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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

“That’s because I’m a proper lady in the sheets.” It takes about half a second from saying it for her to laugh at her own joke. It’s a hoarse, sleepy sound but rather full of mirth. “You’d have known already if not for all that fighting precisely.”

That's enough to move a witcher's slow blood to blush and he feels his face get hot in spite of all his desire to keep his face impassive, knowing that in full daylight even her human eyes won't be able to miss it.

Just his luck, that's when she musters up her courage to peek at him. Her own flushed cheeks are flushed, but his blush doesn't go unnoticed. Not in the slightest.

She squeezes his hand.
"You alright, oh fair gentleman?"

"Yeah." He rasps. "Just not...used to waking up like this, is all." He says, feeling foolish and wrong-footed, not at all how he usually feels. But then again, it's easy to feel sure of himself when he's alone and not halfway-tangled up with a pretty girl in a soft bed.

"Mm, as long as it's not a bad thing," she muses, squeezing his hand again. This time she tries to offer an assuring smile. "If I'm to be completely fair... I'm not exactly used to it, either."

"Pretty thing like you, with that sweet voice and riding on hunts? You oughta have your pick of any man in town." He protests. Though he supposes a lady might not want to chase men as indiscriminately as a man might chase skirts.

Her features take on a beet red hue at this point and she has to physically resist the urge to cover her face - she turns it slightly into the pillow, but stops herself. "It would seem I tend to take a liking for those who aren't interested. It's all fair."

He makes a noise somewhere between embarrassment and irritation.

"It's not that I'm not interested. I'm not a monk or a eunuch. I'm not blind to the fact that you're pretty, or that you've been real nice to me." He protests. "I just don't see why you'd want to."

"I could make you a list of reasons," she concedes with a small shrug. At least they're more or less on the same page here. "Or you could accept that sometimes there isn't a whole great logic to it. Maybe I just fancy you for you."

"I'd just let you down." He says. "For one thing, I'll be gone soon. You might never see me again. Even if you could get past all the this," Apparently meaning his appearance. "I wouldn't want you to...expect things a witcher can't give you."

She goes silent for a while, contemplative. It is after a long moment that she stirs to lie on her back, pulling his hand along with hers. She's staring at the ceiling when she speaks again.

"If you want to be realistic, either of us could die rounding a corner tomorrow. Even if we don't, and if rumours are true, then I will expire of old age before you do. The truth is - and I hope you don't take it the wrong way - my expectations are low." She pauses, glancing at him. "I like to live the moment because that's all I really have, you see. 'M not asking anything of you, anyhow. I know once you leave, I might never see you again."

Which is a painful thought, but it's true. She knows that.

"I'm happy enjoying your company in this moment. All of that," mimicking the way he speaks of his own appearance. "- included. It's part of your charm, you silly man."

He supposes that, nowadays, the same is almost as true for her as it is for him in terms of a sudden death around every corner. Things have only become more uncertain in the northern realms since the return of the Lady of Space and Time a year previous, adding new political entanglements to a world already torn apart by war and plague.

He sighs heavily, unsure of how to proceed. It's so much easier when he just empties his coinpurse on a woman's nightstand and things proceed in with a kind of professional, perfunctory coldness that does the job until he can find his way to another tart in another city. Assuming he doesn't just make do on his own in some out-of-the-way place he makes camp. But she's not some city brothel tart and he feels like it ought to be different. They're...friends, aren't they? Of a sort, the kind of friends one finds on the road for a drink or two and rarely more than that.

"What would you like to do...with my company?" He says, finally. Fuck, how does Geralt do this all the time?

"I'm enjoying it right now," she concedes, turning her head to face him. With a light squeeze of his hand, which she hopes is at least reassuring that she's being earnest, Brynn offers a small smile. That's what they are - friends, of a sort. She likes that, but she can't change that he overthinks it, or even has much of a clue how much he might do so.

"Waking up next to you has to be one of the most memorable things I can think of, off the top of my head. I would very much like to burn that memory in my mind now."

It would be easier if they could read minds, probably. No, no never mind that. Leave all that sorcery aside. She'd rather fumble about, stir and roll back onto her side again, up close to him this time.

"Are you expecting more?" It's honest. She wants to know, regardless of the answer. "I've told you once, I won't ask anything of you that you wouldn't want. Sobered up this time."

"Expect? No." He shrugs. "Just...trying to get a picture of where this might be going, is all. Not that it has to...go anywhere." He scrubs his free hand over his face, fingers lingering to rub or scratch at his scars, which he does when he's troubled or thoughtful.

"It doesn't have to, true." She pauses, feeling that bit of nervousness creeping up from the back of her neck. "But it can. 'S all a matter of what we want."

"It's been a long time for me." He says, somewhat more bluntly than he'd intended to. Blunt and somewhat presumptuous. It's embarrassing to admit or explain but it feels like it needs to be said. "And I need to be sure you want more, if we're gonna do more than just lay here until breakfast. Especially since we'd be doing it in full daylight and you'd have to see..." He won't belabor the point by mentioning his scars outright again.

"You still think that bothers me?" She squeezes his hand again, gently but reassuringly. He needn't worry around her - at least in her perspective. She's a big girl who can tie her own bracers, so his honesty is actually refreshing and appreciated. Not to mention (and though hers paint nowhere near the same map as his) he would be privy to her own scars and the extent of her burns as well. "If... If we do more than just lay here, I think it's only fair that I get to see you, just as you see me. That is, if you want."

She pauses, then speaks oh-so-quietly moments later.

"... I would very much like to kiss you, at least."

"I don't usually." He says. "Let people kiss me on the mouth, I mean. You can try, but I've been told it doesn't feel very nice. And I can't really feel it at all, on that side." Another witcher might get away with it, but Eskel feels acutely uncomfortable subjecting "ladies" to his badly torn lips.

She nods. "No, that's alright. I understand if you don't want it." He seems uncomfortable enough in his own skin - in his own face, at least - that she doesn't want to make it worse for him. Her whims and desires don't impose over his. "I've already kissed your forehead, I think it counts."

"Would it be easier if you told me something you'd like? From- from me, that is."

"Anywhere else is fine." He says. "The other scars bother me less." He thinks about her question and blushes a little. "Oh, I'm sure whatever you like I can handle."

"Is that an invitation to kiss them? Because I might." Truth to her words, she presses a small peck to a smaller scar close to his collarbone and presses her nose to his skin, taking in his scent. "I'm sure you can handle me just fine. But you're not providing a service." There's a small chuckle. "I just want you to feel good, darling."

"See, I'm just enjoying having a lady this close." He says, burying his face in her hair and inhaling deeply, the scent of her combined with this new, exhilarating invitation to return her touch, unspools a low growl from his chest.

"Mmmhm, good." She drawls, slowly letting go of his hand to loop her arm over his torso, fingertips treading lightly over each line and mark. She presses her lips closer to his collarbone this time, not sure if she's kissing smooth skin or a scar - but it hardly matters. It's the scent and feeling of him that delights her.

He reaches for her, pulling her on top of him, gently but showing his great strength. His broad hands resting at her waist.

"There we go, that's better. You're warm." He rumbles.

She takes in a large breath through her nose, her chest rising against his when he pulls her on top of him, his broad hands holding her frame in place; with a bit of luck he can feel her own marred skin where her shirt hikes up from the movement. Her smaller hands move up to rest at the junction between his neck and shoulders and she buries her nose there, inhaling deeply. “Mmhm, much better,” she murmurs. “You’re warm too. And intoxicating.”

The Unlovables

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