#awful foul beast... | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

yeyinde · 2 months ago

Text

caging a wolfdog

Simon Riley x Babysitter!Reader

18+ | groping. dubcon. infidelity. blue-collar Simon in a loveless marriage finds another way to entertain himself when his wife is too busy fucking her Pilates instructor to come home. victim blaming. future wife grooming. breeding. implied contraceptive tampering. spitting/spit kink. gross/mean Simon.

It's something to mend the gap between paying for college tuition, and surviving on more than air and the stale crackers they give out at the food bank. A job that takes up less space in your calendar than studying for finals or finishing up last-minute projects due before the end of the term.

And, in all honesty, the kid makes it easy.

Tommy doesn't fuss like most his age. He sits on the couch with his iPad perched on his knees, watching grown men scream in front of a camera for hours. Sometimes he stirs, asks for snacks. Something to drink. But mostly, he just scrolls YouTube Shorts, and puffs out peals of childish laughter at whatever he finds amusing.

It's the easiest job you'd ever had, really. He has no complaints about eating chicken nuggets and Kraft dinner on the nights when you stay later and have to cook something for him. Even when you try to make it healthier by chopping up celery with homemade ranch on the side, it barely makes him whine.

He eats. Scrolls. Pouts about his bath. Negotiates bedtime for ten more minutes with his iPad. And then he's sleeping by ten, hugging the device tight to his chest as a man hollers about Minecraft beneath him.

And that's the extent of it.

An easy job. An easy kid.

The problem, really, is his father.

And more specifically, the way he can't seem to stop touching you.

You're not sure why it happens, just that it does. Becomes some strange staple in this arrangement where you never leave his house without having his hands on you at some point.

But maybe the writing was always on the walls because even as he was showing you Tommy's bedroom, he folds himself over you, spine pressed against his chest, and murmurs in your ear about bedtimes and baths and all the things a babysitter is meant to hear—

But not with the hard, firm outline of their employers cock against their ass.

You should have said something then. Put your foot down. Rained hellfire and retribution over this man and his gross, foul perversions.

Should have done a lot of things, probably. But in the end, the span of his hand over your belly, so wide it threatened to swallow you up, kept you quiet. Docile as he shifted his hips—wife down the hall, flatly informing him she has a class tonight and probably won't be home, so don't bother waiting up, Simon—and rubbed his cock against you, grunting in your ear about how pretty you are. Such a sweet girl, too.

So good for his baby boy.

Keeping quiet seems to spur him on. Spreading the thick, heavy length of his body against your spine isn't enough to quench whatever sticky, awful desire brims in his chest. Insatiable now that he's had a little taste, he gorges himself on what he can get away with.

What you let him get away with.

(if you didn't want this, pretty thing, you'd have said so, wouldn't you? big, strong girl like you. you can 'andle yourself. but you ain't because you want this—)

Broad hands cupping your breasts as he leans over your shoulder and pretends to instruct you on how Tommy likes his lunches. Little more, he rasps, calloused fingers slipping under the band of your bra, and pinching your stiffening peaks between a too-big thumb and forefinger. The rough, dry graze of his scarred skin was some awful amalgamation of stinging, abrasive pain and pleasure. Likes his sandwiches cut up jus' like tha'—

Grabs a handful of your asscheek on the way out the door, pinching the flesh so hard, it aches when you sit down. Rutting into you like a beast when he comes home, and Tommy's already in bed. C'mon, he grunts, hefting you up from the couch. Gotta go an' check on 'im. But it's just an excuse to bend you over banister as you peer into Tommy's room, groaning as he shoves his clothed cock against the cleft of your ass.

Husks in your ear about how good you are for him. He and Tommy both. Such a good girl, ain't you?

It's strange. All of it. And maybe that's why you let it carry on. Continue even though you know he's married, and has a child. And—

He's odd. Intense. Weird.

Looms in the corners of the room sometimes, content to just watch you. Eyes dark, endlessly black. Fixed on every move you make. A wolf wearing a man's skin. A monster in faded blue jeans and black steel-toed boots.

Uncanny.

Scary.

Massive in a way that stole your breath the moment you laid eyes on him. A full body bloom of dread at the scale, the size, of him. Like staring at the face of a mountain, mind reeling over the incomprehensible height of it. Vertiginous. Dizzying.

Thinking about him always makes you feel a little bit sick. Lying on your back and staring up at the sky. Cosmic quasiness. Unease that trickles down from your ancestors and fills your pores with the bitter, acrid tang of fear.

But between the noxious, rolling worry—the unmistakable feeling of a starving man staring at you like you're nothing but a scrap of tender, fresh meat—is a heavy, sick sort of heat congealing in your belly.

It was easier, at first, to lie and say you stayed for the money. Broke college student with a sinkhole of debts already growing on the periphery, biding its time before it sucks you into an unfathomable, inescapable chasm. Bled dry. Used up. It'll crush you.

But this—

Simon works around your schedule. He's gone for most of the day—pulls twelve-hour shifts Monday to Saturday at the oilfield—and is fairly lenient when you have a test, sending Tommy to his uncle's instead. Staying the night is an unorthodox arrangement, you're sure, but it works itself out in the end. Being here to take Tommy to school before heading to your morning classes (the rest all available online), and then free to pick him up after and wait for Simon to come home eases the stress of a long commute to your dorm and then here, to the dorm and then back again. A small respite, sure.

And if he pushed, insistent, that you sleepover, well—

You can hide it behind a wall. Pretend he's just looking out for his son even if you have to lock the door in the spare bedroom at night, and wake up sometime to the sound of the knob rattling.

He lets you use his spare truck whenever you need it. There's always a pot of coffee waiting for you in the morning. He keeps a tidy house and a strict schedule, but money is always in your bank account or tucked into an envelope on the counter a day ahead of when you agreed he'd pay you.

But living on top of each other like this is almost unbearable.

You see more of Simon than you do your own family. Friends. Even his wife. A woman made of contradictions, it seems. Dutiful mother, but only when it matters—parent teacher conferences booked in advance, the darling starlet of his birthday party that passed—and you try to keep out of her way. Shame, maybe.

Do you know what Simon does to me when you're in the next room? Do you know what he says when you're bent into downward dog as your Pilates instructor fucks you on the matt?

Or just the knowledge that both of you, in your own way, are adulterers.

But having something in common with the woman who is more of a guest in her own home, her child's life, than you are is a sickening thought. So you squash it. Ignore it.

All of it—

His hands on you, rough and proprietary. The foul, dirty things he whispers in your ear—Tommy's been askin' for a baby brother, 'bout time we gave 'im one, don't you think? Spread your pretty pussy around my cock and keep ya nice an' plugged until it fuckin' takes—when no one is around. How these incidents keep getting progressively closer to his bedroom door, his marital bed, and one day, you think he might drag you in there and not let you out again until those promises he forced from your lips are fulfilled.

You bite your tongue. Taste blood between your teeth hours after he leaves for work, and curl into the couch as the minutes tick by until Simon's supposed to come home. Trying to distract yourself as much as you can, but there's no escape from it. From the way there was something different about him this morning. Something heady. He didn't touch you, but just quietly observed you with those strange, unfathomable eyes of his. Sinkholes wanting to swallow you down.

Hungry.

And when you asked him if he wanted breakfast, he'd just said, oh, I'll eat, birdie. You can bet on that, and then left out the door without another word.

It takes you until noon to unravel the knots in his expression, and what you find makes your heart jump like a trapped rabbit in a snare.

Possessiveness. Want. Hunger.

But most damning of all—

Anticipation.

In the room over, Tommy giggles, high and shrill, at a video. The noise jars you back into reality. A car drives down the lonely street. The timer on the oven dings. Tommy gurgles again, the sound pasted over a loud, pitchy shout that rankles down your spine. Slowly, achingly, you unfurl your body from the tense crouch you collapsed into, head thick. Underwater. In a fog. Thoughts dripping down the sides of your skull in a slow, syrupy crawl.

Your eyes dart to the clock. Three hours.

oh, I'll eat, birdie.

"Come on, Tommy," you warble out, gingerly moving towards the kitchen. Three hours. There's a buzzing inside your head that grows louder, more restless with every step. "The pizzas done."

On the fridge, a neon pink post-it note mocks you. PILATES TONIGHT AND DRINKS WITH THE GIRLS!!!! DON'T WAIT UP!!

Three hours.

You lick the blood off your teeth.

oh, I'll eat, birdie—

He doesn't bother cleaning up before he goes home.

Caked in grime, sweat, dust from the fields, crudeoil glued under his nails—a walking biohazard of filth, but he lumbers into his truck the moment he's finished, cock already thickening, straining against the harsh fabric of his jeans. Sticky on his thigh where it lays, twitching at the thought of his little birdie sucking his dirty fingers clean.

And you'll do it. He knows you will.

You've been so good for him, haven't you? Sweet little thing.

He scrapes the top of his tongue against his teeth, pulling up the taste of stale, bitter coffee. It's acrid, sour in his mouth. Swallowing around it, he grips the wheel tightly and sifts through the multitude of things he wants to do to you as he navigates the familiar path home. Muscle memory, but there's an emptiness in his belly. An itch under his skin. If fizzles, cracks; want and desire thick in his throat.

He's been thinking about this all day. You—laid out on his bed, fingers gripping the sheets tight as he folds you in half, kneecaps to your ears. Feet kicking out behind the heft of his shoulder. Bearing all his weight down on you. Crushing you.

Pumping you so full of his cock, his cum, that you whine afterwards—too empty, Mr Riley—and he has to stuff you full again just to shut you up.

Whiny little thing, he'll coo, nasty and mean as he fucks you again and again and again—

Another scrape. Tongue against teeth pulling over tastebuds. Sourness in the back of his throat. So bitter, so nauseating, he can't wait to make you swallow it down and beg for more as you try not to dry heave all over his dirty boots and onto the clean floor.

More, please, more even as you gag.

He's too hyperaware for the drive to pass in a blur—it's all startling present, each second ticking down in technicolour—but when he finally slows to crawl in front of his house, he has everything he wants to do to you laid out in a neat, concise list. Left you a defiled mess in his head, leaking cum and begging for more.

Anticipation is a maw in his gut that growls and snaps its jaws, too eager to sink inside the pretty thing that's been playing House in his mind. In his home.

He left it unfed for too long.

And now, it's time to eat.

You're not in the living room when he enters.

It's silent. The idling television paints the room in a pale, neon pink.

The clink of his keys, the thud of his boots, are the only sounds popcorning through the dim, quiet room. He casts his gaze towards the stairs to the left, sees light spilling out from Tommy's room down the hall. The nightlight burning away.

He shifts on the balls of his feet, hums something under his breath. A relic from a bygone era when the man Tommy was named after might have pulled him aside and said man, this isn't you.

Simon keeps his boots on as he trudges through the still, winter night of the house, eyes shifting past each corner, every crevasse. More muscle memory he can't shake. All filed away. Catalogued. Meticulously scoured as he shifts through the hall, pausing only to crack Tommy's door open and steal a glance of his son. Knows he won't be able to sleep without it.

He finds him tucked safe and sound in his bed. iPad on the floor connected to the charger. The screen is frozen with the image of some brightly coloured game that'll hold his interest for another day before it becomes yet another thing Simon packs away. More memories on shelves. Something to feel scraped out, hollowed, when he grows another inch and Simon starts to see more of Tommy in him than he can stomach.

The air stings his nostrils when he breathes in. The burn gives him time to shift around the potent ache of fatherly affection he never thought he'd feel back into the guarded lockbox he keeps it in whenever Tommy isn't in view. With it tucked back in, safe and sound, he lets the thrill of the pursuit fill him again.

Another hum. He peels away from the door.

"Hidin' on me, birdie?"

He knows you're here. Your boots are still drying by the front door. The air still clogged with your scent. He follows it like a bloodhound until he reaches his bedroom door where he finds you on the bed. Waiting. Uncertainty clinging to you like a second skin he can't wait to peel off, run his fingers through the bloody mess until you're raw and aching; shiny new toy stripped bare just for him.

Your mouth pops open. The inside a pretty ring of pink. He thinks about it, about sinking inside that soft little hole, making you gag around the thick of him as he feeds you his cock.

Clean it up f'me, birdie

But it's clear from the way you flit nervously on the comforter that he'll have to work you up to that.

Slow and steady. It's not his usual approach—he's in the habit of taking what he wants. Still. He slows. Glacial. Notches his shoulder against the doorframe, staring. Waiting. Waiting—

And finally:

A shift. You tense. "Mr Riley—"

"Take your clothes off."

