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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

Using her hands and knees to support her weight, she feels how he towers over her. But it is when she finally feels his cock breaching her wet hole that she truly feels breathless. His hands keep a firm grip on her and so she relaxes, taking in every inch of the man until he’s buried all the way in - drawing a gasp from her.

“Oh…” she rasps, softly, adjusting to the feeling of him deep inside her. Her whole body is aching for him and she rocks her hips slightly, seeking out much-needed friction.

He starts to ask her if she's alright when she starts to squirm back against him, an enthusiastic indicator.

He's not rough with her, but the pace he sets is brisk with need. Gripping the softness of her hips, he thrusts into her over and over and over again, the sound of flesh striking flesh joining their chorus of moans and growls.

This time she does not hold back the sounds of need and pleasure and though she is not loud, what matters is they mingle with his own, painting a picture of the atmosphere they are in. The pace he sets satisfies her, hits the already sensitive nerves in a way that only heightens the experience. With each thrust, she meets him halfway with the curve and move of her hips.

At some point, she spreads her lega a little further apart, just enough to egg him on, coaxing him to thrust deeper into her. Her words, loosely strung together, are pleas for him: to keep going, to not stop, and oh how good he feels like this.

The shift of her hips drives him just a fraction deeper and draws a sharp, breathless gasp that turns into a laugh of decadent abandon as he ploughs her into the mattress.

He gives into his pleasure whole heartedly, but with a witcher's stamina, she'll have plenty of time for her own fires to be stoked to blazing again.

As is inhibitions are let go of, so are her own; after all, it would be impossible to feel anything but pure bliss while he fucks her into the mattress below. With each thrust he elicits another sound from her, she squirms and tightens around him, relishing in the feeling of him in its entirety.

It’s very likely that even as she winds down from the previous orgasm and builds up her arousal again, she might not keep up with him. Is she aware of this? Yes. But she is giving in completely and giving herself completely to him in the process as well. Her whole body’s response to his is evidence of that.

He groans her name, lurching forward when his orgasm takes him. He catches himself on the headboard with one hand, the other still clutching at her hip to pull her flush against him, driving himself as deeply as possible into her. He manages to keep himself upright with his grip the headboard, despite the urge to simply flop bonelessly in the wake of his own pleasure.

"Should I...?" He offers, the hand on her hip sliding downwards and across her belly to rest between her thighs, though he won't touch too much without her go-ahead.

In the time it takes for him to lose himself to his orgasm, he brings her to hers once, almost twice, though the pressure is too much in too little time for the amount of times he's driven her over the edge already, and her body demands a moment to wind down. Nonetheless she is relaxed, coaxing him to keep going and nearly seeing stars once he does come, buried deep inside her. She groans his name, her skin burning hot to the touch and her face as red as wildflowers.

"I'm all spent," she whispers with a small laugh, just a touch manic. One of her hands reaches to meet his, not to stop him necessarily, but to rest on him and assure him that she's well and taken care of. Her body feels lightweight, as does her head, but she nudges him down towards the mattress, inviting him to lie down once more, even if part of her is -- quite selfishly -- lavishing in the feeling of having him inside her. "Was this... Good for you?"

He lingers for half a moment, as if reluctant to part, but then he rolls over onto his back beside her in the thoroughly mussed bed. He nods at her question, with his lopsided smile.

"Yeah that was...it was great." He pants. "You?"

That short moment feels like a lifetime and she appreciates it tremendously. She flops down beside him -- again on his less scarred side -- and onto her side, examining his features with a smile of her own.

"It was divine," she sighs softly, searching for his hand. "Seems as if we both needed this."

"Much like the bed, more than I might want to admit." He rumbles, casting an arm over his face to block out the sunlight. He's quiet for a moment before he broaches a somewhat awkward topic.

"You...uh...won't have anything to worry about. From this, I mean. I can't catch diseases and I can't get anybody pregnant. Don't know why, witcher stuff."

There's a small laugh at the admission, but eventually she rolls onto her back and glances up at the ceiling. She's silent for a moment longer, too.

