you spent prom on the bleachers. If you max-out at a 5 (maybe 6 generously). If you've got a history of first dates and very few seconds; If you can guarantee you'll get the seat to yourself on the train. Chin up, champ. This one's for you

how to play:

Top level with your unlovable characters; State any prefs like gen, shippy or nsfw. Link your permissions pgs. Tell us a bit about what makes your muse a tough sell.

Comment to comfort someone the world finds difficult to love and be the real heroes in this meme.

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

She takes in a large breath through her nose, her chest rising against his when he pulls her on top of him, his broad hands holding her frame in place; with a bit of luck he can feel her own marred skin where her shirt hikes up from the movement. Her smaller hands move up to rest at the junction between his neck and shoulders and she buries her nose there, inhaling deeply. “Mmhm, much better,” she murmurs. “You’re warm too. And intoxicating.”

He smells like leather and smoke and sweat and the sharp, dangerous botanicals that witchers apply to their blades or ingest to bolster their already considerable powers.

The soft, feminine warmth of her body on top of his draws a quiet groan and his calloused fingertips trace the skin along the hem of her shirt where it rides up.

Intoxicating is really the right word to describe him and she feels as if she's floating, fingertips moving from where they've laid to trace his shoulders and one of his strong, muscled arms. She shifts a little, only so that she can rest an elbow beside his head and pull her frame up enough to press a kiss to his unmarred cheek, nuzzling him with the tip of her nose.

Her breathing is quiet, but a little shallower than it was before and the tiny exhale that escapes her lips when he touches her, akin to a small gasp. His fingertips burn against her skin, but the look his gives him is one of permission; should he want to, he is free to explore.

His hands slide up her back, fingertips tracing the dip of her spine. If the burns under his fingertips arrest his attention, his hands at least do not linger on them.

Beneath her, he tips his head back. A wolf showing his belly, a gesture of absolute trust and an invitation that she can, indeed, kiss him anywhere but on the mouth.

True to form, she respects his wishes and leaves his lips alone. The comfort that he displays is indeed inviting and she allows her own fingertips to tread along his arm, up over his shoulder again, while her other hand finds his hair again and burrows in it, caressing him. She kisses his (unmarred) temple once, twice, before dipping her head down to nuzzle his jawline. All the while and under his own fingertips, her back arches lightly and she heaves a small, pleased sigh, quietly reveling in his every movement and action.

His blunt, calloused fingers press into her sides as his body moves restlessly beneath hers and his hands push up under her shirt to caress her shoulders and along her sides.

With a small jerk, she tugs the sleeve one arm, freeing it from the confines of the shirt that she shrugs off over her head, exposing the supple, bare skin beneath. But it isn't long before she's back to caressing his shoulders and his strong chest, her movements almost feline-like.

He mumbles something against her collarbones that probably wouldn't be considered very gentlemanly but he says it with hopefully enough reverence to be endearing. He skims his torn mouth (never lingering long enough to really kiss, lest it be uncomfortable) over her collarbones and shoulders as one of his massive hands reaches up to palm one of her breasts, as if just savoring the softness of it.

Her lips curl upwards into a small smile, his words indeed understood as more endearing than anything else and she hums something impressively unladylike in return. The hand that had been caressing his hair sort of entwines in it in a small (but hopefully not painful) fist when his hands find her breasts; her chest expands with a deep breath that comes undone as a pleased sigh, while her restless hips move not so much in a grind just yet, but so that she can spread each leg to straddle him properly.

The hand not occupied with her breast wraps around her thigh to pull her close. Now that they've started, he seems at least capable of losing himself in the moment, at least for now. He pants softly against her skin, clinging to her.

While her free hand roams the expanse of his chest, the other one comes to rest at the back of his neck, holding him close. Her lips press against his temple once more, once, twice, her shallow breaths warm against him. She dips down to nip his earlobe playfully, flicking her tongue to brush against the patch of skin just under his ear, close to his jawline.

He growls deep in his chest and his fingers tighten for a moment before he forcibly relaxes his grip, laughing sheepishly.

"Fuck, it's been a while for me..." He reiterates, embarrassed but at least laughing a little at his own eagerness.

"You're fine," she grins, pecking his cheek in what she can only hope is a reassuring manner. He must be able to feel her heart thumping in her chest, her skin practically burning up under his touch. "Just take your sweet time," she whispers in his ear, playfully (yet lightly) raking her nails across his skin. "'M all yours, here."