Your throat shifts when you swallow. "Mr—"

If you didn't want it, he reasons, you wouldn't be in his bed. Waiting for him.

"Now, birdie."

There's that pause he expects. The hesitation as you stare, searchingly (pleadingly), at him, trying to take a measurement of just how serious he is about this. But he knows he gives nothing away. Just stares with streaks of dirt on his brow, washed down by thick trickles of sweat. Eyes lazy, lidded. Mouth flat. Even.

You demure after a moment. Hands falling shakily to the hem of your sweater, curling beneath the fabric. Gaze downcast, staring wide-eyed at the curve of your jean-clad knees. Bemused, maybe, that it got this far. That you let it get this far.

He doesn't give you time to think about it. Cocks his head to the side, puffs out an impatient breath. "Hurry up. Ain't got much time before my wife comes back."

It's a low blow. He feels it skim his knuckles, a sucker-punch.

You suck in a sharp breath. He wonders if you'll make things difficult now. Fight back. This isn't right. What you're doing to me isn't right. We should stop, Mr Riley—

Instead, you peel the sweater off.

It's artless. Clumsy. Each movement wracked with nerves, uncertainty. There's no coyness to the action. It's not even sexy, or coquettish; nothing about it is done to entice, to seduce. This is an action completed twice a day, every day. Routine. It's mundane, perfunctory.

And yet—

"Fuckin' hell, birdie—"

Something about the latent unwillingness of it all chokes the air from his lungs.

Cock thick in his trousers, throbbing like a wound, he steps into the bedroom, making his way towards you in nothing short of a prowl. It's been building up since you first appeared at his doorstep, eyes wide and bright and scooped Tommy up into your arms until he squealed with laughter.

"I got him," you chirped when he reached out reflexively, dancing artlessly out of the way of his snatching claws. "Don't worry. He's fine with me."

This is your fault, of course. For looking the way that you do. For burrowing under his skin like a parasite. A festering itch. Being close to you always felt like a toothache. Dry socket. Something that made his head split.

"On the bed, birdie," he grunts, hands falling to his belt with a urgency he hasn't felt since he was a clumsy, knobby-kneed teenager. "An' spread your legs f'me."

You give a startled gasp that makes his cock throb, and he groans low in his throat at the waxen look in your eye, the slight quiver to your lip. You look queasy—torn between disgust and fear, eyes slipping to the scarred hands that yank hard on his zipper, cup the bulge that splits through the spread seam, dirty fingers gripping himself tight—and he has to roll his head back to keep from snapping at you to roll over.

A noise does spill out—an impatient rumble gnashing between jagged teeth—when you sit there, bared from the waist up, and watch him with wide eyes. Making no move to show him that pretty pussy he cupped in his palm before. That soft, wet heat in his hand that felt too delicate, too sweet, to be touched with his dirty fingers. Something that rankled down his spine, buzzed in the back of his head when he pulled them free—stained, nails blackened with dirt, crude oil, and glistening in the low light of the kitchen.

He wants it again—on his cock this time. Wants to see that soft pussy get him all wet as he ruins it. As he peels back, sitting on his haunches, and takes in the awful mess he left you in. Poor cunt swollen and abused from from being forced to take the full, fat length of him as he bullies it inside over and over again; puffy lips all sticky with his cum. Sore and stretched and used. Raw after such a vicious pounding—

"Pants off, birdie," he bites out, yanking his jeans down beneath his aching balls. "Ain't gonna like what 'appens next if I 'ave to ask again—"

You give a startled gasp at the rough, callous growl hewing his words, and he wonders if anyone has ever spoken to you like this before. So demanding. With an edge of cruelty slithering out. Demeaning—

No. No one but him, he decides, stroking his cock as he watches you clumsily kick out of your pants, demurring in a faux show of bashfulness as your fingers skim the hem of your panties. The picture of coy shyness as you drop your chin to hide the wobble in your lower lip, the glistening wetness in your eyes as you grapple with indecision. Child's play of modesty.

A farce.

Just the mangled growl of your name is all it takes for those trembling fingers to inch into the hem of your panties, tugging them clumsily down your thighs.

He could come, he thinks, to just that. This. The bloom of fear etching across your brow, panties tangled against the knob of your knees. Unwilling to bend down and push them off the rest of the way. Scared to, maybe.

It buzzes in the back of his head. The idea of paralysing you with nothing more than a sharp bark and crook of his finger; your fear as delectable as that little sliver of skin he can see peaking out at him.

"ain't go' all night," he cuts in with only a quarter of the ice he uses on the field, and feels a deep thrum of satisfaction purr through his chest when you squeak, flinching at his rough, brassy tone.

Your panties fall to the floor in a rumpled pile between your feet, toes curling into the carpet as you try to close your knees as tightly together as you can get them to hide yourself from his heavy-lidded gaze. A last play at modesty. Gaze inward, nervous. A skittish little rabbit with nowhere else to run.

The way you stand before him on shaking knees, trembling like a leaf, makes him want to sink his teeth into you and shake. Little virginal offering to a rapacious god. A feast all for himself. He wants to chew you up. Eat you alive.

But he opts, instead, to bite his tongue until he tastes blood, and bark at you to get on the bed as it oozes between his teeth. Feels something animal split open inside his chest when your eyes widen as he steps into the room, a slow pursuit, a prowl, and has to bite down on the urge to give chase when you flinch, backing away from him quickly. Naked and scared. Running from him with a nervous tremor, but he doesn't miss the way you make, quietly, for his bed.

Eager. Obedient. Fleeing from him like a scared little animal unaware of just how enticing you are.

"Good girl, birdie."

It takes three fingers to open you up, but even that doesn't feel like it's enough.

Not when he knocks your knees apart, wedging his too big, too thick body between them (and then stares, and stares, and stares at your bare cunt, slick and sticky from his hand; flesh left swollen from the brutal spear of three thick, dirty fingers shoving inside—less of a stretch and more a carve: he carved you open) and spits.

You weren't expecting it. Nothing could have prepared you for the suddenness of this degrading act—the nasty, demeaning way he spits on your pussy, and huffs, amused, when the foamy mess slides down your swollen clit to pool between your folds. His finger chases it, rubbing it into your skin, pushing it into your hole.

Ain't got lube, he says, words bordering on a strange equinox of bluntly nonchalant and utterly caustic. Should be thankful m'doin' this much.

Thankful.

Your fingers curl into the sheets, and you try not look at his cock again when he grips himself tight in his big, dirty hand.

He's too big. Too fat. It makes you a little nauseous to stare at it, him—his cock. Marbled like a bruise. Thicker at the base. Veiny. The head is swollen. The tip is soaked in a thick, paste-like spill of precum, and for a horrible second, you almost thought he would make you lick it off.

(later fills the empty space in your head, and you try to mould yourself around the idea until you can decide whether or not the feeling that blooms in the pit of your belly is really dread.)

His hands were rough. Scarred. Dirty. Caked in oil. Stained. He didn't even bother to clean up before he lumbered onto the sheets behind you, one hand falling to grip his cock through his dusty pants, the other heavy on your neck, pushing you down into the mattress that reeks of fabric softener and stale cigarette smoke. Old sweat.

He doesn't need to tell you that she doesn't sleep in this bed anymore, but the idea of it prickles in the back of your head as he pushes you against the sheets and undoes his jeans with an ease that's more muscle memory than thought. Practiced.

You don't have the right to be jealous, but it hums through you like a sickness when you think of him doing this to her. His wife, you add, just to make it hurt. A knife in your gut that aches when you breathe—

"keep breathin', birdie," he grunts, spreading his fingers wide apart inside of you. "Don't get all tense on me now, or I'll have to start over."

You're not sure what that means, but you think you know better than to test his tenuous patience anymore than you have, and so you still. Go quiet. Breathe as he spears you deep, deeper still, and carves a space for that monstrous looking cock to fit—

where it belongs, he'd said, hunched over you like a nightmare in the daytime. All shadow and sinew. Stitched from broken daydreams of a brassy voice in your ear murmuring soon, birdie as his wife pretended to pack a lunch in the kitchen and he rubbed your nipple through your shirt before he slipped off to work.

But it's over too soon. His dirty, stained fingers slipping free from your aching, sopping cunt, leaving you empty—bereft—for a moment as he shuffles up the bed, splitting your knees wide apart to make room for the asburd width of him to fit.

An impossibility, really, but as Mr Riley—call me Simon—is wont to do, he makes it so. Wedges his wide thighs beneath yours until your hips tilt up in his lap, opening you wide. Obscenely so. And—

A grunt.

He stared. And stared. And stared.

Just looked at the split of your cunt sitting invitingly in his lap, wet and messy from his fingers, the cruel push of his palm against your clit. Swollen. Aching already—

"Want it, huh, birdie?"

The words I'm not so sure anymore hitch in the back of your throat, rearing up as he reaches between your legs to grip himself tight, too tight, until he turns a sickly shade of purple around the head that looks wider than anything you'd ever had inside of you before. But he doesn't give you a second to think before notching himself against you, giving a little push that forces the swollen head to sink inside of you—

Just the tip, really, and it already hurts. Stings like a papercut as he stretches your cunt around him, sharp and sudden.

"Too big—" you whimper, tossing your head to the side, breathing in the tang of fresh linen and musk as he grunts above you, pushing and pushing—

Something has to give.

It doesn't surprise you much when it ends up being you.

"Tha's it, birdie. Open up f'me."

It's not so much an opening as it is a siege. A conquest. And with him perched above you, heaving like bull and bathed in shadows that glue alone the mismatched asymmetry of his face, making him look less like a man and more like a figment, a statue—this Stygian being that swoops down and presses his palm against your throat, the other digging into the pillow beside your head, grunting—you feel ever bit of the battered receptacle he turns you into.

Forcing himself into you with a rough grunt, a brutal shove that—for one dizzying, awful moment—you swear you can feel inside your throat, taste on the back of your tongue. Choking on it. But then he's sinking in. Splitting you apart with brute force and that little bit of slick that you know must be stained pink—

"Good girl," he's grunting again, shoving another inch into a space much too small for him to fit. Savouring it. Relishing in the whimpers, the hiccups punched out of you with every flex of his hips. Eyes rolling a little, just a touch, when you feel something warm tickling your cheek and realise you're crying. Shush, birdie, he says, a quiet coo, but he looked delighted. Don't cry. Not yet—

another flex. two more inches. it feels like being speared open; flayed alive. it hurts. it hurts so much, you can't even begin to think through the pain, but he's huffing. groaning low in his throat as he adds:

"—'cause m'not even halfway in yet, pup."

The admission shocks you so much, you barely notice him spreading his knees beneath yours, squaring his stance, until it's too late.

"Wait—!"

If it weren't for his hand tightening around your throat before he speared the last several inches into you, you're sure the wail you might have let out would have woken Tommy. A good thing, you think, dazed, still soundlessly howling around the burning ache of him using his absurd weight to drive into you (balls deep, birdie, he grunts, and sounds so ridiculously proud, you nearly preen—), making you take every last inch. Selfishly carving more space for himself inside of you. Hollowing you out until his whole cock is drenched in your pink-stained slick—

"Makin' me all pretty, aren't you?" Huh, birdie? Nice and fuckin' pink.

A sob bubbles up beneath his palm, and he coos when he feels it, shushing you with a groan as he keeps an awful rhythm, flexing into you. Grinding deep. Carving and cutting and hollowing you out—

"Tha's it, pup," he grunts, eyes masting in leonine pleasure as he bucks into you without respite, taking his bliss from the burning stretch of your cunt. And stupidly, you think about preening. Smiling wide and big and lying to yourself about how bad you want this, him, even as the tears dribble down your chin.

Siphoned satisfaction, maybe. Or just the press of his fingers against that little thing inside of you that made you turn your cheek to his touches. Letting a married man shove his hands down your pants while you made breakfast for his kid and his wife called out to him from the next room about not waiting up for her too late.

Giving in.

That's what this feels like. A slow corrosion from the moment you knocked on his door and said you were here to help him with Tommy to now, buried under his bulk as he batters into your aching cunt, splitting you apart.

Sweat drips down his nape, pours off his face, and when it hits your skin, it feels like battery acid against your cheeks. But with his hand still lodged around your neck, there isn't much you can do except take it. Like his cock, his spit, his sweat. Let him ply you with all of it, every inch, until your body becomes accustomed to the ache.

"Fuckin' stranglin' me."

His cock hits something inside of you, and it isn't really pleasure that blooms in the pit of your belly, but something like a panacea. A wound that's soothed through touch.