"'Suppose that makes things a little less cumbersome, for your profession that is," she muses quietly. "I... I wasn't worried. Not that I expected anything to happen but I wouldn't... Burden you." She trails off, rubbing her face. It is indeed an awkward but necessary topic.

"You seem like a smart girl, I figure you'd deal with it if you had to but it's better to know that you won't have to." He says. "Working girls already know, it didn't occur to me to mention it until...after." He feels about until he can rest a hand on her thigh, giving it a fond squeeze.

"There's always a wise woman to look for when things turn a little grim," she concedes, turning her head slightly to rest it against his shoulder. "It's alright - I promise. I... I didn't want you to stop, you see. I would do it all over again just the same."

He peers at her under his arm.

"You be careful saying things like that." He teases. "Or we'll never get out of bed."

She laughs; it is not loud, but mirthful. She searches for the hand he'd rested on her thigh and gives it a light squeeze. "I said what I said," she teases right back. "Can't blame a lass for enjoying the company."

"Mm. Let me buy you breakfast, at least." He offers, though he makes no move to get up and look for his trousers. "Can't have you fainting on me."

"Like a fair maiden?" it's a playful question. "I won't say no to breakfast." However she makes no move to get up, either, at least not yet - not until he does first. She really is enjoying the company.

"Hey now, even a witcher'll get dizzy if he goes long enough without eating." He huffs. After a while, he gets up and steps into his small clothes and then goes to the wash stand to bring her the washrag, lest she be uncomfortably sticky. A gentleman as always.

"I jest. I'm sure you know that." She watches him from the bed for a moment, simply admiring him really, but soon rummages around for her own clothes. She pauses only to take the washrag from him, thanking him with a small nuzzle on his shoulder. A gentleman, indeed.

It takes her a moment, but she cleans herself up properly before getting dressed, pressing down on the fabric of her clothes to remove any unwanted wrinkles. Then, her bodice, which she'd taken out the night before, and at last she finally lets her hair down from its braid, trying to make some sense of its mass to look at least moderately decent.

"Remind me to treat you to a warm bath some other time," she's perfectly aware that there might not be some other time, but it feels right to say it. "I'm sure we'd both enjoy it tremendously."

"Mm, maybe we'll run into each other in a big city and we'll be able to find somewhere with baths big enough for two." Granted, that place might be a brothel like the Passiflora of Novigrad but he reckons she wouldn't mind too much. In a private room, it wouldn't matter much anyway.

"I won't be back down in this part of the world until next summer." He says. "I have to head home for the season, now."

There's a soft Ah of understanding when he says it. "Home to your brethren?"

She's all dressed up now and leans against one of the walls, folding her arms over her chest; waiting until he is prepared, if he is. Her belongings can stay for now, as the room is paid for a second night. "Maybe we'll see one another after the snows begin to thaw. I'll probably be headed towards a larger city for the colder months, myself. Easier to find work than in smaller towns."

"Yeah, find somewhere to stay warm for the winter." He thinks of the hard bed in the drafty hall. "I'm sure you'll land somewhere cozy, find a patron for the season." He looks her over, assessing that she's dressed, and goes to get the door for her, gesturing for her to go ahead of him.

Must be nice to have somewhere to go back to, no? The question lingers in her mind, but it feels a little too sensitive to ask - just last night they were talking about the Cats who got strung up. There are fewer of them, witchers. It mustn't be that nice to see their numbers dwindle with each passing season.

"If anything, there's always a tavern looking for entertainers to lift the spirits during the cold season," she confirms after a short, contemplative silence on her end. She moves past him, past the door and glances back at him with a playful smile. "Promise I won't make a profit off your scars."

"I imagine you won't. Couldn't tell this tale in anything other than a bawdy house anyway." He teases, treating her to a cheeky pinch through her skirt.

"Don't tempt me." She laughs, playfully batting his hand but without any real ill intent. She would very much like to hold it instead, but the sounds of other people in the vicinity advise her against it. "They pay a nice fee for us musicians, you know."

The Unlovables

The Unlovables

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