How Can Writers Marry A Shameless Yet Sweet Man Without Cliches?

I like to think of it as rewriting the footnotes of cliché.

Put bluntly: a shameless man who’s genuinely sweet shouldn’t be reduced to a handful of tropes. Practically, that means you need to distribute his traits across different registers. His shamelessness shows up in tone and risk — brash jokes, boundary-pushing compliments, a flashy sense of humor — while his sweetness shows up in responsibility, rituals, and quiet competence. One might speak loudly and play loose with social rules but know exactly how to calm a terrified child or how to apologize in a way that honors someone’s dignity.

On the structural side, try reversing expectations. Instead of building to a reveal where his tenderness is exposed, let the reader see both and then complicate them. Create scenes where his shamelessness is useful — breaking tension in awkward social situations, or refusing to let someone’s lie slide — and scenes where it causes harm so the stakes are real. Surround him with characters who reflect different truths: friends who indulge him, critics who set boundaries, a love interest who negotiates terms rather than passively receiving his charm.

Voice matters: give him specific rhythms and concrete gestures. Avoid metaphors like "soft as a marshmallow" or lines like "he’s rough but soft." Show him finishing someone’s sentences, stealing fries and then buying the whole tray, or leaving sticky notes with terrible doodles where they won’t be found. Those small, idiosyncratic acts feel human and avoid cliche, and they make me want to write his scenes again and again.

Sometimes the easiest way to dodge cliché is to invert the payoff: make his shamelessness lead to real social consequences and make his sweetness the slow, intentional work that grows credibility. Speak in scenes rather than summaries — show him failing spectacularly at etiquette, then redeeming himself by doing something nobody asked him to do, like organizing a makeshift memorial or learning someone’s obscure recipe because it mattered to them.

I also like to scatter offbeat habits and contradictions: he can be a braggart about his exploits but nervous about vaccines, or shameless flirtatious in public and painfully sincere in texts. Let him maintain agency — he should choose to be kind, not be reformed by the heroine’s patience. Use dialogue that rings true: avoid syrupy lines and swap them for awkward, honest exchanges. Finally, anchor the romance in mutual growth and consent; that’s how shamelessness becomes charming rather than harmful. That’s my two cents, and I’d gladly keep tinkering with scenes like these because they’re fun to write.

I’m drawn to stories where blunt charm meets real tenderness, and I tend to slice clichés by focusing on consequences. If a man is shameless in public, show what that costs him privately: awkward apologies, misread signals, or missed promotions because he won’t stopleaping into risky humor. Then give him sweetness that’s quiet and disruptive—a habit of remembering weird details about you, a bandage in his pocket, a way he makes coffee just how you like it. I like to write their marriage as an ongoing negotiation: not a final fixer-upper but a daily practice of checking in, laughing, and repairing when needed.

In terms of tone, I favor small, precise scenes over sweeping declarations. Let small rituals—grocery runs, patched sweaters, late-night playlists—do the heavy lifting. Those bits make shamelessness lovable instead of grating, and sweetness believable instead of saccharine. That approach keeps the romance honest, and it’s the kind of story that makes me grin when I think about it.

A neat trick I’ve started using in my writing is to give the shameless-yet-sweet guy full scenes that aren’t about romance.

Instead of opening with him rescuing the heroine from a dramatic spill or confessing his love over a thunderstorm, drop him into small, weird, everyday moments: he’s loudly bargaining for fruit at dawn, he’s brazenly flirting with a cat, he’s utterly shameless about forgetting anniversaries but then shows up with a ridiculously specific childhood memory tucked into his pocket. Those little vignettes reveal the two sides without the narrator telling the reader which one to like. Let the sweetness be earned by details — a scar he insists on tending for someone else, a habit of humming lullabies while doing dishes, a quietly defiant kindness to someone nobody else notices.

I try to avoid the two big traps: making him either a cartoonish rake who has a heart of gold slapped onto him at the end, or turning the heroine into a fixer who redeems him by patience alone. Give him consistent rules: what he will and won’t do, where his shamelessness lands him socially, and the real costs for his behavior. Play with point of view — a scene told through his brash internal monologue followed by the heroine’s tender observation can twist expectations beautifully.

Also, lean into consequences and friction. Sweetness means little if it never collides with the world: let people call him out, let jokes backfire, let sweet actions be complicated or misunderstood. That’s where authentic growth lives, and where readers will stop expecting the same old tropes and start falling for the contradictions instead — I always end up loving those messy, loud characters for being human rather than a trope to be ticked off a list.

I can picture the scene vividly: him, grinning like he knows he’s being shameless, handing you a ridiculously oversized bouquet of flowers because he read in a forum that it’s his “signature move.” I have a soft spot for characters like that—brash, flirtatious, borderline theatrical—but I don’t buy lazy storytelling where the woman’s job is to rescue him or smile through every boundary he crosses. If I were writing this, I’d make sure the sweetness and shamelessness are both rooted in believable motives. He might be shameless because he values joy and detests awkward social rules, not because he’s emotionally immature. His sweetness should feel earned: small, specific acts that reveal compassion rather than grand gestures that paper over problems.

To avoid clichés, I’d focus on real power dynamics and communication. There’s room to let him be audacious in public—calling you out with a theatrical compliment or starting an impromptu dance in a market—while also showing that you two have conversations about consent, respect, and emotional labor when the cameras aren’t rolling. Scenes that subvert expectations are gold: maybe he’s bold among friends but quietly anxious about meeting your family, or he uses shameless antics to deflect vulnerability until you call him on it and he laughs, not to hide, but because laughter is his way of admitting he’s scared.

Finally, I’d layer the relationship with external pressures and small, domestic realities—bills, career setbacks, awkward in-laws, health scares—so their bond isn’t just performative chemistry. That contrast makes his shamelessness charming rather than exhausting, and his sweetness stable instead of a plot convenience. If the narrative trusts both characters with agency and growth, the marriage feels lived-in, messy, and true—exactly the kind of story that stays with me.

Fresh dialogue is where I start: let him say the outrageous line and then show its aftershock. When I craft scenes, I try to flip the rhythm—give readers the spectacle first, then slow the camera down to the micro-moments. In one scene he might loudly announce a ridiculous nickname at dinner; in the next, he becomes the one waking up at 3 a.m. to change a leaking ceiling because he knows how much it bothers you. That contrast subverts the trope that shameless equals shallow.

Technically, I rely on point-of-view choices to avoid clichés. A close third with interior access to both partners works wonders: you get his irreverent thought process—how he translates flirtation into care—and your protagonist’s internal negotiation with that behavior. Make his arc about learning nuance, not being reformed by love alone; make hers about choosing boundaries, not enduring for romance. Secondary characters can mirror societal expectations, offering pressure that the couple resists or reshapes. I also sprinkle in recurring motifs—like a shared embarrassing song or a stubborn houseplant—that remind readers their relationship is built on tiny, specific history, not on broad, tired shorthand. It keeps the story warm and complicated in the best way—and I always enjoy writing those little domestic truths.