Like a knife that hurts more coming out than it does stuffed inside.

But it' saws and it splits. Tears flesh. Rearranges your insides until you're wrapped tight around him, throbbing like bruise against the thick of his cock. A tight fuckin' fit, he says, and inches his fingers up to grab your cheeks. Squeezing until your mouth pops open, mewling at the deep, aching pain, and then he spits.

You don't need him to tell you what to do this time. You just close your mouth and swallow what he gives you, whimpering around the sudden ruck of his hips, a harsh jerk that slides his cockhead against the seal of your womb, dredging up a wave of pain that's soothed by the kiss of that fattened tip pressing against the sting once more. Soothed by touch. By the flood of endorphins.

Fitting, you suppose, since it feels a little bit like being eaten alive when he fucks you, grunting and snarling like a beast as he pounds into you, half-mad and starved, and you remember reading somewhere that people rarely experience any pain when they're bitten by a shark.

An oddly serene experience, out of body almost, as they're taken apart by razor-sharp teeth.

That's how you feel looking up at him, feeling the drip, drip, drip of his sweat splat on your cheeks. Warm, milky breath ghosting over your forehead. A barely there kiss when he bends down, growling into your hairline that he's gonna fill you up, pup; that Tommy's been begging for a little brother, 'asn't he? and ain't it time we gave 'im one?

You think no and don't. please don't, please, but your hands stayed curled into the duvet instead of reaching up to push him away. Knees dropping further apart as he bends down with a brassy grunt that you feel in your belly, between your hips, like molten lead. A pulsing flutter—sore muscles gripping tighter and tighter as he grunts again, and tells you to keep opening that pretty cunt up for him, birdie. Let him get even deeper.

The collar of his shirt dips low, unveiling a mass of moulted flesh suffused together in a pink ribbon array of crisscrossing scar tissue and burns. It's an odd time to notice that he hasn't bothered to undress, just shoved his jeans down his thighs and pulled his—monstrous, ugly—cock out, and forced it into you. But you do. And you feel it so acutely in your chest that even without his hand on your throat, you doubt you'd have been able to breathe. It just—

It says something, you think. Means something.

And maybe it hits you like a fist, too. A bludgeon to that little thing in the back of your head that keeps reminding you this isn't okay. That you're not supposed to be in this bed, with this man.

Marital vows, it says, all wrapped up in the scent of stale sweat and detergent. A whisper of Candy Kiss peppering the room when you arrive; a sweet sillage that tickles your nose whenever he leans down, cupping your breast in the palm of his hand. The flash of metal sitting snug on his thick ring finger. Cold and dry against your damp skin.

It crumbles under the sway of his big, thick body sawing away between your hips; turns to dust, dissolving into soot as the growls spilling out his chest tremble through your bones. The ring doesn't matter. It never did.

Not when he's decorating the space he hollowed out inside of you with these dizzying daydreams—weaving a damning tapestry with fingers bleeding from cuts made by the knife of his own artifice. Staining it red.

Pretty pink.

And eventually the ring warms between his hand and your heated skin until you can't tell the difference between metal and flesh.

(but in the smeared residuum of ash and rust, something stirs, asks if you ever really could at all—)

"Gonna make me a dad again, ain't you, pup?" Huh? He growls, rough and mean. Gonna have t'start callin' me daddy soon—

You're not sure when it started building, but the edge is suddenly there. Within reach. And he tells you in rasping groans that he feels it too. Gonna cum, biride, he says, and it sounds like a threat. A warning. It's a razor scraping against your nerves, pooling heat between your hips.

No, you think again, but your hips roll as much as they can with him bearing down above you, cradled between your slick, damp thighs—roughened up, chafed by the repeated scrape of denim. Eager for it. Hungry. Like you're starving.

And what did he say before? Oh, yeah—

Oh, I'll eat, birdie.

You feel that gnawing, gaping emptiness in your belly as he huffs, breath sticky and warm, glueing to your skin as he pants his desire over your flesh, inside your body. Pace stuttering on his next exhale, morphing into a choppy, clumsy grind—just the desperate, furious graze of his cockhead digging into that bruised, tender spot inside of you where pleasure and pain suture themselves together until one is almost indistinguishable from the other. Fear and desire warping around the edges until you're trembling from the urge to flee, but bearing your neck at the vicious spread of teeth gaping open above your caught jugular.

Simon presses his face against the side of yours, smearing sweat and spit over your heated, damp skin from where a cut in his upper lip leaves his teeth in a constant snarl, bared to the world in a vicious, brutal display of aggression, and the nudge of it against the softened, ripe apple of your cheek is what sends you over the edge before you're ready.

It's mean. A nasty, ugly climax that throbs more like a wound than a satisfying end; pulsing and spitting fire as you yowl into the bubble bulging along his ear, clawing at the duvet, and bringing your other hand up to twist into the wet fabric clinging to his broad back. Needing to hold on. To find purchase as he grunts into your skin with each brutal plunge of his hips, and then sinks his teeth into your pulse, drawing blood—

You're still clenching around him, throbbing like an infected wound, when he lifts his pinked up muzzle, bearing his crooked, bloodied teeth, and grunts with his release. Filling you with a burning, stinging heat. Painting the tapestry he hung on chiselled flesh. A home of his own making. The apex of your being is a crevasse for him to sink his desire inside until something grows.

Tommy wants a baby brother, he'd said, and as you knot your hand tighter around his sweaty shirt, you wonder if maybe you should have paid more attention to the pills you shoved into your mouth each morning, making sure they all looked exactly the same—

"Fuck, birdie," he snarls into your neck as he throbs inside of you, cock jerking until it lodges against the battered, bruised seal of your womb—soothing the ache, you think, giving a weak pulse, a little, desperate clench around him—grunting like this is all your fault.

And maybe it is. But he doesn't give you much of a choice when he ruts into you still in rolling, feverish humps that knock your teeth together each time you unhinge your jaw to tell him to stop.

(But you won't, of course—)

His hands are hot against your clammy skin, searing and rough as he pulls you back into his chest with a grunt, mumbling something about a cigarette as you pant into the sweat-slicked nook of his arm, trying to make sense of what happens next.

You should leave. And really—you're a little surprised he hadn't kicked you out already. Shoved you off of him, told you to pack your things. He'll call when he needs you next because with this burning desire of his sated, what else does he need you in bed for?

But he tightens his grip when you try to wiggle away from him with a salt-crusted, sleep-drenched noise of dissent.

He isn't done with you, he mumbles, pawing at the end table for the carton of cigarettes he left there this morning. Blue Zippo still tucked neatly inside.

It's something you'd noticed during the first week when you opened a drawer looking for Tommy's iPad charger and found his hidden stash—along with the rest. Little clues that piled up until the pieces fell, and you realised this was a strange, habitual thing of his where he needs to leave things lying around the house—a carton of cigarettes with a lighter; a duffle bag full of clothes for him and Tommy. Non-perishable food stuffed inside a rucksack. Cash. Knives. All within reach.

Most people live in their homes. Clothes in the drawers. Shoes on a rack or piled by the front food. Food in the cabinets. They carry their smokes with them or keep them in a convenient place for whenever they need them next. But Simon seems keen to uproot himself at a moment's notice. Bags within reach. Necessities all packed by the front door, ready to go. Each room has a satchel hidden somewhere. A carton of smokes. A lighter.

It means something, you're sure. Nestled between the layers of a restless, caged tiger circling its iron-barred domicile for the first chance at escape is a travesty written in spoiled ink. Chiselled into the bars, imprinted there like braille for you to run your fingers over until pockmarks make sense.

Like why Candy Kiss is left on the vanity, sitting atop a drawerful of untouched clothes. The smell of fresh linen. Pilates on a weekly basis. Don't wait up peppering the air; a soft echo cradled in the harsh snap of a door closing. Eyes barely blinking away from the flashing screen.

Or—why your clothes disappear each time you do the laundry. Lace panties and satin bras first—an almost banal perversion that barely made a gurn at. Then tights. Sweaters. Shirts. Jeans. All missing with a nonchalant shrug of a massive shoulder, and a stare that didn't much pin as it skewered. Flayed. A flat, even dunno, birdie. Maybe the ghost knicked it.

Tightly wound artifice you'll never make sense of beyond the bags and the cigarettes. The stares that make the hair on your neck stand on end—

"Fuckin' hell, pup," he grunts suddenly, pinching the cigarette between his thumb and forefinger as the other slides down your curved spine, grabbing a handful of your asscheek in his palm, giving a vicious, painful squeeze. "Can feel your little cunt leakin' all over my leg—"

He slips the filter between his teeth with an appreciative hum when you jerk, a mocking huff spilling out when you try to clamp your legs shut around the thick split of his hip wedged between them. You can feel it, too—the thick, sticky ooze of him leaking out of your sore cunt, smearing pink-tinged cum all over his jeans. He hadn't let you get up after rolling off of you—just barked at you to leave it. Keep it, birdie. Gotta take, don't it?

A barb you hadn't said anything to, opting to ignore that, like everything else he does. Did.

Will do because you can tell, even beneath all those hidden layers, that this isn't a one-time thing. No. This isn't just a man stuck in a bad marriage fucking the nanny because he can. It's deeper. Worse, somehow, than a gross older man with a fetish for younger women he can financially control. Another pervert slaking his lust on whatever artless little thing falls into his web.

No. No—

This is missing clothes stuffed inside bags kept around the house. Pills that leave a strange aftertaste on your tongue of something a shade too sweet—

You think about running. Slipping out of his hands, this bed that reeks of stale sweat and sex, putting on your clothes, and leaving this house. Burying yourself in debt again, schoolwork, and limping (with your tail between your aching thighs) back to your landlord. Never looking twice at an ad for a babysitter in your life.

—and maybe spend your whole life wondering why people mix wolves and dogs to create something that never truly feels at home in the patchwork skin it wears; pieces of ancestors it can't relate to;

But you don't.

(—you never do.)

You lie there and take it. Like the leers he aimed at you when you first showed up on his doorstep, reeking of financial desperation and swallowed down the litany of things he said to you under his breath with a wobbly grin and your eyes fixed on the tile, convincing yourself it would pass. That you were more than just a pretty face he couldn't wait to cover in his cum. A soft ass he wanted to sink his teeth into before getting his cock in there next. Tight little pussy he was so eager to break in. Pantin' like a bitch in heat, ain't you, pup? can hear you gaggin' for it a mile away—

Biting your lip so hard it bled. Blood between your teeth. Your hands curling into the coarse, starchy fabric of his work shirt when he leaned down, permanent snarl on his face from the manmade cleftlip, and reached down to grab a handful of it. Testin' the merchandise, he cooed, low and mean and ugly. Words wrapped up tight in barbed wire. Brassbound. Said nothing as he pinched your nipples through your shirt, or when he shoved his hand beneath the hem and groaned at how soft you were.

Dirty hands leaving stains all over your skin you couldn't see, but felt like a fresh, weeping tattoo. Pulsing with infection.

(Such a needy little thing he trusts with his son while his wife is gettin' railed by 'er Pilates instructor, huh? But that's fine, ain't it? Need another one, anyway. A better influence for Tommy. Someone who'll give him that little brother he's been buggin' for—)

And so, you slacken your jaw when he grunts, barking at you to open up. Say nothing when he drags his hand back up your body to grip your jaw tight in his palm, squeezing your cheeks until they pop open. Let him spit in your mouth, and swallow down the foul, stale tobacco taste of him on your tongue.

Nod, like an obedient little pup, when he says good, ain't it? and let him roll you onto your back again, wrenching your thighs apart so he can see for himself the mess he made. The one you let spill all over his jeans.

Good ones, too, he huffs, eyelids slicing over the jaded edge of obsidian into a derisive pantomime of a contented cat squinting to show affection. Half-mast in pleasure as he says he'll wear them again tomorrow an' let all the boys see what a mess you make of me—

His gaze drills into the wet, slick seam of your puffy, bruised cunt, grip tightening—vicious, possessive—until his blunt nails sink into your skin. Branding. Bruising. His fingers clench down until it almost feels like he'll break through muscle to touch bone, but just when it starts to really hurt, pushing past that strange equinoctial point where pleasure and pain wrap around each other on a razor's edge, he peels back with a grunt. Leans over you to spit in your mouth again, a wet, foamy glob that hits your bottom lip before it oozes into your mouth, tasting of stale smoke and bitter tobacco. A flavour that reeks of permanence, and smells of an incipient wolfpack—all animal musk and wildness brimming up against stale sweat, laundry detergent, cigarette smoke, and sex.

