(Set before the time skip. No spoilers.)
“And then I told her, ‘what are you gonna do, curse me?’”
“And then she did,” Ingrid sighed, unamused. “You do know you deserve every bit of this, right?”
Ingrid glared down at the shrunken Sylvain in the palm of her hand. As tired as the routine of taking care of Sylvain’s messes after he broke a woman’s heart was, she had to admit that this one was pretty novel. She had found him on his bed, jumping for her attention after she came in and assumed he had overslept again. After that he quickly explained to her his latest exploit involving a hot goth looking chick he met in town. As it turned out, she was a witch that did not take kindly to his advances.
Never taking the first no for an answer, he inevitably crossed a line, which led to her cursing him.
“If I had to be honest,” Sylvain began, coming dangerously close to genuine self-reflection. “She was totally worth the risk.”
Ingrid closed her fist around him, squeezing the air out from his lungs. “You’ve had your fun. I’m taking you to the Professor. She’ll know what to do.”
Sylvain’s eyes went wide. “No! Wait don’t!” he protested with a coughing wheeze. “She’ll put me in detention if she finds out I’m still—”
“Maybe you need some serious punishment to get it through your thick skull,” Ingrid countered, stepping out of the dorm building. “That witch could have done much worse to you if she pleased.”
“Oh, I’d let her do anything to me for her pleas—” Sylvain was cut off as Ingrid squeezed him in her fist again. “Th-there’s a way to reverse it! We don’t need to involve Professor Byleth!”
Ingrid sighed. “What is it then?”
Sylvain racked his brain, trying to remember the witch’s exact words. “S-something about how I always use women. I’m pretty sure she was rhyming, too.”
“A witch with rhyming incantations,” Ingrid remarked. “Do you have any restraint, Sylvain?”
“I thought she was just a moody poet!”
“Well, what was it she said? These hexes are pretty specific in their wording.”
The shrunken skirt chaser groaned, “‘If you want to return to your size again, you must learn… what it feels like to be… used by women?’ I think it was that, but it barely even rhymes.”
“It’s a slant rhyme, you idiot,” Ingrid countered. She thought about the phrasing. “So all you have to do is put yourself in a girl’s service.”
“Right,” Sylvain said, suddenly realizing the implications of such a condition.
“Good,” Ingrid hummed. “You can start with…”
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