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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

“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.

It's clear by his reaction that it's been quite a while since he's had any hand other than his own. When he's alone-- curled up under his threadbare blanket in the woods or slumped drunkenly in some quiet store-rooms in Kaer Morhen-- he never takes this kind of time.

He gasps her name, hand clutching at her shoulder.

"Close--!" He pants, so she can pull back if she prefers not to have him in her mouth when he comes.

Edited 2022-09-10 02:36 (UTC)

She does not back down or pull back. In fact, the way he calls her name and that single word only serve to encourage her further and she hums around him, dipping down again and continuing her endeavor in an effort to drive him over the edge; clearly not intending in pulling away before he comes, though conscious to ease her efforts once he does to let him enjoy himself to the fullest.

He forces himself to trust that she knows what she wants and surrenders finally to his orgasm, clinging to the sheets with the effort of not thrusting into the heat of her mouth as he spends himself with a full-bodied snarl of release, barely muffled by his palm.

It is a good thing that he allows himself to trust, for such a small gesture matters in the long run. One of her hands comes up to rest on his hip, not so much pressing down as much as steadying him somewhat, so that she can accompany the wave of his orgasm without choking on him, taking him in eagerly and withdrawing only once he finally eases down, wiping the dribble from the corner of her mouth. She does not turn aside, nor does she spit out, much preferring to swallow down the taste of him, any manners be damned.

She rests her head against his hip for a moment, heaving in much needed, deep breaths; one must resist continuing to touch him, unless he does indeed want to keep going. "Better?"

He laughs, warm and rough, hand dropping from his face as he slumps among the pillows.

"Yeah..." He says, after a moment. Eyes still closed, he feels about blindly into he can find some part of her to caress and squeeze.

"But I don't think we're getting out of bed any time soon."

He finds her hair, the side of her head, a hand; she leans into his touch and laughs mirthfully, breathlessly.

"I can't say I take issue with that," she admits. "You don't seem to, either."

"As long as you don't mind." He hums. "I'm in no rush." He runs his fingers through her hair. "Eventually we oughta get breakfast but you could squeeze another round or two outta me before then."

“Is that so?” She inquires, stretching like a cat and lazily moving so that she can lie beside him again; for the sake of peace, she is at his unmarred side. Searching for one of his hands, she brings it close to her chest, inviting him to touch if he so wishes. “I won’t say no to that, you know. Breakfast can wait just a little longer.”

And touch he does. Now that he's been invited and thoroughly reassured, he lets himself have whatever this is, running his broad, rough hands over her skin, tracing curves and softness. He rumbles lazily, doing nothing for his overall impression of an enormous, scarred mastiff.

His fingers skim down her hip and across her thigh, pausing for a moment, an unspoken question as they trace a little higher.

She likes this side of him, she decides. It contrasts with the brutality of his profession in ways that she could wax poetics about for far too long, were he not keeping her busy in much better ways. She is languid under his touch, moving only when giving him more room to touch, letting his hands roam as they please and humming lazily.

When she feels him pause, she searches for the crook of his neck, nuzzling him with her nose. "Go ahead," she whispers oh-so-quietly, encouraging him further. "I'm all yours, here."

"Hm..." He tips his head back to let her kiss his neck as his hand sweeps upward and between her thighs. She's plenty wet still but he's still gentle to account for the thickness of his fingers as he slips one inside. He can be more frenzied, more brutal, especially if he's carried off by drink, but that sort of thing is reserved almost exclusively for his male partners. With women, he prefers to be gentle, to take his time, to drink in his fill of her pleasure.

She takes his gesture as an invitation and does so precisely, moving one hand to the other side of his neck both for leverage and to feel his powerful frame. Her lips work in slow, lazy kisses and nibbles at his skin - not to hurt, but only occasionally gently scraping her teeth.

He can most certainly feel, not just hear the way she gasps as he slips the digit inside her, unconsciously shifting her hips to meet him halfway. Words slip from her lips in some silly, senseless obscenity; they matter little, save for where they come out in encouragement of his actions. It's clear that she's enjoying his initiative greatly.

The Unlovables

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