Cruel, almost, like the gurns etched into his face by the missing chunk of flesh on his upper lip. Snarled and deadly. Mocking in a certain light. Like a constant sneer. Derisive and dangerous.

But not nearly as terrifying when he lists forward, dropping down to catch your jaw in his hand, the other planting itself in musty pillow beside your head, caging you in, and says:

"—and now you're makin' me a daddy again, birdie."

There's a taste in the back of your throat that's much too sweet for the dirty, oil-stained fingers he slips between your slack lips, scratching over your tongue. It reminds you of a spoonful of sugar. Grape-flavoured medicine poured over the top. And you wonder how quickly the pills you have been taking would dissolve in water when you sprinkled the white granules down the drain.

Something else you won't mention even as this house he burrowed inside changes shape—clothes in drawers, bags in the closet; the lingering scent of Candy Kiss a spoiled, stale sillage hidden under the smell of newborn and warm milk. Crushed animal crackers and Nicorette. The sound of a gaping, newly formed maw yowling for attention clashing sharply against the exaggerated screams of a grown man howling about a video game on Tommy's iPad.

thanks for hiring me and don't worry, Mr Riley, I can manage him morphing into a new sound, a continual echo of welcome home, and she called again asking about custody, daddy.

Something that throbs like a fresh wound before knitting itself together again into a thin, pink line; skin all shiny and new. Pulsing with the echoes of everything you dipped your chin again, mumbling around the malformed words of please, and don't, and now,

don't stop, please don't stop

What else are you supposed to do, really, other than lettingnhim slake the remnants of his lust between your sore, slick-stained thighs until he grunts, coming inside of you again to the damning symphony of a creaking bed, heels against the floorboards, and the sizzle of a cigarette burning away in an ashtray.

"Wait—" swallowed down by a mangled mouth. A hooked, crooked nose slides along your sweaty cheek as he all but purrs in satisfaction.

All his, he says.

And you don't fight it even as the blood pools between your teeth because you knew that from the start.

#this was originally a request but tumblr ate all of my asks so :/#babysitter!reader x ghost anon this is for you #simon riley x reader #simon riley x you #ghost x reader #ghost x you #ghostfics

4K notes · View notes

aryaryxoxo · 1 month ago

Text

Six Times You and Bakugou Couldn't Escape Each Other (and One Time You Really Couldn't) #katsuki bakugou x fem!reader ⤷ Every year, without fail, your families book at the same resort at the same time—for six years straight. And every year, like clockwork, you and Bakugou Katsuki somehow manage to ruin each other’s vacation. (5k)

Warning: grammar, idk ajsdnkada

Year one

“Sweetheart, slow down!” your father called out behind you as you bolted down the hallway, suitcase wheels clattering noisily behind you. You could hardly contain your excitement for the week ahead. Your parents had promised a stay at a luxurious five-star resort—complete with museums, slides, swimming pools, nature for sight seeing and more. To your ten-year-old mind, it sounded like paradise.

You fumbled eagerly with the hotel room keycard your mother handed you earlier, finally managing to swipe it through the door scanner. With a satisfying click, the door opened, and you stepped inside—eyes widening in awe.

The room was huge. The soft scent of linen and the faint hum of air conditioning greeted you as you took in the two queen-sized beds. One was obviously meant for you, and the other is for your parents, though everyone knew you'd end up sleeping with them anyway. Still, your parents had asked for an extra bed, hoping to make you feel a little more independent.

“Mama! There’s a huge balcony!” you squealed, climbing up on a nearby chair to peek out at the view.

“Be careful, my dear,” your mother warned gently as she came over and scooped you into her arms, holding you securely so you could see better. The sun bathed the surrounding trees in golden light, and below, the pool sparkled like a jewel.

“Dear look, we have a neighbor,” she murmured, pointing to the balcony beside yours.

Later, you busied yourself by placing Mr. Strawberry—your beloved stuffed bear—on the bed near the large window. You carefully unpacked his accessories from your bag: a pair of sunglasses, a pink dress (because Mr. Strawberry didn’t care about colors), and a plastic toy ice cream cone.

“What else did I bring?” you muttered, burying your head into the small backpack to make sure you hadn’t missed anything.

When you finally pulled your head out, you froze.

Standing in front of you, gripping Mr. Strawberry by the neck with a suspicious glare, was a blond boy around your age. His red eyes were narrowed into a deadly squint, locked onto you like laser. You blinked. He blinked back—menacingly.

“Can you give him back to me?” you asked, arms stretched out, trying to sound calm despite the twitch in your eye. “No,” the blond menace replied, with all the audacity in the world.

You took a deep breath. Maybe he didn’t hear you right. “Please give me back.” He looked you dead in the eyes, held the bear tighter, and said, “No. Again.”

Without thinking, you launched yourself forward, diving to rescue Mr. Strawberry from the clutches of the foul beast.

“What are you doing?!” you screeched, tugging at your bear’s paw.

“Why are you in our room?!” he snapped, yanking back.

“This is our room, you jerk!”

“You’re the jerk!”

Kid logic took over, and the war began.

"You murderer!" you cried, grabbing a fistful of his spiky hair and yanking it like your life depended on it.

"OW! You psycho!" he bellowed, still holding Mr. Strawberry hostage.

That was the moment your parents burst out of the bathroom, faces frozen in horror. There you were, their sweet little child, with a death grip on some blonde boy’s hair, while he clutched your teddy bear like it was a hostage negotiation gone wrong.

“KATSUKI! We haven’t even checked into the room and you're already causing trouble!” a voice shouted from the doorway.

All eyes turned to the new arrival—a wild-eyed blonde woman, her fiery stare nearly identical to the boy’s. She stormed over, grabbed the boy—Katsuki—by the collar, yanked the bear from his arms, and gently handed it back to you with a tight, apologetic smile.

“I’m very sorry,” she said with a deep, frantic bow, still hugging her son tightly as he kicked and protested in her grip. “I hope my son didn’t hurt your daughter.”

“Why are you apologizing?! That brat started it!” Bakugou barked, twisting in her arms.

“What brat!?” you snapped, hugging Mr. Strawberry tightly to your chest as you locked eyes with the demon child in a full-on death glare challenge.

“We’re also sorry. I hope our daughter didn’t hurt your son,” your parents added politely, bowing back.

You turned toward them with a look of sheer betrayal.

“What?! He started it! He wanted Mr. Strawberry to die! He was gripping him by the neck!” you defended with the sincerity of someone reporting a serious crime.

“Hah! That’s a stupid name for a teddy bear,” Bakugou muttered, sticking out his tongue and pulling a face.

His mother quickly slapped her hand over his mouth and hissed, “Shut it.”

Your father knelt down in front of you, his expression calm and soft. “Sweetheart, I know how protective you are of Mr. Strawberry, but you could have really hurt him. I don’t think Mr. Strawberry would’ve wanted that.”

That made you pause. You looked down at Mr. Strawberry, then up at the boy who had just been silenced by his mother. His mouth was finally free, and he looked like he had more dumb things to say.

“If he apologizes for hurting Mr. Strawberry,” you said solemnly, “then I’ll apologize too.”

“Hah! As if I will—!”

“Katsuki.” His mother’s tone was deadly.

“...Fine! Sorry!” he spat.

You gave a slow, dramatic nod. “Fine. Sorry too.”

And thus, a truce was declared.

“Again, my deepest apologies,” the woman said, rubbing her temple with a sigh. “The receptionist gave us the wrong keys”

She turned to your parents, offering a strained smile. “I’m Mitsuki Bakugou, by the way.” She reached out to shake their hands with her right hand while still trying to wrangle the wild animal with the other.

She finally set him down when a man’s voice called out from behind her.

“Honey, I finally got the keys!”

A man with slightly tousled brownish hair stepped into view, holding up a new keycard triumphantly. The demon child—aka Katsuki Bakugou—immediately ran over and latched onto the man’s leg like a clingy goblin.

Mitsuki grabbed the card from his hand as he introduced himself as the husband and father. You blinked. This gentle, quiet-looking man was the father of that tiny demon? You couldn’t quite figure out how that made sense. But then again, his mother was currently throwing daggers with her eyes at her own son. Maybe chaos just ran in the bloodline.

“Looks like we’re next to each other,” she said with a small smile, glancing between your families.

That statement made both you and Katsuki whip your heads around to glare at each other.

This vacation was doomed.

Year two

“I’m so excited!” you muttered to yourself, practically bouncing on your heels. Today was the day—you were finally going to ride the big slide. The one that twisted around the resort’s water park. It was so cool, you had to climb three flights of stairs before you even began.

You hurried up the stairs, clutching the wet rail, already picturing yourself screaming with joy on the way down. But just as you reached the second floor, an aggravatingly familiar voice echoed behind you.

“I’m faster than you, idiot!”

That kid. The one from last year. Bakugou Katsuki, aka the bane of your last year vacation’s existence, was charging up the stairs like his life depended on it.

Was it stupid to race up three flights of slippery stairs, where one wrong step could lead to a full-on cartoon-style head trauma? Absolutely.

Did that stop you?

Not a chance. He ruined your vacation last year (both of you had spent the entire week glaring at each other across hallways, pool chairs, and buffet lines until the day you left).

You took off after him, determined not to let the blond gremlin beat you. The two of you reached the top at the same time, immediately breaking into a loud argument over who touched the top step first.

“I clearly beat you!”

“No way, I saw your foot slip, loser!”

The poor lifeguard attendant looked at you both with all the exhaustion of someone who did not get paid enough for this. After one long glance, she pointed toward the exit.

“You’re both too little for the slide.”

You stared in horror. Bakugou’s face contorted with the rage of a thousand suns.

“What?! That’s stupid! I can ride it! Height doesn’t even matter! I’m ready! I’ve got reflexes and everything!”

The worker sighed, looking you both over with an exhausted expression. “Kid,” she said, pointing directly at Bakugou, “you’re standing on your tiptoes right now.”

Bakugou shot her a death glare, but she didn't flinch.

“And,” she continued, barely hiding the exhaustion in her voice, “you need to be fifteen years old to slide down”

“I’m fifteen!” you insist, trying to convince the lifeguard. You widen your eyes, putting on your best puppy-dog look. Well it doesn’t work because both of you ended up sulking at the bottom of the slide five minutes later—soaked, grumpy, and somehow even more determined to ruin each other’s day.

“This is your fault!” Bakugou snapped, crossing his arms and practically vibrating with rage.

“Huh?! Be grateful we didn’t end up banned from the slide because of your ego! Demon child!” you shot back, pointing at him like he was the cause of global warming.

Bakugou, clearly offended. “What did you just call me?!” He lets out a loud tch and sparks begin crackling from his palms—tiny bursts of frustration lighting up like firecrackers.

And of course, not to be outdone, you activated your own quirk—just enough to make your point.

“Kids,” the lifeguard said, suddenly appearing between you like a divine referee, placing a hand on each of your shoulders. “Please don’t use your quirks. There are children running around. And frankly, you’re the loudest ones here.”

You both instantly looked away, muttering complaints under your breath. But the battle was far from over.

Year three

You tried not to be paranoid—really, you did. This was supposed to be a good week. You were at your favorite resort, the sun was shining, and everything should’ve been perfect.

Should’ve.

But how could you truly enjoy it when a certain gremlin with anger issues kept popping up every year to ruin your peace?

Not this time, you told yourself. This year, you were going to have a good time. No explosions. No arguments. No Katsuki Bakugou.

That’s why you begged your mother to sign up for the museum tour being held on the other side of the resort. A quiet, educational day. Some mother-daughter bonding. And besides, the odds are in your favor. Day three of your trip and you still haven’t seen him.

“My dear, are you okay?” your mother asked, noticing the way your head kept whipping side to side.

You were scanning the crowd like a wartime soldier, just to be sure there were no signs of blond chaos. You hated to admit it, but every time you spotted someone with spiky blond hair, your soul briefly left your body and rage came in.

Even back home in the United States, you found yourself flinching at the sight of blond, spiky hair in public. He lived in Japan, for crying out loud.

And yet, every time you spotted someone who even remotely resembled him, your fight-or-flight kicked in like clockwork.

“And this,” the tour guide said cheerfully, pointing to a glass display, “is a fossil discovered along the shores of this very resort!”

You leaned in, relaxing just a bit—until the guide looked past the crowd and said:

“Oh! You must be Ms. Bakugou! Please, please, join the tour. You’re not late.”

No.

No, no, no.

Why.

You turned slowly, clinging to your last sliver of hope that maybe it was just his mom. Maybe she came alone this year. Maybe the universe had some mercy.

