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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

"Nothing. Just...bears mentioning is all." He says, face burning. "You barely know me." And yet here he is half naked and drunk anyway.

"Well, am I not getting to know you better?" She offers, nudging his foot with her own. Her own face is a little on the red-tinted side and she sort-of hesitates before adding. "You're beginning to leave a little less to the imagination. Or- or more, you know. For a bard."

"Yeah? Are you going to make up fanciful stories for all the scars I didn't tell you about?" He tips his head back again. "Gotta save some in case we run into each other again." He scratches his broad chest, trying to feel less self-conscious than he does all of a sudden.

"No, it's no good if you don't tell me about 'em yourself." There he goes, giving her an unfair view again. She rubs her face, trying to at least be polite enough not to keep staring. "I meant- well. You're showing me a little of your life, yes, and more than that."

He doesn't seem to notice her staring now, but mostly because he seems to be giving into the temptation to close his weary eyes.

"I'm sure whatever you make up'll be more exciting and heroic anyway." He rumbles.

"'S not about being heroic. I want to hear them for you, otherwise they're meaningless." She nudges the back of his leg with her foot. "All done with your booze, witcher?"

"Ran out." He says. "Can't be bothered to go get more out of my stuff. Probably for the best. I don't wanna be responsible for the hangover you'd get trying to keep up with me."

"That'd be on me and me alone," she concedes. "I'm all done for now, but if you want, I can get you some more. I think." She pauses. "Not sure I'm walking any distance for a bit."

"Mm." He's still for a drowsy moment or two before he heaves his enormous figure upright and thumps over to his bags, where he crouches and rummages for a while until the bottle of whiskey appears in his hand and he returns to the small table.

"Should I trade you a scar for another song?" He asks. "Before you pass out and I put you to bed?"

She watches him go and leans her weight against the table, almost toppling her mug over. Thankfully it's empty and she sets it back in place, but she stays leaning, one elbow on the table and her chin supported by her palm.

"Nonsense. You won't do such a thing unless we're sharing." When did she decide that? Now, apparently. "Fine. One more - you choose - and I will sing you a song from my land."

"What about one from a mermaid?" He offers, looking over his ravaged arms. "There we go." He shows her the back of one of his thick biceps, where there's another bite. "Never seen another one like her, about twelve feet long. Black and smooth like an eel. Spoke a dialect of Alder Speech that I couldn't understand. She'd been drowning pearl divers off the Koviri coast. Took a chunk out of my arm. I think I still have some of her scales in my stuff somewhere."

"A real mermaid?" Alcohol or no alcohol, her surprise is as genuine as it was before, however being more uninhibited she leans in, tracing the bite mark with gentle fingertips. "Did she sing, too? Was her voice as enchanting as sailors claim?"

She glances up at him and smiles softly. "Did she try to charm you too?"

"No." He says, with an amused huff. "Some do, but that one was all out for blood and had no more interest in me than she would a shark or other predator."

"She sounds terrifying," it's not a lie, nor is she downplaying it. That sounds like a horrifying creature to come across and the damage she left on an expert monster hunter says enough of her infamy. "Have any of them succeeded? In charming you, I mean. Obviously none must have bested you in combat."

"Mermaids? No. They'll talk my ear off sometimes but they've never tried to charm me, no." Mostly they're either trying to negotiate for territory with Eskel as the go-between or they're intensely fascinated with the new land-dweller in their midst. Often it's the curiosity that brings them into contact with humans in the first place and Eskel has to gently suggest they go somewhere else.

He will not mention if any other lady-shaped monsters have successfully charmed him.

"I see."

Turns out they're not the only ones talking his ear off. This one isn't a monster, though. A bit beastly in her drinking habits, at best.

She lets go of his arm and looks around for her lyre. Ah- there, by the foot of the table. She sort of wobbles a little but leans down to reach for it and retrieves it while successfully (!) avoiding a drunken fall. She's not playing yet - just strumming a few chords lightly.

"I can't see why they wouldn't try, but I don't know much about merfolk. Or the sea in general. Maybe they've bad taste."

"Their tastes are in accordance to their mysterious whims." He shrugs. "Likely that witchers just aren't very interesting to them. Or less likely to follow them into the depths just because they're pretty and naked." He chuckles, cracking open his whiskey and refilling his mug.

"Suppose that makes sense. Wouldn't be good for their health if they went about trying to drown witchers of all people, too."

This time she doesn't inch her mug his way. She'd said two more earlier and was sticking to that, at least for now, not that the smell of whiskey isn't inviting.

And true to her word, the chords begin to form a simple, slow tune. If Brynn is completely honest, she's sang with more drink in her system, but she's singing for him this time and wants to sound decent. "Fire, fire, dragon fire," So she takes her time, her voice low and fairly melodic. "Searing words of ancient ire."

And so she begins her second performance, just for Eskel: a slow tune starting in common speech before departing into a different, regional dialect; the whole thing isn't very long, but it's fair to say she's practised it quite a bit even compared to some of her other songs.

It's very nice, even if a private audience makes him feel self-conscious in some nameless way he's not sure he understands. It's an intimacy he hadn't been expecting. It's not bad, not at all, just...strange.

By the time she's finished, he's slumped drowsily in his chair with his mostly empty mug of whiskey held to his bare chest, his eyes like two burned-down coals.

All throughout the performance she either tilts her head slightly to the side, her eyes closed, or glances at him; the chords are clear in her mind and she needn't look down at the lyre to discern them. In fact, the last strum of it is performed finally looking at him fully and she smiles lightly through a melodic hum.

"You look like shit," she jokes halfheartedly, setting the instrument aside again. She stands from her seat this time, surprisingly stable despite herself, leaning in towards him to sort-of hold - but not forcibly take - the mug in his hand. At last, she leans down and presses a small, chaste kiss to his forehead.

"A song for a scar. Properly, this time. Now will you come get some rest?"

"You gonna crawl in it with me?" He asks, surrendering the mug to her grasp. "I still don't think there's enough room." He's not sure what to make of it when she leans forward and one of his broad hands finds her hip, though the touch is absolutely one of concern-- his fear is that she's drunk and falling forward-- rather than flirtatiousness.

"Only if you want me to," she admits, holding the mug between them with one hand, the other resting firmly against one of his shoulders. Instead of trying to stand upright again, she leans into his hand and remains there, her eyes more or less level with the top of his head. She's not exactly staring down at him, or at anything in general; her skin is burning. She doesn't want to move.

"It would be very unladylike of me to impose, wouldn't it?"

"I think maybe you better lie down." He says, head tipped back. He avoids her gaze as wolves do, the focus somewhere over her shoulder. "C'mon..."

She's quiet for a moment, unmoving, waiting; he's staring at something else now and it's almost a little gutting, but while her expression might betray her, she doesn't say it.

The mug is set aside and she still hesitates, before pulling back and standing upright with a small sigh. "I tried," it's spoken more to herself than to him.

"There's enough room for the both of us. Don't worry - I won't try nothin'."

"Even if you did, you're too drunk." He says quietly. His good manners again. He steadies her as he gets up. "Come on, darlin', off to bed."

The Unlovables

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