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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

"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."

"I'm not that drunk," she protests, but his manners are unwavering. Hers should be, too. "Know damn well what I want." There's that bit of noncommittal mumbling. At least she manages from one side of the room to the other without too much assistance, and even manages to kick off her boots at some point in the process.

"You're too polite for your own sake, Eskel."

The bed creaks alarmingly when he sits down next to her to kick off his own boots.

"Nah, because if you could see straight you'd want something different." He says, kicking the muddy articles under the bed and laying down. "So trust me when I say I'm being exactly as polite as I oughta be."

She's unstrapping her bodice to remove it - just that, not her shirt - for added comfort when he lies down and is nonchalantly dropping it on the side of the bed when his words sink in. Instead of trying to wiggle her way next to him she remains sat, staring down at the bulky figure of the man.

"Is that what this is about?" She asks quietly, a little surprised. "You think you're... Undesirable, or something, is that it?" A pause. "Don't be foolish."

"Yeah, that's exactly what I think and I've had longer than you've been alive to be sure. It doesn't bother me." He eases himself over onto his side, resting his cheek on his forearm.

She remains sat like that for a while longer, processing his words. It's a little sad and just a smidge infuriating; perhaps he'd believe her if she was a little more sober.

Then again, maybe he's that stubborn.

"You're an idiot," she declares at last, laying down on her side, turning her back to him. He's right that there isn't much room; she can feel his back against hers. "Been trying to prove you wrong for hours."

He rumbles deep in his chest like a huge dog.

"Look, far be it from me to tell a lady what to do but...just trust me on this one, yeah? You'd regret it in the full light of morning."

It reverberates and she can feel it in her very skin. She only hums quietly in return.

“I’m not asking anything of you,” she clarifies. “Especially anything you don’t want.

But… Just know appearances and rumours aren’t everythin’. And I know well enough what I do and don’t regret.”

"See for yourself in the morning." He says, firmly. Maybe if she's sober and in full daylight and has had time to think about how ugly and infuriating and strange he is, they can talk about it.

Or he'll put his boots back on and leave without troubling her further.

“Fine,” is her reply, silent but equally as firm. She wants to move, to sit up, to ask him to Look at me, but she’s tired - they both must be - and just glad he hasn’t up and left yet.

So she sighs and simply shifts until she is facing his back, her shirt slightly tucked up to reveal some (scarred) midriff and allows the alcohol to lull her into a much-needed rest, hoping he will still be there when she wakes up.

He's still asleep when she wakes, so perhaps she can add "probably snores" to the list of things he might consider off-putting. Not any worse than a normal man who has probably had his nose broken at least once of course, but he'd list it anyway.

He's rolled onto his back, one arm behind his head and the other resting across his chest, which rises and falls in a slower cadence than a man's and she will indeed be able to see the full measure of his facial scars and the sneer that twists his upper lip to reveal a few cracked teeth.

His list seems to be never-ending; hers is small and more grounded in simple, yet reasonable things (or so she believes): the death rate of his job, his strict manners, the fact that he seems to hate himself more than the people around him probably do.

Of course that’s what little she can infer from one night of booze and it’s not really on her mind when she awakens. At some point during the night she must have ended up leaning into him, so the first she feels is the warmth of his torso against her cheek and arms, that had been pulled up to her chest. At first she blinks, wondering both what time it is and how much she had to drink, but then she remains very, very still, realising that he’s still here, sleeping soundly and for a moment just listens to the sound of his breathing - so slow, so seemingly peaceful.

She only shifts when her shoulders feel stiff, stretching her legs and propping herself up on one elbow to get a better view of him. Even in sleep, he looks as if he’s alert, his face and body a map of markings and scars that tell of a lifetime of hardships. There's no beauty in that suffering, but there is beauty in him, in his sleeping features and in the way he had so eloquently spoken the night before. She’s still rather tired herself, but finds herself idly and very lightly tracing some of the scars around his shoulder and upper torso, sparing a long glance at the marks across his face. He hadn’t wanted to talk about them and she wouldn’t pressure him, but it made her wonder what they told about him.

She remains there, sleepily contemplating this man in silent almost-reverence while the first rays of the morning light slip in through the cracks on the wooden shutters.

He sleeps for a while longer, until the light starts to coax him into awareness. Until he becomes aware of the warmth of her body and her scent invades the dream he's having and he wakes in confusion, blinking at her and the room around him as he draws his pupils into thin slits against the sun. Clearly having lapsed into the real, exhausted sleep that means memory is slow to return.

At some point she must have nodded off at least once or twice, too enthralled by his presence to do anything else but to simply stay there. When there’s a small shift - the first signs of him waking -, her own breathing slows to a near halt, her hand having stopped to rest over his shoulder, no longer tracing any markings. She doesn’t say a word; suddenly, she feels very small and anticipates his reaction once he is fully conscious.

"Hey..." His voice is even more hoarse still half in the grip of sleep. "Didn't keep you up, did I?" He scratches his broad chest, clearly in no rush to stir from the bed, the most comfortable thing he's slept on in weeks.

The Unlovables

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