But no. Because right there, next to her, stood him. And of course, he was already looking directly at you like he knew this would happen.

You whipped your head back around.

Don’t look again. Don’t look again. Don’t—

You looked again.

And he smirked.

He only muttered two words.

“Mr. Strawberry”

That was it. Just two words.

Oh, you were going to go berserk on a 12-year-old.

Year four

If you asked Bakugou if he loved the beach, he’d tell you he hated it more than losing a fight—because at least that, he could control. He could train harder, fight smarter, blast his way to a win. But the beach? The beach had sand that was somehow always stuck in his shoes, sunburn on his neck, and screaming kids with no sense of personal space.

He’d take a sparring match over this hell they called the beach any day.

And yet, every summer, without fail, his parents dragged him back to the same resort.

He'd complain, scowl, and threaten to blow up the welcome banner—again. But deep down? There was something about this place that kept him from actually going nuclear.

Something he refused to admit even existed.

And right now, that something was in front of him, on the balcony beside his own. Glaring while holding that ridiculous plushie with the equally ridiculous name Mr. Strawberry. It’s so absurd, so laughable, that Bakugou could hardly hold back a snort every time he thought about it. He’d even catch himself smirking in class sometimes, thinking about how seriously you’d defend that stupid bear.

“I guess satan couldn’t reach me so he sent you,” You remarked with a mocking grin, your eyes gleaming with mischief.

Bakugou stared at you blankly, his expression the epitome of unamused. “What did you just say?”

You turned to leave, done with his obnoxious presence. But before you could take a step away, Bakugou's eyes flicked over to the water gun resting on the railing beside him. His gaze narrowed, and a dangerous smirk played on his lips.

“Oh, you think you can walk away without paying for that?” he muttered to himself, his fingers tightening around the handle of the water gun. With one swift motion, he aimed it directly at you.

The cold blast of water hits you square in the back, instantly drenching your pajama and sending a chill through your spine.

You whipped around, face flushed with irritation. “What the hell, Bakugou?!”

He was grinning now, pure smugness plastered across his face. “Satan said you needed a bath.”

You looked at him, seething with frustration, your hand already reaching for something you could use in return. And then it clicked. His stupid mistake.

You grabbed the water gun sitting by your side, fully aware that a little bit of payback was in order. You aimed it at him, squeezing the trigger with satisfaction as the cold stream of water hit his chest.

“Guess you needed one too,” you shot back, a smirk forming on your face now.

Bakugou's eyes flared with irritation, and for a moment, it seemed like he might retaliate with a blast of his quirk. But there was something about the way the water gun had soaked him that made him pause, a little part of him enjoying this.

Damn it. He cursed silently, but deep down, he knew that this—whatever this is—had become a weird part of his vacation routine.

And that’s when it hit him: The universe must really hate him. For the past four years, he’d been stuck in the same resort, rooming next to you year after year. Always just a balcony away. Always.

It was like the universe wanted him to deal with you. And Mr. Strawberry.

And for a moment, the stupid thought flickered in his mind: This summer wouldn’t feel right without it.

“Tch, whatever," Bakugou grumbled, wiping his face with his hand. "This is so stupid."

Year five

“Mom, you know I hate hiking, right?” you groaned as you trudged behind your parents up the hill.

“Dear, I thought you wanted to be a pro-hero?” your mother chirped back. “You need stamina training! And fresh air!”

“Lots of fresh air,” your dad added, already taking a dramatic picture of the tree line like it was the cover of a nature documentary. “This resort just keeps getting better. Look at this view! Million-dollar scenery!”

You did admit—it was beautiful. Rolling green hills, birds chirping, a breeze cool enough to keep your sweat from sticking. Still.

“Great, can we go back now?” you asked, eyes hopeful. Desperate.

Your mother shot you a look. “That’s a terrible mindset, young lady.”

And then—because the universe is an evil, evil thing—a familiar voice spoke up behind you.

“I see you’ve finally taken a liking to hiking, huh?”

You didn’t need to turn around to know who it was. Masaru Bakugou. Which could only mean…

“Of course,” you muttered under your breath. Why not ruin the day completely.

Sure enough, stomping beside his parents, wearing a scowl that could peel bark off a tree, was none other than him. Bakugou Katsuki. He grew around a few inches in height since last year but still the same temper, same explosive aura of annoyance. But this time… he locked eyes with you and groaned like it physically hurt.

“Oh, come on,” he hissed.

Well, at least you could agree on one thing: neither of you wanted to be here.

“How about we all hike up there?” Mitsuki grinned, already locking arms with your mother like they had been best friends since forever.

“Sure!” your mom beamed, and just like that, both sets of parents began their cheerful ascent, chatting like this hike wasn’t a death sentence.

You and Bakugou trailed behind at a very safe distance from each other—until, of course, that peace was destroyed.

“That’s a robin,” you said, pointing to a small bird on a branch.

“No, it’s not. That’s a sparrow, dumbass.”

You stopped in your tracks, horrified. “Excuse me? Sparrows don’t have red chests. It’s a robin.”

“Tch. As if you know anything about birds. You think everything small and fluffy is a robin.”

“Well at least I know what a robin looks like! I did a birdwatching project in 3rd grade!”

“Yeah? Must’ve failed it.”

You were both now full-on bickering, flailing your arms and pointing at birds, while the rest of the group climbed steadily ahead. Neither of you noticed that in the middle of your feathery fight, you'd veered off the main trail.

“I hope that robin poops on your head,” you snapped.

“I hope it’s a hawk and it carries you off,” he shot back.

By the time you both paused for air, the trail was gone… and so were your parents.

“We’re not that far off the trail… right?” you asked, trying—really trying—not to sound as nervous as you felt. The trees looked taller now. The shadows, longer. Even the birds were quiet.

Bakugou glanced up at the sky. “The sun’s about to set.”

You followed his gaze and swallowed. The golden light was fading fast, dipping low behind the mountains. Your stomach twisted.

There was something in his eyes—not panic exactly, but awareness. A shift in the air. Seriousness that Bakugou never had when he was arguing with you. That made your chest tighten.

“…So, we’re just a little lost,” you tried again.

He didn’t reply right away. Instead, he looked around, jaw tight. “We’ll find the trail. Just stop freaking out.”

“I’m not freaking out,” you snapped.

You were definitely freaking out.

Bakugou exhaled sharply, adjusting the backpack slung over one shoulder. “Come on. Just stick close.”

“…You’re not gonna leave me if we get chased by a bear, right?”

He glanced at you, his expression unreadable for a second. Then he muttered, “Only if you slow me down.”

But you caught it—the faintest smirk. And weirdly, you felt just a little less lost.

It’s been what—minutes? Hours? Days? Years? You don’t know. What you do know is you both still haven’t found the trail.

“Eat,” Bakugou said, tossing a granola bar your way. “You need energy.”

You unwrapped the bar slowly, staring at it as if it might somehow give you the answers you were desperately searching for. “I’m sorry,” you said in a defeated voice, your words barely above a whisper as you took a small bite.

Bakugou didn’t look up, focused on his own bar. “For what?”

“If I didn’t argue with you, we probably wouldn’t be here... lost,” you mumbled, the guilt in your chest gnawing at you.

Bakugou’s eyes flicked to you briefly before returning to the ground in front of him. “Don’t be stupid. It takes two people to end up in a heated argument. Don’t take the blame.”

“Wow, so mature, Bakugou,” you replied, chuckling.

Bakugou exhaled sharply, but there was the faintest hint of a smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. “Okay, I take it back. It’s your fault.”

You laughed, but before you could reply, Bakugou added, almost as an afterthought, “Next time, don’t follow idiots into the woods. Especially if the idiot’s me.”

And for some reason... that sounded a lot like, “I’m glad you were with me.”

Then you both hear it—the unmistakable sound of voices, distant at first, but growing louder with every passing second. Your heart jumps into your throat as you realize it’s bakugou’s and your parents calling your names.

You finally see them—your parents, rushing toward you through the trees. The sight of them, the sound of their voices. As soon as they reach you, they envelop you in a tight, desperate hug. You can feel their tears soaking into your shirt, but you don’t mind. You cling to them just as tightly, your own tears falling freely.

“Oh my god, we were so scared!” your mother sobs, not letting go, her arms shaking around you.

“Never do that again, sweetheart,” your father chokes out, voice thick with emotion.

But despite the comfort of your parents’ embrace, your eyes instinctively dart to the side. You catch a glimpse of the Bakugou, standing just off to the side. His parents are also hugging him tightly, but it’s Bakugou you’re watching. He’s looking at you, his face unreadable, but his eyes... his eyes are focused solely on you.

Year Six

This was stupid.

Bakugou wasn’t a wimp. He wasn’t some crybaby extra scared of a dumb water slide. He was fifteen years old, damn it. A certified teenager. Practically a man.

He’d been waiting for this. Every summer, he’d glare at the height requirement sign, fists clenched, promising next year would be his year. And now it was. He finally hit the mark. He could go on the biggest, fastest, craziest ride in the whole resort.

So why did it suddenly look... bigger than he remembered?

Bakugou stared at the dark tunnel of the slide. You couldn’t see what was inside. Couldn’t see where the turns were, or how steep the drops got. All you could hear was the echo of rushing water—and the occasional shriek of someone halfway down.

It bugged him more than he wanted to admit.

Because he liked knowing what was coming. He liked control. Strategy. Knowing where to aim, how to move, what to blast. But this? This was just blind falling.

His feet didn’t move.

“You coming or what?”

Of course you were here.

Why didn’t he think of that?

Of course the universe would punish him further by making you the one to witness him scream like a toddler over a dumb slide.

“You scared of a little splash?” you asked with a grin, arms crossed as you stood by the stairs.

“Shut up,” he snapped automatically.

But you noticed it—the way he hesitated, his fists clenched a little tighter than usual. Yeah. He was scared.

Six years of knowing Bakugou—well, “knowing” was a strong word. You only saw him every summer, and most of those memories involved glaring matches, passive-aggressive sabotage, and possibly a near-death pool float incident. Still, you knew enough to read the signs.

“How about I go first?” you offered, stretching your arms like this was some kind of heroic sacrifice. “If I survive, then you’re definitely gonna survive too.”

“Tch. Why the hell would that mean anything?”

“Because I’m better than you,” you said, stepping beside him. “So if I make it out alive, there’s hope for you.”

He rolled his eyes, but didn’t say anything.

You looked at the slide—tall, winding, dark. Then back at him. And for once, you didn’t tease. You didn’t joke. You just said quietly, “It’s not as scary as it looks. You just gotta trust the ride. Trust yourself.”

Then you pushed off, disappearing into the tunnel with a splash and a laugh that echoed after you.

Bakugou stood there, blinking.

He could hear your scream echoing through the slide tunnel—a mix of thrill and victory—and not two minutes later, he spotted your small figure from below. You were dripping wet, grinning up at him like you just conquered the world. Then you threw him the biggest thumbs-up he’d ever seen.

And something about that—your smile, your faith in him, the way you waited—did something weird to his chest. Tight, warm, unfamiliar.

He gritted his teeth, steeling himself. Alright. He could do this.

He stepped up to the edge, heart pounding. This is stupid, he reminded himself one last time. Then, he closed his eyes and took a long breath. When he opened them again, he dove forward.

Instantly, he was swallowed by speed. Flashes of color streaked past, water rushing around him, tugging him down, spinning him through twists and turns. But instead of panic—he felt it.

Freedom.

He was flying, gliding, laughing without meaning to. And for once, he wasn't thinking about winning or training or looking tough.

He was just having fun.

By the time he shot out of the slide with a splash, blinking water from his eyes, he saw you waiting with crossed arms and a smug look.

“You survived,” you said.

He snorted, pushing his wet hair back. “Told you I wasn’t scared.”

You raised an eyebrow. “Sure, whatever helps you sleep at night.”

But the smile you gave him? That was real. And this time, he didn’t look away.

“Do you want to go down the slide again?” you asked, eyes still sparkling from the adrenaline.

Bakugou glanced at the sky, then toward the resort. “We need to go. Check-out’s at eleven.”

“Oh.” You muttered, trying to hide your disappointment. “Right…”

But then, as always, you bounced back with a grin. “Then see you next year. Whoever slides down the most times wins.”

Bakugou scoffed, pushing himself up the pool, grabbing his towel and slinging it over his shoulder. “Tch. Like hell I’m gonna let you win.”

He didn’t want to smile—but yeah, it tugged at the corners of his mouth anyway.

“Better start training, gremlin.”

