The Unlovables

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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.

Comments

[wolfdogwitcher]

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."

[awarriorsheart]

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."

[wolfdogwitcher]

"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.

[awarriorsheart]

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."

[wolfdogwitcher]

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."

[awarriorsheart]

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.”

[wolfdogwitcher]

"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.

[awarriorsheart]

“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.

[wolfdogwitcher]

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.

[awarriorsheart]

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.

[wolfdogwitcher]

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.

[awarriorsheart]

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.

[wolfdogwitcher]

"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.

[awarriorsheart]

“Hey.” Her own voice is hoarse from a good night’s sleep, the word exhaled in quasi-relief when he speaks up. She’s clearly not in a rush to move either, simply shifting a little to lie sideways, looking at him through half-lidded eyes. “Not at all. Jus’ woke up a while ago myself.

"Sleep well?”

[wolfdogwitcher]

"Beats the sunflower field." He says, with a lopsided smile. "So I guess you were right about the bed."

[awarriorsheart]

Her lips curl upwards into a small smile of her own. “Told you so,” she quips playfully, brushing some strands of hair from his forehead. “’S even better in good company, I say.”

[wolfdogwitcher]

"Yeah, alright, I'll grant you that much." He says rolling over onto his side. With half his face buried in the the pillow, he almost looks normal. "How's your head? Hungover?"

[awarriorsheart]

"It's fine. Takes more than that to kick my arse," she's playing with his hair again, brushing it with her fingertips. It's almost idyllic, a bit of respite from reality if only for a little bit. "I take it you're good?"

[wolfdogwitcher]

"Mmhm." He nods, eyes slipping closed at her touch. "It would take a lot more than that to knock me down." And the fact that he's not hungover means he wasn't too drunk last night.

[awarriorsheart]

"Hmm. Very good." She takes that as a sign to not withdraw her hand. Her touch is feathery, untangling strands of hair, fingertips brushing against his skin. "Did you enjoy the performance?"

[wolfdogwitcher]

"I did. It was nice. Sorry I nodded off part way through the second song. Got too comfortable, I guess." He laughs sheepishly.

[awarriorsheart]

"T'was an old thing anyway, no need to apologise. As long as you felt alright." She chuckles quietly. "Speaking of comfort, I'm still proud of you for not sleeping on that damned chair."

[wolfdogwitcher]

"Yeah, yeah. You were right." He chuckles. "The bed was better."

[awarriorsheart]

"Well, enjoy it for as long as you'd like. You certainly deserve it." There's a small smile and she sort-of shifts a bit to lie back down on her side, facing him, instead of supporting her weight on one arm. Her other hand brushes his cheek lightly. "I can get you something to eat later." Just not right now; too comfortable.

[wolfdogwitcher]

"Later." He rumbles in agreement, burrowing further into the pillows as if to underscore his commitment to not getting up. "Not in any hurry to get up, if you're not kicking me out."