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

"Like a fair maiden?" it's a playful question. "I won't say no to breakfast." However she makes no move to get up, either, at least not yet - not until he does first. She really is enjoying the company.

"Hey now, even a witcher'll get dizzy if he goes long enough without eating." He huffs. After a while, he gets up and steps into his small clothes and then goes to the wash stand to bring her the washrag, lest she be uncomfortably sticky. A gentleman as always.

"I jest. I'm sure you know that." She watches him from the bed for a moment, simply admiring him really, but soon rummages around for her own clothes. She pauses only to take the washrag from him, thanking him with a small nuzzle on his shoulder. A gentleman, indeed.

It takes her a moment, but she cleans herself up properly before getting dressed, pressing down on the fabric of her clothes to remove any unwanted wrinkles. Then, her bodice, which she'd taken out the night before, and at last she finally lets her hair down from its braid, trying to make some sense of its mass to look at least moderately decent.

"Remind me to treat you to a warm bath some other time," she's perfectly aware that there might not be some other time, but it feels right to say it. "I'm sure we'd both enjoy it tremendously."

"Mm, maybe we'll run into each other in a big city and we'll be able to find somewhere with baths big enough for two." Granted, that place might be a brothel like the Passiflora of Novigrad but he reckons she wouldn't mind too much. In a private room, it wouldn't matter much anyway.

"I won't be back down in this part of the world until next summer." He says. "I have to head home for the season, now."

There's a soft Ah of understanding when he says it. "Home to your brethren?"

She's all dressed up now and leans against one of the walls, folding her arms over her chest; waiting until he is prepared, if he is. Her belongings can stay for now, as the room is paid for a second night. "Maybe we'll see one another after the snows begin to thaw. I'll probably be headed towards a larger city for the colder months, myself. Easier to find work than in smaller towns."

"Yeah, find somewhere to stay warm for the winter." He thinks of the hard bed in the drafty hall. "I'm sure you'll land somewhere cozy, find a patron for the season." He looks her over, assessing that she's dressed, and goes to get the door for her, gesturing for her to go ahead of him.

Must be nice to have somewhere to go back to, no? The question lingers in her mind, but it feels a little too sensitive to ask - just last night they were talking about the Cats who got strung up. There are fewer of them, witchers. It mustn't be that nice to see their numbers dwindle with each passing season.

"If anything, there's always a tavern looking for entertainers to lift the spirits during the cold season," she confirms after a short, contemplative silence on her end. She moves past him, past the door and glances back at him with a playful smile. "Promise I won't make a profit off your scars."

"I imagine you won't. Couldn't tell this tale in anything other than a bawdy house anyway." He teases, treating her to a cheeky pinch through her skirt.

"Don't tempt me." She laughs, playfully batting his hand but without any real ill intent. She would very much like to hold it instead, but the sounds of other people in the vicinity advise her against it. "They pay a nice fee for us musicians, you know."

He's equally mindful not to be too familiar once they're in the dining room in sight of the others. He chooses a table where he can sit with his back to the wall and eyes on the room and waves down a serving girl.

"Well, if they pay nicely, I suppose it's good you'd have something appropriate to the venue."

"Oh, I've got a few things in my repertoire," She sits across from him, giving the room a general look; there are a few familiar faces from the days she has spent here, but none that particularly draw her attention. "None involving witchers, but some things are best kept off stage." She offers a small, playful wink.

Since he calls the lass over first, she figures she'll just have whatever he's having... Which probably isn't so different from whatever most people are having at this hour.

"You'll be setting off home soon, yes?"

"Mm. Maybe I can hear one if we cross paths again." He says, as the girl departs to fetch their breakfast, trying not to look too much like she's eager to be away from the witcher's looming presence.

He nods in response to Brynhild's question.

"No roads where I'm going so I gave to get there before the snow does." He explains. "Time I started heading that way now."

She offers the departing girl a slightly puzzled look but says nothing. All in all it must be an unfortunately common occurrence, but that doesn't detract from her own disposition and she makes a point to appear as comfortable as she is around him.

"That makes sense," she nods slowly. There's a small pause -- not an awkward one or anything, but rather a contemplative one. "I do hope your journey is a safe one."

The Unlovables

The Unlovables

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