You stuck your tongue out at him, and as he walked towards the elevator, something about that moment lingered.

A promise.

Year Seven – After the Vacation

This is why Bakugou doesn’t do promises.

Because he kept it. Day after day, for that entire week, he waited for you at the bottom of the slide. Arms crossed. Scowl on. Towel slung over his shoulder like he didn’t care.

But he did.

You never came.

His mom said maybe you went to a different resort this year—after all, you were from the United States. “Things change, Katsuki,” she said.

But that didn’t stop the sting. Didn’t stop him from looking for that ridiculous plushie. Or listening for your laugh. Or pretending he didn’t check the pool every morning, just in case.

You didn’t come—and that pissed him off more than he wanted to admit.

He could’ve used that time to train. To prepare for the U.A. entrance exam. Not that it mattered—he was going to pass anyway. But still. He wasted time on you.

Now he’s sitting at his new desk, jaw tight, glaring at the front of the classroom as the homeroom teacher, Mr Aizawa flips through the attendance sheet. He doesn't care who his classmates are. Couldn’t care less about some dumb electricity guy or the half-and-half weirdo.

And Deku is here. Great. Just fantastic. He still doesn’t understand how he got a quirk.

His foot tapped impatiently against the floor. And then Mr. Aizawa said—

“Next, we have a student from overseas. Transferred from the U.S. due to exceptional entrance scores.”

The door slid open with a soft click.

Bakugou didn’t look.

He was too busy pretending not to care, arms crossed, scowl perfectly in place. But then he heard it—that voice.

A little breathless. A little out of place. A polite, mumbled “Sorry” to Mr. Aizawa. And then—He had to make sure.

He looked up.

And there you were. Standing in the doorway in a U.A. uniform, bag slung over your shoulder. And then you looked at him.

Eyes squinting. Recognition slowly settling in. Connecting the dots like constellations in the sky.

“…Demon Child.”

The room went dead silent.

Someone coughed. Aizawa blinked. Midoriya looked like he was trying to figure out if this was a villain code name.

But Bakugou?

He’s pissed. Probably.

At you? Maybe. At the universe? Definitely. At the fact that now, for the first time in six years, you’re closer than you’ve ever been before.

But most of all, he’s pissed at himself—because despite everything, despite the hours he spent waiting by that slide like an idiot, despite how you didn’t show.

Seeing you again did something to his chest.

And now? Now you’re stuck in the same hero class.

Fate, apparently, has a damn good sense of humor.

...

A/N: this is inspired by the fact that me and my family went to the same resort every vaca hasjdhajkdha (unfortunately there's no cute guy (ᴗ͈ˬᴗ͈) )

1K notes · View notes

that-foul-legacy-lover · 1 year ago

Text

SAGAU where the Creator is slain once, accused of being an imposter, and reborn as... a Melusine.

there's screaming and pain, the sensation of a thin blade digging into your chest- then nothing. nothing but the soft melody of running water. tentatively you open your eyes are met with dancing colors and shapes, little shell houses and baubles making a small, cozy village. your hands have become mittens, your skin swirling with pretty patterns, a pair of antennae sprouting from your head, and where there were previously cuts dripping with blood have turned to markings that shimmer slightly in the light. another Melusine approaches you and asks if you're lost, and when you merely shrug she introduces herself as Cosanzeana and shows you her slowly growing flower garden.

it's nice here, in Merusea Village. unlike the rest of Teyvat, the Melusine don't know nor care much about any sort of Creator myths- they came from Elynas, after all- so they happily regard you as a sibling who simply got lost on the way. finally you're free from the world above, everyone who chases and tries to harm you, spending your days collecting components to trade and swimming beneath the waves. Mamere in particular becomes a close friend, both of you regarded as a little strange but still beloved by all your siblings. she shows you her artwork and you help her collect paint, and in the coldest nights when you're swarmed by bad dreams, you tell her of your previous life as she swears to keep it a secret.

the only time you venture out into the far caverns alone is when you meet a familiar face- Childe's Foul Legacy form. you always loved the transformation, when Teyvat was just a game on your computer, but now you hastily hop a few steps back. the others treated you as a fraud, tearing at your skin until you gave in and died- he would be exactly the same. but Foul Legacy just blinks, slowly crouching to your height and staring into your eyes, speckled with tiny stars. he trills quietly in awe, then lowers his head into a bow in presence of the true Creator.

the other Melusine cluster around you when you bring him back to Merusea, curiously poking at his armor and glittery wings. you all see him as beautiful, and he is beautiful! Legacy stays with you in the village, accepted with open arms, much like Seymour stayed with Mamere for a time, and it becomes common to see a slightly sparkly Melusine running around with an Abyssal beast at their heels. he swims with you, navigating through the Primordial Sea, and shields you from any outsiders that happen to appear, the ones who dared to harm his Creator so horribly.

you, a Melusine, and Foul Legacy, your protector and best friend.

#genshin impact #childe #tartaglia #gi ajax #foul legacy #foul legacy childe #genshin tartagalia #genshin childe #genshin tartaglia #genshin x reader #childe x reader #sagau #genshin sagau #this is platonic by the way #sorry i'm a little sad my transfer application got rejected #buuut you win some you lose some #so i will straighten my shoulders and say that it's okay #short scenario #wifi's brainrot

3K notes · View notes

brittle-doughie · 4 months ago

Note

May I ask for Wind Archer crumbs please por favor begging shaking on my knees mom spaghetti 🥺

Are your knees weak and arms are heavy? Perhaps vomit on your sweater already?

“Wind Archer, I appreciate you coming along to help me introduce the Beasts to the kingdom, but you don’t have to keep your bow at the ready.”

“I don’t trust any foul creature that harkens from the darkness. Who knows what they could do to you without protection.”

“They’re in my territory now, I’ve got preventive measures in place to ensure they can’t do much. Also, please rephrase next time!”

“It’s not enough for me, you’re too important!”

“Personally or objectively?”

Wind Archer pauses for a moment, a tint to his cheeks as he looks away a bit.

“Both, but…more personally to me..”

“Aw, don’t worry. I’ll be alright, well, moreso with you here.”

Wind Archer smiled a bit at your affirmation, feeling like you counted on him. And he was going to make sure that he wouldn’t let you down!

#brittle answers #cookie run #cookie run x reader #cookie run x you #cr x reader #cookie run kingdom #crk x reader #cookie run kingdom x reader

247 notes · View notes

xverzuszofficial · 3 months ago

Text

Chapter III - The Temptress - by XverzuszOfficial, for Dazelvel!

(FINALLY FINISHED!)

(So I got my friend @dazelvel into Slay the Princess aswell to the point where she is now head over heels for The Long Quiet, and has designed a self-insert/custom Princess for herself - and it got me in the headspace to write a custom route for her! I dubbed her The Temptress! Dazel if you come across this (which you undoubtedly will cause Imma share this to you as soon as Im finished with it: hiiiiiii :D))

[Follow instructions in square brackets after texts for the interactive experience!]

(CW for: - Described gore, mild suggestive themes)

Chapter III - "The Temptress"

The Narrator: You're on a path in the - .

Voice of the Smitten: You foul beasts, all of you! How dare you deny us our happy ending?!

The Narrator: Excuse me?

Voice of the Hero: He's being mad about last time.

Voice of the Smitten: We were just about to grasp the beginning of our beautiful life together, and you - you wretched, evil, dark hearted monsters - took it away from us! She trusted us wholely, and you stabbed her at the gates to freedom!

Voie of the Hero: The whole situation sounded fishy, don't you think? Or is your mind so hazed by your own desire for love that you can't see? No one just falls in love with you that easily. And especially after murdering us.

The Narrator: 'Murdering us' ? 'Stabbing her at the gates to freedom' - what are you two talking about?

Voice of the Hero: This isn't our first time back here.

The Narrator: Great, just what I feared ... (Sigh) How many times has it been?

Voice of the Hero: This is number three.

Voice of the Stubborn: What does it matter how many times we've been here before? If we are back, then she is back too - that means we've lost to her. We have to get to her now and settle this once and for all!

Voice of the Smitten: Yes, take us to her post haste! We have an appology to deliver!

Voice of the Stubborn: The hell we need to appologize for? Finally getting her and letting her kick the bucket on the cold, stone floor?

Voice of the Smitten: The brutal death of our dearly beloved by our wretched, cold hands! Oh, I can't even imagine the way she feels right now. The memories of our betrayal must still linger on within her mind...

Voice of the Hero: It appears to me that those two are going to be our main source of pain before she potentially stabs us again.

The Narrator: Alright, okay, I am not going to bother with the beginning of everything - it seems like you already get the jist of things, so let's get a move on.

---CHOICE---

[Explore] Everything feels ... off. [go to: 100]

[Explore] Stabbing her so close to freedom really did feel awful. [go to: 120]

[Silently proceed towards the cabbin.] [go to: 130]

---

[130] --- The Narrator: Your familiarity with the cabin is shifted. A sturdy, wooden bridge, cast above a rapid river is what leads you to the mountain that the cabin resides ontop of.

Voice of the Hero: You ... weren't kidding about the mountain part, were you?

The Narrator: Do I still need to let you know, after two cycles, that the things I describe to you are facts?

Voice of the Hero: (Sigh) Do we really have to climb all the way up? I can't see anything apart from the roof of the thing!

Voice of the Stubborn: And? A little bit of warming up never hurt anybody! And it's not like it'll hurt us! Let's get a move on!

Voice of the Smitten: If I could, I'd fly up those rocky cliffs in the blink of an eye to get her, but our love is worth all the pain those sharp rocks and - !

Voice of the Stubborn: Ugh, just cut it out already, will you?

Voice of the Smitten: How dare you! I was - !

Voice of the Stubborn: Shut up already! You don't - no - you REFUSE to get it, do you? No matter how much you try, no matter how many cycles we live through, no matter how many versions of 'oUR DeaRlY beLoVeD' we meet - it all ends the same! Either we beat her, or she beats us! I don't know how long it'll take for you to get it into your thick skull, but it's time for you to snap out of it!

Voice of the Hero: ... Holy shit ...

Voice of the Smitten: ... Your words, my friend, hurt worse than anything she could've ever done to us. Why must you dismiss my feelings for her like that?

Voice of the Stubborn: Oh you'll live, let's just get this done with already!

The Narrator: Okay, your mind is becoming a lot more heated and cluttered by now and I am starting to get scared with how easily you'll be able to get to a rational decision, so just please hurry up!

---CHOICE---

[Climb up the mountain to the cabin.] [go to 131]

---

[120] --- Voice of the Smitten: Yes, and now is the perfect time to show our deepest regrets to her. Maybe, just maybe, she still finds it within her heart to forgive us, and move on from our disastorous mistake!

Voice of the Hero: I can sort of get behind that. Imagine how we would've felt if we got stabbed in the back right as our hand was on the door.

The Narrator: If the worst monster you've ever seen in your entire life would pass by next to you and you had to kill it - would you feel bad?

Voice of the Hero: Depends.

The Narrator: Well it shouldn't 'depend' in this situation. She's a murderous, world destroying monster who you've already killed once! In this situation tho, the monster has already ended you - twice - before you could've gotten rid of her completely.

Voice of the Stubborn: Are you going to give us another one of your lazy, badly written metaphors or are you going to let us go now?

The Narrator: I'll keep them to myself then.

---CHOICE---

(if you haven't read already) [Explore] Everything feels ... off. [go to: 100]

[Silently proceed towards the cabin.] [go to: 130]

---

[100] --- Voice of the Hero: Yeah ... it's almost like the whole forest was burned up. And I can't see a damn thing either.

Voice of the Stubborn: The scary aesthetic never stopped us before, because we keep on persevering! Just push through it and get this done!

Voice of the Smitten: Not even a chance to pick a rose for her. Oh, the beauty you have ripped us away from...

The Narrator: As you stumble your way across the path, blinded by darkness and holding onto the charcoal trees for support, your foot lands right before something that sends an icy chill up your spine. Your foot touches something sharp and metallic.

Voice of the Hero: What is this thing? A beartrap?

Voice of the Stubborn: There isn't just one either, they are scattered all over the place. They're even hung up on the trees. Looks like the lady doesn't want us running into her anytime soon.

Voice of the Smitten: Or perhaps, she's keeping herself safe, and trusts us to find our way through this maze of traps, so that none may get to her but us!

