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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

"Had a pretty good idea once it was attached to my neck." Eskel chuckles.

His eyes, glowing bright in the dark of the room, trace the scar and then up to her face as she tells her story.

"Probably wasn't a dragon." He points out, likely unhelpfully. "But if it was, the people who hired you were real fuckin' irresponsible sending you after it. I'm sorry you lost your friends to their carelessness."

"They weren't my friends. Not that it's supposed to make it any better but..." She offered the smallest shrug, tugging her shirt back into place. "It sort of does."

Right, what were they doing? Drinking. She peers into her tankard and sort of flips it sideways, noting that it is once again empty. Huh.

"Either way, I was irresponsible too and- oh, this though," she presses her hand to her cheek, tracing a scar far smaller than his own that runs across her lip, before waving her hand a little. "Knife fight. I was young and stupid and thought I had the world at my feet.

"I'd show you the rest, but that would be rather unladylike of me."

"Yeah, this one's from a knife too." He says, showing a faint white scar on his left forearm as he refills her mug. "Alderman convinced a group of thugs to jump me when I came to collect on my contract. Since you don't have to pay and dead man and you can justify it by there being one less mutant in the world." He shrugs.

He tries not to think about what other scars she might show him, or that she might have to take her clothes off to do it. Nope, going to drown any of those thoughts at the bottom of this mug of beer.

“Son of a bitch,” she huffs, leaning a little into her mug before taking a good sip of the drink. “Funny how they cry for help until it comes, then try to swindle their way out of their peomise. Some people’s word… It’s as good as hogwash.”

Her attention is back on him and there’s that smile of hers; a little more than tipsy this time. There’s that attentive gaze, too. She doesn’t say anything this time, though; she’s content just observing him, thinking.

"And they won't know the error of their ways until my brothers and I are dead and the nights suddenly get much colder and darker and bloodier without us." Sure the monster population is dropping too, but witchers will almost certainly go extinct before they do.

She's staring again and he blinks at her.

"You...wanna pick another scar?" He offers, slowly. Feeling like he needs to keep her occupied when he can see the wheels turning in her head like that.

Not to mention, many creatures might have the chance to procreate. Monster populations might grow at any rate and then there are whoresons out there hanging Cats and trying to stab Wolves in the back. The thought is infuriating, but thankfully she is a little too inebriated to go on a small, if fierce tirade.

“I was just wondering how much booze I can keep up with you on,” she admits. “If I could ask about one more, well…”

For the first time, she looks away; there’s that gut feeling again and this time the uncertainty is clear in her expresssion. “Your face.”

"You will be asleep under this table before I even start getting dizzy." He assures her. "My liver is specially designed to metabolize both alcohol and poisons, you'll make yourself real sick trying to keep up." He's in the middle of refilling his mug when she asks.

"Not that one." He says, very quietly. Not a low, threatening tone but one of shame.

There's a pang in her chest with the way he says it. It would be easier to process, she thinks, had it roused anger or defensiveness, but his response is heart-wrenching instead, as if there is something else lingering under the surface which does ail him in some way.

"I'm sorry," she speaks just as quietly, glancing into her mug as she does. The expression of uncertainty doesn't leave her and she finds it harder to look at him in the eye. "I've asked enough of you for one night. Please, feel free to stay. I'll play another song for you if you'd prefer."

"It's just not a good story." He says. "I can find you a better one." He sets down his mug and pulls his shirt off over his head, to bare the violent momentos of claws and teeth that run over the powerful muscles.

She's about to reach for his hand and assure him that it's fine, he doesn't owe her any stories or even an explanation, when he starts pulling his shirt off - which in retrospect makes it look, a little awkwardly, like she's helping him do so what with her arm going up along with his. She swallows dryly, withdrawing her hands close to her midsection as her eyes roam the expanse of taut skin that she can now see under the candlelight.

( Melitele help me. Her face must be turning as red as his jacket. )

"What happened to not wanting to seem ungentlemanly? Not- not that you do." She half-chuckles, half-scoffs at herself. "Just asking."

"Ungentlemanly would be taking off my pants." He says, matter-of-factly. In some ways, he's pretty sure that's the case: she can see well-muscled peasant men shirtless in any given wheat field this time of year. He doesn't look that different, having been born to sturdy hill-folk before all the training and changes that only added to the sheer power outlined in all those muscles.

He's mostly just glad to have distracted her. Hopefully both from her curiosity and the sting of his refusing to indulge it.

It only looks different, really, in the sense that they are both quite alone with drinks in hand and not out on the fields. Not that Brynn is complaining in any capacity, but he does leave her rather speechless for a moment too long. She even takes a swig of her drink followed by a deep, deep breath just to center herself.

Oh, he has distracted her alright. She's praying to every divine she can think of that her mind doesn't wander too much.