"I'd like to take my time..." He echoes, hand smoothing from her chest to her hip so that both his hands rest on her thighs. He tags at the fabric of her trousers.

"Would you wanna take these off?"

"Gladly," she answers with a small, relieved breath. Her hands, previously occupied, move to first rest on top of his, guiding him in peeling them off until she's only wearing these flimsy pale knickers. For all she cares he could rip them off, but that's her mind getting ahead of herself. "Is this alright?"

"Yeah, that's alright." He says, running his calloused palms up the shapes of her bare thighs. "Why don't you come up here..." He says, patting the pillows. "I find ladies mind my face less if they're sitting on it."

She heaves in a slow, measured breath, suddenly very aware of the warmth pooling at the pit of her stomach. "Who am I to deny such an invitation?" She whispers, practically slithering over him, stopping only once her knees are nestled beside each side of his head, though still holding herself up so he can adjust himself however he'd like. One of her hands tousles his hair, the other seemingly aware of the position of the headboard. Just in case.

He lets her get comfortable and then wraps his powerful arms around her thighs, more steadying than restraining. He takes half a moment just to caress her before hooking his fingers into the fabric of her undergarments to push them aside.

He's too much a gentleman to tear them unless she insists, of course.

Once he's reasonably sure she's comfortable, he sets about his task with the gusto of a man with a genuine enthusiasm for pleasing a lady. And whatever deficit that might be caused by the partial paralysis of his torn lips is more than made up for by his tongue, thankfully mended from the knife that had clipped him in the mouth decades ago.

The feel of his strong arms snaking around her thighs and the definite pull of fabric to the side sends sparks all the way up her body and down her spine, suddenly leaving her very aware of each nerve ending on herself. She is warm and she is wet, two things he certainly has the opportunity to notice as he steadies her with his strong grip.

There’s a quiet “fuck”, very unladylike despite the way her pitch increases an octave or two and undoubtedly in response to his skilled tongue. Relishing in the way he sets about pleasing her, she allows her fingertips in one hand to burrow into the mass of hair atop his head, the other now gripping the bedframe so as to support herself and her trembling legs, aching to press herself further against him and his unrelenting ministrations.

The fingers in his hair elicit a growl of pleasure from the man between her thighs, allows her to pull him as close as they could possibly be, allows and even encourages her to ride his ruined face. He's clearly hell-bent on wringing at least one orgasm out of her before he even turns a thought to the ache between his own thighs.

Once more it begs the question: who is she to deny him the pleasure? Or herself? Her body tenses under his touch, his warmth, hips rolling against him, effectively riding his face as he encourages her to. And it is she who rips the flimsy piece of fabric of her own undergarment once the tug of it becomes somewhat constricting.

To remain silent is nothing short of a Sisyphean task as is evident through her shallow breaths, interpolated with quiet moans of delight. Her eyes are fixed on him, or as much of him as she can see. Because she wants to see this man who is driving her absolutely mad. The erratic twitch of her hips when she grinds down is a sign that she won’t last long if he keeps it up, but she does not relent.

The sound of fabric ripping as it's torn from between the draws a laugh from the witcher that vibrates up through the woman astride his face. He avails himself of the free hand to reach up to knead her breasts and toy with her nipples. Determined to push her over the edge.

Oh she can feel his laugh rumbling through her very core and it is contagious; it draws a grin from her, but she can hardly make a noise that doesn’t come out as a plea for more, or a few choice words that would probably qualify as largely unladylike, especially when he gropes her with his free hand. Her movements become more and more erratic the longer they go on, pleasure pulsing through her in waves and, moreover, she is sure he can feel it in the way her legs and voice alike tremble; she will come undone any moment now, and she will ride him through her orgasm - hopefully only the first before they are through.

He feels her body tense up and the sound of her heartbeat fills his ears. All of his powerful senses are consumed with her and he lets himself drown in it, to think of nothing else.

He clings to her, heaving her as close as possible as she comes undone against his face, easing up the efforts of his tongue in the aftermath, lest her pleasure turn to discomfort.

Her legs shake violently as her orgasm ripples through her, hips rocking in tandem with the rush of pleasure that she chases wantonly. All she can feel at that moment is him and how they connect and she isn’t sure how long the moment lasts, but it seems to go on forever until her hips finally slow to a halt. Her chest rises and falls in long, slow breaths and her cheeks are bright red as she glances down at him, wordless, lips still parted in an expression of pure bliss.

The Unlovables

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