---CHOICE---

(if you haven't read already) [Explore] Stabbing her so close to freedom really did feel awful. [go to: 120]

[Silently proceed towards the cabin.] [go to: 130]

---

[131] --- The Narrator: You begin your ascent up the mountain, following a dangerous, narrow path up the first couple of miles, which slowly become narrower and narrower. Eventually, you find no more path to lay your foot on, and you are forced to scale the mountainside. Your hands and claws, digging into the sharp edges of rocks and cliffs, pull you upwards, as you feel every muscle within your body both aching and burning in pain. It is an agonizing, yet rewarding feeling climb, as every successful push, every successful pull, and every successful step feels like an achievement before you realize, you cannot see the ground anymore.

Voice of the Stubborn: Yes! This is pure, unfiltered ecstassy right here! I can feel every fibre within us pushing its limits! This is what living feels like! This is the taste of victory!

Voice of the Hero: That's ... quite the way up ... (Sigh) Don't get dizzy. Just don't get dizzy. Don't get dizzy ...

The Narrator: You're doing just fine, you are almost at the top.

Voice of the Stubborn: Come on boys, just a little more!

---CHOICE---

[Push your way up the mountain.] [go to: 132]

---

[132] --- The Narrator: You finally make it up to the cabin, entering its iron gates and stepping inside. The confines of the cabin smell of fragrance and elegance, but - wether because of your exhausted mind, or your past cycles - the beauty of it all strikes you as faux. The ground is covered in the patles of roses, and a red capet leads you down to the basement. The only furniture of note is a marble table with golden edges. Perched on it is the pristine blade you've learned how to wield.

Voice of the Hero: Suffering through all of that and being met with this is actually really, really nice!

Voice of the Smitten: She laid out all of this for us. To see our strength. To see if we can be gifted her forgiveness. We made it up here - .

Voice of the Stubborn: What did I say about snapping out of it? Keep your head in the game. And you, the one who describes stuff, don't bother with any other option - we are taking the blade!

The Narrator: Well I was hoping you would do that in the first place so you are just helping me save ink.

---CHOICE---

[Explore] The carpet just leads to a mirror. [go to: 140]

[Head down to the basement.] [go to: 141]

---

[140] --- Voice of the Hero: The mirror is back again, yeah.

Voice of the Smitten: Perhaps to let us take a final look at ourselves and see if our face is full of shame and desire to be forgiven, or to make sure we don't disappoint her with our looks.

Voice of the Stubborn: Who cares? Just kick it away already and get going!

---CHOICE---

[Head down to the basement.] [go to: 141]

---

[141] --- The Narrator: You walk up to the stone arch entrance of the basement and stop right before the stairs. Do you really think there's a mirror there?

Voice of the Hero: Yeah, it's all grimey and gross though. Maybe we could wipe it clean?

The Narrator: I can't even begin to fathom what those past cycles must've done to you to make you start seeing things, but right now is not the time!

Voice of the Smitten: One last chance before our fate with our beloved is decided.

Voice of the Stubborn: I will, actually, end you if you keep this up. Just kick it down the stairs and get moving!

---CHOICE---

[Wipe the mirror clean.] [go to 143]

[Kick the mirror down the basement.] [go to 144]

---

[144] --- The Narrator: You raise your foot above your waist, bending your knee upwards as you attempt to kick away whatever obstacle was projected ahead of you by your mind, but your foot doesn't connect with anything. Instead, you fall forwards, the velocity of your kick carrying your unbalanced body ontop of the hard, stone stairs, tumbling down to the bottom. Each bump, each flip, each hit feels like something bruises or bends within you.

Voice of the Hero: Nice going on the warpath.

The Princess: "I see you've made quite the journey down my steps, my pretty little bird."

The Narrator: Her voice, coated in a layer of gentleness and passion, graces your ears.

Voice of the Smitten: Just her voice alone is enough to ease all my pains...

---CHOICE---

[Face the Princess] [go to 150]

---

[143] --- The Narrator: You reach forward and extend your hand outwards into the air.

Voice of the Hero: Why am I not surprised?

The Narrator: You descend from the top of the stairs, the rose patels and red carpetting guiding you along and covering your feet from the cold marble steps. Your descent is lit by candles, hung up from above and dripping wax onto golden trays. The air downstairs creeps up, carrying warmth and damptness, like a humid day. If the Princess really lives here, slaying her might be doing her a favour! Her voice, coated in a layer of gentleness and passion, graces your ears as it carries up the stairs.

The Princess: "My pretty little bird, I can hear your feet thumping against my steps, and it makes me feel warm to know you've returned to me."

Voice of the Hero: I ... I don't know how to feel about this. She sounds ... too good to be true.

Voice of the Smitten: Our argous journey up this mountain was not in vain, my friend, you see. She missed us dearly!

---

[150] --- The Narrator: As you raise your head, your eyes meet the Princess' across the room. Your eyes glide along her long hair covering her neck and shoulders, and seemingly flowing into her giant red dress, with her arm still in a shackled chain that you can't quite make out where it goes.

Voice of the Smitten: She is absolute beauty herself! Just looking at her is enough to make me want to jump out of this form and leave you four horrible beings to your lonesomes without her!

Voice of the Hero: I ... woah ...

Voice of the Stubborn: Now ain't that a dress too big? It's like she thinks that by creating a silken barrier around herself, she can escape our confrontation! I wouldn't mind staining it, if you catch my drift.

The Princess: "Welcome, my pretty little bird! I hope your journey wasn't so grueling. Please, come and rest with me, you look beaten."

---CHOICE---

[Explore] "Hold on, this is going a bit too fast!" [go to: 160]

[Explore] "I'd rather have you come and rest with me instead." [go to: 161]

[Explore] [Make bird noises.] [go to: 162]

[Explore] Fellas, I don't know what to do - [go to: 163]

[Approach the Princess.] [go to: 164]

[Slay the Princess.] [go to: 170]

---

[160] --- The Princess: "Oh, is it? Why do you think so? Is it perhaps the guilt you feel from last time, keeping you away from me? When you stabbed me in the back before our happy ending? Or perhaps the time before that, where you helped me escape, and how that felt? My pretty little bird, your heart aches so badly from the past that's already so far behind us. Just let it go already, would you? Let go of those past mistakes and embrace the me in the now."

Voice of the Smitten: So she has forgiven us! Thank you, my love! If you can forgive me wholeheartedly, I can forgive myself, too!

Voice of the Hero: Does that mean you also forgive us, or are we still the 'wretched, evil, horrible monstrocities' like you said?

Voice of the Smitten: My heart is maybe patched for you, my heroic friend, but you, bloodthirsty hound, get no such treatment!

Voice of the Stubborn: Like I give a shit about your forgiveness.

---CHOICE---

(if you haven't read already) [Explore] "I'd rather have you come and rest with me instead." [go to: 161]

(if you haven't ready already) [Explore] [Make bird noises.] [go to: 162]

(if you haven't read already) [Explore] Fellas, I don't know what to do - [go to: 163]

[Approach the Princess.] [go to: 164]

[Slay the Princess.] [go to: 170]

---

[161] --- The Princess: [Chuckling] "Oh you would absolutely love that, wouldn't you? Feel me lay down on your feathery body and allow you to take control? But sadly, I'd have to say no to your offer. My heart might have forgiven you, and it may have forgotten your past mistakes, but my mind hasn't."

The Narrator: She raises a hand to her mouth, covering it as she laughs at your suggestion at closing the distance between you two.

Voice of the Hero: That's reasonable, I suppose? We did kill her, and if I look at it through her lens, then yeah - I wouldn't want to approach someone who I know has backstabbed me once already.

Voice of the Stubborn: Oh, I see. If she doesn't want to come to us, then we have to go to her. Fine by me. I'll show her what's good.

---CHOICE---

(if you haven't read already) [Explore] "Hold on, this is going a bit too fast!" [go to: 160]

(if you haven't read already) [Explore] [Make bird noises.] [go to: 162]

(if you haven't read already) [Explore] Fellas, I don't know what to do - [go to: 163]

[Approach the Princess.] [go to: 164]

[Slay the Princess.] [go to: 170]

---

[162] --- The Narrator: What?

Voice of the Hero: Huh?

Voice of the Stubborn: THIS IS HUMILIATING!

Voice of the Smitten: Hear our song, my beloved! Our heart reeks of sorrow, and so our song is sad, but your love can make it all happy again!

The Princess: [Happy chuckle] "You really are my pretty little bird, aren't you? Singing out your little heart to me like that makes me just want you more. Please come back to me, pretty little bird."

Voice of the Hero: Can we make a pact to never, NEVER do that again?

Voice of the Stubborn: I second this.

The Narrator: I agree. Let's forget this has ever happened.

---CHOICE---

(if you haven't read already) [Explore] "Hold on, this is going a bit too fast!" [go to: 160]

(if you haven't read already) [Explore] "I'd rather have you come and rest with me instead." [go to: 161]

(if you haven't read already) [Explore] Fellas, I don't know what to do - [go to: 163]

[Approach the Princess.] [go to: 164]

[Slay the Princess.] [go to: 170]

---

[163] --- The Narrator: In that case, here's a good idea: actually end her! You don't have to listen to any of the vaguely seductive nonsense she's spewing to try and get to you. Hell, it's making me uncomfortable with how she's calling you her "pretty little bird".

Voice of the Hero: I guess it felt kind of cute at first when she said it, but now I think about it and just feel like - "no".

Voice of the Smitten: It is simply a cute nickname she has given us! Why must you all dismiss her attempts?

Voice of the Stubborn: It's humiliating and debilitating. I don't like being babied like this. It's like she sees us as nothing but a pet she could stuff into a cage.

Voice of the Smitten: If being in a cage is what it takes to make both of us happy, then we might aswell crawl to her!

Voice of the Hero: What?! No! Absolutely no! Just, no!

The Narrator: Oh my goodness this is actually going to go horribly wrong. Quick, pick a decision and do it now!

---CHOICE---

(if you haven't read already) [Explore] "Hold on, this is going a bit too fast!" [go to: 160]

(if you haven't read already) [Explore] "I'd rather have you come and rest with me instead." [go to: 161]

(if you haven't read already) [Explore] [Make bird noises.] [go to: 162]

[Approach the Princess.] [go to: 164]

[Slay the Princess.] [go to: 170]

---

[164] --- The Narrator: You step forward, your eyes still on her form as she also moves in. She ... shouldn't be able to move around this much.

Voice of the Hero: Do you know how long her chain is suppsoed to be?

The Narrator: Yes, it should be tying her to the basement's far wall, but she's currently face to face with you and you only walked a couple of steps away from the basement entrance.

Voice of the Stubborn: Maybe she already broke free, she's just not telling us.

The Narrator: There's no way. She's bound to the wall. End of story.

The Princess: "There we go. And now that you are back with me, I've gotta say ... I missed you so, so much, my pretty little bird."

---CHOICE---

[Explore] "Please stop calling me that" [go to: 600]

[Explore] "You are getting far too close to my liking. Are you still chained up?" [go to: 610]

"I missed you too." [go to: 620]

[Explore] "Can I still just pull you out of those chains, or do I have to cut you out again like the time before that?" [go to: 630]

[Explore] "You are acting far too nice considering what I did last time. Wouldn't you be scared that I'll do it again?" [go to: 640]

[Save the Princess] [go to: 700]

[Slay the Princess] [go to: 170]

---

[620] --- The Narrator: The Princes then leans in, caressing your face as she guides it down towards hers in a ... I am not - I refuse to describe this to you!

Voice of the Hero: What? What is it?

Voice of the Stubborn: I think he's jealous that she's kissing us right now.

Voice of the Smitten: As expected from a dastardly, unforgiving villain such as the Narrator himself! He can't simply process the passion, the emotions, the feelings that carry into a deep kiss as ours right now - !

The Narrator: However, your perfect little smooching time is interrupted by the feeling of your blade slipping out of your hand.

Voice of the Stubborn: There ... is no ... way.

The Narrator: She shoves you away, saliva leaving your mouth as your lips part from hers rapidly. Your blade is now in her grasp, and you have fallen on the floor.

The Princess: "I am sorry, but like I said, just because my heart has forgiven you and your mistakes, my mind hasn't. I am so, so sorry for what's going to come next, my pretty little bird - but if backstabbing is all you know, then it is all you will get!"

---PROCEED TO SAME CHOICES AS AT: 170---

---

[700] --- The Narrator: Yeah? Well how are you going to do that?

Voice of the Smitten: Easily! We'll take her hand and guide her out, like true gentlemen!

The Narrator: Well I am not going to describe it to you then, and since I only describe facts, then it doesn't happen! Too bad!

Voice of the Smitten: Hey.

Voice of the Smitten: Yes, you brute?

Voice of the Stubborn: Make it count.