"Fair enough. Wasn't expecting you to be this bold is all." Bold? She ought to slap her own forehead for that. Instead, she tries to respectfully go through each mark, though with the poor lighting this makes it so she has to inch closer to do so, until she sets her eyes on a smaller one on his upper abdomen, a little to the side. It's quite nondescript compared to that nastier bite mark, she thinks. "This," she traces it with two fingers, pointing out which one. "Looks old. How'd you get it?"

He tenses slightly, and the hand holding his balled up shirt shifts to allow her to explore while still covering part of the opposite side. There's a scar there too, the less appalling companion of the one on his face. Thankfully, the one she picks provides ample distraction.

"I'm surprised it's still there." He says. "That is from a spill I took before my changes." He twists little to look at it, to remind himself. "We train using these big machines. I got hit with...the windmill, I think. Which has these big arms on it that turn around q center post. Supposed to teach you how to dodge. Anyway, one of the arms was busted and when it hit me it uh...skewered me, kinda. Even after the old man stitched me up, I swear I was still pulling splinters out of my belly for weeks.

The poor lighting is on his side at least in the sense that she has to glean to take a proper look at the expanse of muscled skin to make sense of his marks. In a way he could read a little like a map, except she can't quite make that connection in her slightly, somewhat inebriated state. Instead, she listens and her smile returns.

"So you were a wee lad?" She looked surprise. His description of the event had her reaching up with her other hand to cup his (non-marred) cheek, albeit very briefly before she caught herself and withdrew, resting on his leg for support. "Sorry-" she hummed. "'S just... It's different if I think it's a child getting hurt like that. Your training must have been brutal. Even before your... Changes."

"Yeah. I came to the witchers at maybe four? Five? A foundling from the mountain roads. Only strong bodies survive the alchemical process so the training is brutal. It has to be." He shrugs. "Those of us who survive are the best swordsmen in the world. Nobody compares to the School of the Wolf."

Hopefully she remove her hand before she could feel the skin beneath his stubbed cheek flush at her touch.

"So I've heard, and you've given me enough evidence of that."

If she feels it, she doesn't say anything. She tilts her head a little to look at him and frowns, as if the weight of his words is sinking in. His whole life has been absolutely brutal; no wonder folks will say a witcher has no heart or feelings. No wonder he, himself, parroted that mantra earlier.

Her life on the fields was a walk in the proverbial park in comparison.

"Is this..." She hums, trailing off as if denying herself a line of thought and finally, slowly, removes her hand. Her fingertips brush his shoulder, but ultimately rest on her own lap. "Sorry. Here I am invading your space."

"It's fine. I think." He says, quietly. "Just not used to being touched this much." Still, he'd reached out when she'd touched his shoulder, assuming she was wobbly from all the beer and needed assistance. Not that she would just touch him of her own accord.

Though if she did, he would probably simply divert her somehow, like he had done when she asked about his face.

He would be surprised. Well, actually so would she; she's being rather touchy-feely, isn't she? And though she would like to blame the alcohol, all it has done is leave her more uninhibited.

That leads way to some dangerous thoughts.

"I'm not used to touching someone this much. 'S just you..." She glances down at her hands on her lap, thinking, then finally shakes her head. "Oh, never mind. You'd think I'm being quite silly. More beer?"

"I'm down for more beer, but that's the second thought you've started and cut off in as many minutes." He says, and his lopsided expression is one of concern. "Maybe we shouldn't drink too much more. It might be a bad idea."

"My mind was wandering down slippery slopes. You wouldn't want to know." She holds up her mug and wiggles it a little, playfully, as if that would ease his concern. "I'm good for a couple more at most, don't worry."

"Maybe two more." He rumbles, his eyes starting to burn like dying coals in the dark as his eyelids droop. "But then you probably ought to stop." As if he's not starting to get a little buzz going.

"I'll stop when I'm dead," she responds half-heartedly, but the small wave of her hand signifies that's more an exaggeration than anything else. She dangles her mug in his direction, as if waiting for a refill. "One more, then you can decide for youself whether that's enough, yeah?

"And have you considered my offer? No need to rent a room at this hour. Stay here; I'm not a kat-kata..." She frowns, trying to get the word to roll out of her tongue but it sounds strange at first, as if she's going to mispronounce it. "Katakan. Or any sort'a vampire. So you needn't worry about any bloodsuckers in here, for one."

"I can, but I'll sleep right here." He says, indicating his chair. "Not about to keep a lady from the bed she's paid for." No matter how desperately he'd like to sink into a soft mattress right now.

"You're too stubborn and I'm no lady." She shakes her head, unsure whether to laugh or to sigh. He is absolutely unbelievable - or so she'd like to say, but it comes off a little like a slurred complaint. "In that case, I'll be sleeping right here," she indicates towards her own chair. Considering how much they've been drinking, she doesn't trust her legs not to wobble too much, anyway.

Stubborn could almost certainly be added to his list of undesirable attributes. He frowns at her, which his scars turn into a snarl on the side that doesn't move much.

"Don't be ridiculous. It's your bed, you should sleep there."

The Unlovables

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