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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

"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.

"Alright?" He rasps after a while, from where he's turned his face against the soft inside of her thigh, a sliver of liquid gold appearing under the edge of his eyelid as he peers up at her. Turned like this, he looks almost whole.

“Divines,” she exhales a moment after his question hangs in the air. To her he is whole as he is, and he is beautiful. “You want to tear me apart.”

Once her legs finally settle down and she stops quivering all over, she slowly, gently, moves to dislodge herself from his grip, only because she first wishes to lean down and lick his unmarred cheek, then press a kiss to it. With a glance down his body, she inhales deeply, pressing both hands onto the crook of his neck.

“Well, I want to make you howl.”

He pulls a face at the lick, but good-naturedly and it draws a laugh. After all, the only thing she'll get for her efforts is the scrape of morning stubble and a generous taste of herself. Maybe she's into that sort of thing, he supposes.

"I can do that as much as you like." He rumbles, with a lopsided grin.

"I want to hear you wanting me," she hums, pulling back so she can finally straddle his hips and take a proper look at him. "I want to feel you. In my mouth. Inside me." Her hands trail down his broad chest, palms open wide, until they reach his navel and the waist band of his trousers. She palms his crotch through the fabric, slow but firmly, licking her lips. "But what do you want? Ask and I shall give you everything."

Her deft troubarix's fingers make contact with his cock through the fabric and the touch on the neglected flesh draws a deep growl from the witcher. He covers his face with the broad span of his hand to hide the way half his face twists into a grimace and exposes his cracked teeth.

"I want that too." He pants. "But usually I'd ask the lady to do it turned away. On your knees or just facing the other way." Usually with hired women, they just do it in the dark, but there's nothing he can do about the daylight.

"You would have me look away," she mused longingly, still touching him only through the fabric, gently squeezing the length, trying to draw out another beautiful sound. It's impossible to mask the look of desire and need on her own face, not that she would - and while she takes notice of the way he covers his, she says nothing of it. In fact - and despite her relentless teasing - she sounds... Understanding. "Would you feel better if my eyes were covered? If I did not look up at you? Would you have me on my hands and knees, back facing you, instead? I will do any and all of it, if it's your desire."

His brain helpfully supplies what she would look like playfully blindfolded and he has to shake it off. He doesn't generally go in for games, but the image had been charming, as attested to by the twitch of the length under her curious hand.

"On your knees would be...great." He says, embarrassed at how relieved he sounds.

That she does take note of and rewards him with a firmer squeeze, her fingertips trailing to the waistband of his trousers and looping over it with a small, tentative tug. "May I?" She asks quietly, conceding to his request with no hint of judgement in her voice either way. "Perhaps you'd prefer to sit?"

He reaches down to help her with the well-mended leather that clings to his muscled thighs, unlacing the colorful red ties at the flies and waist before he settles back against the pillows, letting her peel trousers and small clothes down his thighs.

True to his word last night, the huge crescent shaped scar on his thigh does go up rather too high for him to have shown her last night, but now that they've established a very intimate association, she can see all of it and more. Namely the thick cock that bobs free of the restrictive garments as soon as she gets them down over his thighs.

In any other occasion it would be easy to feel under-dressed in comparison, but given the circumstances, she can forgo the feeling. His assistance is appreciated, for her patience does not often translate as well in the bedroom, but soon she begins to peel away the layers of clothing, tugging them down his powerful thighs, taking a moment to drink in the sight of him before settling, knees pressed together, between his legs.

Her palms trail back up his legs slowly, feeling his skin and tracing the notorious scar, until one hand reaches the base of his cock and she has to take a moment, swallowing dryly and tugging loose strands of hair behind her ear with her free hand. She is not as shy in her touch now, but she takes it slowly, stroking the length of him a couple of times before dipping her head down - and consequently arching her back so her bottom remains up - to take the him into her mouth with a measure of enthusiasm quite great and different from that in which coin and a service are usually involved.

She looks real pretty like that, arranging herself in such a way that he can enjoy the arch of her back and the shapes of her curves. Her touch draws a gasp and his cock twitches eagerly in the curl of her fingers. But the application of her mouth-- which he hadn't been expecting-- makes him groan and dig the fingers of the hand not covering his face into the rumpled sheets.

True to her word and to his request, she does not tilt her head to look at him. Which doesn't mean she isn't aware of the way he reacts, of course, but only that she chooses to respect his wishes. It turns out her mouth isn't only good for singing or chugging beer; her tongue works deftly along with the hollows of her cheeks, alternating between slow, yet eager sucking and licking, taking in as much of his cock as she possibly can before focusing on its head again.

She isn't trying to drive him over the edge, necessarily. Not yet. But she wants to feel the need in him and see how far she can take it before they both decide they need more.

His face is still partially covered with his palm but he's plenty responsive beneath it, unable to bite back his low, rough sounds of pleasure. He lets her carry on like this for a while before he reaches to touch her, stilling her for a moment so he can try to string a sentence together. It's difficult when he's so achingly hard against her tongue.

"If you get me off now..." He pants. "I can keep going..."

She’s slipping him halfway into her mouth when he stills her. The rays of light slipping through the cracks on the wooden shutters illuminate his skin in a beautiful way, but she resists looking at him nonetheless. Instead, she listens intently, pulling her head back just enough to part her mouth from him with a small, wet sound. Her lips are red and puffy.

“Mmhm,” she strokes him with her hand, firmer this time, taking his words as encouragement to take it a step further. When she resumes her present activity, dipping her head down once more, she takes on a more dedicated approach; her tongue is defter, the way she sucks him off and takes him deeper into the warmth of her mouth are more determined, too; one of her hands still strokes the base of his cock in tandem with the bobbing of her head, occasionally cupping his balls to tease and try to get a reaction from him. And it is clear she’s enjoying herself too, from the sounds elicited from the back of her throat.

The Unlovables

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