The Narrator: Stop it! What are you doing? Get your hands off of me you morron!

Voice of the Smitten: This cursed blade is of no use to us! It's simply decoration! Or worse, an ill temptation! Cast it into the shadowey corners! Away with you!

The Princess: "I am so glad you're finally tossing that knife away from us. You look way better without it."

Voice of the Hero: I guess your plans for "not describing anything" to us really went well, didn't it?

The Narrator: [Groan] If you want to doom all of us, then fine. Have it your way, you lovebird maniacs. You take The Princess' hand and gently guide her to the basement stairs. Her, dragging her long, red dress behind herself as she follows you excitedly. And oh damn, no door either to lock you two morons in there either! How peachy for me and all of humanity! You finally pass the final step of the stairs, and end up on the ground floor of the cabin.

The Princess: "Wait ... before we get out of here, I wanted to give something to you. I ... really didn't think it would just happen so easily. I really thought that you're going to pull a fast one on me back there and stab me in the back once again. But I'm glad you didn't. So, take this as a thank you, my gratitude!"

The Narrator: And then, like she was back in her younger, less eldritch, less disgusting days, she raises on her tippy-toes, and kisses your cheek... Ew.

Voice of the Hero: Aw!

Voice of the Smitten: Your jealousy shows that you have never felt the true warmth of a pair of lips coliding with yours, laying on your face. Perhaps you could partake in our feeling, and finally, just for one moment, allow yourself to feel how kind she is.

The Narrator: Just shut up, okay? I need to open this bottle of gin.

The Princess: "Now, come on! The gate is open for us!"

The Narrator: She eagerly pushes you forward, getting the two of you closer and closer to the edge of the cabin's gate before she leaps into your arms, pushing both of you off the same cliff you climbed not so long ago......

Voice of the Stubborn: Hey! Don't just dip out on us! We're going to die if you don't give us any options on what happens next!

Voice of the Hero: You know she's been calling us her "pretty little bird" this whole time, right? We are one, we could fly out of here ... so why the hell we never did that before?!

The Princess: "Thank you! Thank you so much! I - I can't describe how finally being with you feels! It's .... colder than I expected. But it's probably just the wind! Fly, my pretty little bird! Fly! ......"

[But you do not get the chance to fly away with her, nor do you get the chance to respond. Something has taken her and left something in her place instead.]

[THE END - 6/6 - "Lovebirds" - Soar away with your love in your arms.]

(Don't like this ending? Go back to previous choices and see what you end up with!)

---

[630] --- The Princess: "Don't worry about the chains. They are long gone. The only thing keeping me down here is my want to keep waiting for you."

The Narrator: She isn't lying, as she raises her wrist, pulling the chains upwards and pulling with her other hand, piling and piling up more and more iron into her hand, before she reached a broken knot.

Voice of the Hero: Atleast she's honest.

---CHOICE---

(if you haven't read already) [Explore] "Please stop calling me that" [go to: 600]

"I missed you too." [go to: 620]

(if you haven't read already) [Explore] "You are acting far too nice considering what I did last time. Wouldn't you be scared that I'll do it again?" [go to: 640]

[Save the Princess] [go to: 700]

[Slay the Princess] [go to: 170]

---

[600] --- The Princess: [Giggling] "Why? It's just a silly little nickname. It's cute, isn't it? Calling someone who clearly towers over in both height and strength something so cute?"

Voice of the Hero: NNNNNo. It's weird, I don't like it.

Voice of the Stubborn: It's embarassing.

Voice of the Smitten: Well -

The Narrator: I am vetoing whatever you were going to say.

---CHOICE---

(if you haven't read already) [Explore] "You are getting far too close to my liking. Are you still chained up?" [go to: 610]

"I missed you too." [go to: 620]

(if you haven't read already) [Explore] "Can I still just pull you out of those chains, or do I have to cut you out again like the time before that?" [go to: 630]

(if you haven't read already) [Explore] "You are acting far too nice considering what I did last time. Wouldn't you be scared that I'll do it again?" [go to: 640]

[Save the Princess] [go to: 700]

[Slay the Princess] [go to: 170]

---

[640] --- The Princess: "Oh, you are still hung up on the past, aren't you? Can I not change since then? Do we have to keep this cycle going? I'd rather not. Let's just be happy together, you and me - no bad past to think back to."

The Narrator: And by that she means letting her escape into the world and destroy everything.

Voice of the Smitten: Oh please, she's just telling us that we shouldn't be eating away at ourselves by thinking of our past actions. It's the past! It's gone! If she can move past it and see us for who we are in the current moment - then she deserves our honest love back!

Voice of the Hero: It does feel kind of reassuring that she actually doesn't want any bad blood between us. Maybe she did forgive and forget.

---CHOICE---

(if you haven't read already) [Explore] "Please stop calling me that" [go to: 600]

(if you haven't read already) [Explore] "You are getting far too close to my liking. Are you still chained up?" [go to: 610]

"I missed you too." [go to: 620]

(if you haven't read already) [Explore] "Can I still just pull you out of those chains, or do I have to cut you out again like the time before that?" [go to: 630]

[Save the Princess] [go to: 700]

[Slay the Princess] [go to: 170]

---

[610] --- The Princess: "Oh? These rusty things? No, they have nothing over me now. The only thing that kept me here was the thought that, one day, you'll come back to me, my pretty little bird. And look at you, right in front of me, wielding the same blade you cut into my back with - but now holding it not to hurt me, but to protect me."

Voice of the Hero: Atleast she's honest.

---CHOICE---

(if you haven't read already) [Explore] "Please stop calling me that" [go to: 600]

"I missed you too." [go to: 620]

(if you haven't read already) [Explore] "You are acting far too nice considering what I did last time. Wouldn't you be scared that I'll do it again?" [go to: 640]

[Save the Princess] [go to: 700]

[Slay the Princess] [go to: 170]

---

[170] --- The Narrator: You grip onto the blade, springing forwards, your eyes locking with hers, as her face shifts from an inviting, seductive smile, into a look of disbelief and anger.

The Princess: "Are you serious?!"

The Narrator: Before you can do so much as lunge yourself at her, she whips her chained arm around, hitting you right in the face with its thick, heavy, iron knots. You are sent onto the floor, your teeth barely clinging onto the gums of your mouth where she had hit you, and your jaw feeling fractured.

Voice of the Hero: Why?! Why does it have to hurt so bad every single time?!

Voice of the Stubborn: Pfft, who needs teeth? We have the blade, we have the claws, we have the hands, the feet, to do everything to finish the job! And now, we have a new reason to hit her back! And now, you lovesick freak, can see that she does not love us! This is how it should've gone since the beginning!

Voice of the Smitten: I don't believe you! I refuse to! There can still be a way to make things right! She said - she said she's forgiven us! We have to appeal to her heart!

The Narrator: That's going to be difficult with how little teeth you'll probably have left by the end.

The Princess: "You knew I wanted to leave! And you knew I wanted to leave with only you! It was all that I've ever wanted, and it's still all that I want now! Why must you keep hurting me?! Why must you keep trying to fight?! Just be happy together with me, please!"

---CHOICE---

[Stand back up and keep fighting.] [go to: 172]

[Stand up and drop the blade.] [go to: 180]

[Stay on the ground and say nothing.] [go to: 190]

---

[172] --- The Narrator: But you don't let neither the pain nor her words get to you as you rise back up to you feet, pushing yourself up and standing in front of her. Your vision is hazed, however; - the whip from the chain seemingly also having damaged one of your eyes.

The Princess: "You are forcing me to do this! I love you, you know I do! Just stop fighting me already and love me back!"

Voice of the Hero: That's hard to believe when we have a handful of teeth missing because of her.

Voice of the Smitten: She isn't lying! She loves us! I can feel it, you just have to let go of your skepticism and see her for who she is! Accept her!

The Narrator: But you push the thought of forgivness aside, raising the blade once more and jumping her. Your blade sinks deep into her shoulder, causing her to scream out in pain. But in return comes her fist, blowing your face away from her view and knocking you off of her. You feel your neck strain from the power of the impact.

The Princess: "I'll beat it into you if I have to!"

The Narrator: She then begins the humiliating process of whipping your back with her chain, each blow either dislocating or breaking a tiny piece of cartilige in your spine, unfathomable pain spreading across your back, leaving you not a single second to even register what is being done to you.

Voice of the Smitten: This is what you deserve! Our punishments weren't enough yet it seems. We'll learn to love her now!

Voice of the Stubborn: You say one more word from now on and I will break your neck.

The Narrator: The pain becomes too much for your mind to comprehend. You slip into a numb, mindless state of confusion, agony, and silence. You are unresponsive, but you are not dead. Blood pools onto the marble floor of the basement underneath you. Your spine is broken in so many places, it would be impossible to count all the fractured bits. The Princess grabs your unresponsive body, dragging you up the stairs you came down from, and taking you out through the cabin's door.

Voice of the Hero: How can she do that? She wasn't able to leave the cabin before.

Voice of the Stubborn: She needs us to escape, so she's parading our corpse around as her key to salvation.

The Narrator: The Princess steps outside the cabin, facing out into the wast emptiness before her ontop of the mountain before looking down at you.......

Voice of the Hero: ... Yeah?

Voice of the Smitten: He's gone. Quick, pull whatever strength we have left together and grab her hand! At least let us have this one final moment before we depart!

The Princess: "We could've left so easily together, see?! Why did you make me do this?! ... But, I suppose it doesn't matter now. I am finally outside, and with you. But I - I didn't want it to be like this. I love you still ... It's so cold without you, all the time ......"

[But you do not get the chance to take her hand, nor do you get the chance to respond. Something has taken her and left something in her place instead.]

[THE END - Ending 1/? : "An Abusive Relationship" - Challenge the strength of your love's desires.]

[Don't like this ending? Go back to previous choices and see what you find!]

---

[180] --- The Narrator: (Sigh) Damn it. As you stand back up, your grip loosens around the blade, the weapon dropping loudly onto the floor as you and the Princess lock eyes with eachother. Her face seems to show regret.

The Princess: "I-I see that finally knocked some sense into you, it seems... [Sob] Why does it always have to be like this? Why must we hurt eachother to love eachother? WHY?! Is this fun for you? Because it's not for me!"

Voice of the Hero: She's right. Do we really need to keep this going? Constantly murdering eachother over and over again?

The Narrator: Only until you slay her for the final time.

Voice of the Stubborn: And when is that? When is the "final time"? Do you have any idea how long this is goin to take us? You're the one who seems to know every single thing around here, you just refuse to tell us anything.

The Narrator: I have a duty to keep information as scarce for you as possible. Giving away more and more information will just ruin your chances at keeping a clear mind of your objective. The more I talk, the more you know, the more you question things. I don't like questions, I like actions. My life, my world depends on you being uninformed enough to make a decision right then and there, no thoughts.

Voice of the Stubborn: So you tricked us into being nothing more than a puppet so that you can save yourself.

Voice of the Smitten: I've told you before! He's a wretched, lying monster who wants to keep us locked into this violent cycle with our beloved, only to save himself! He needs us so that he'll live - we are nothing but a tool!

Voice of the Hero: I just never liked you thinking that we were always dumb or stupid or delusional.

The Narrator: Fine! You want to see me take action? Fine then. You kick The Princess away from you and scoop the blade back up from the floor.

Voice of the Hero: No! No you are not doing this again!

Voice of the Stubborn: Again?

Voice of the Hero: Yes! We tried to save her the first cycle and he just took over our body and got us killed!

Voice of the Stubborn: I hate cheaters. Hey, help me get a good grip on him. Don't let him move an inch.

The Narrator: Get your wretched hands off of me you two!

Voice of the Smitten: He's restrained, we have to act now. Quick, before it's too late! Do what's right for us!

---CHOICE---

[Warn her.] [go to: 400]

[Slay her.] [go to: 500]

---

[400] --- The Princess: "What? I- Is this not you doing this again? Is something coming over you? I want to believe that but I can't trust you. I - "

Voice of the Stubborn: Damn it!

The Narrator: NO - ! [Groan] But ... before I could take control and let you finish this once and for all and save everyone in the world INCLUDING yourself - you swiftly swipe the blade away and slump forwards, your weapon darting across the marble floor and crashing into the wall with a clang.

Voice of the Hero: Phew ... That was way too close.

The Narrator: Did you do that?

Voice of the Hero: It's not just you who knows how to control him.

Voice of the Smitten: Consider your plans foiled, villain! The truth of our desires persevere, while your selfish desires for self-preservation fails. I hope it sinks deep into your heart, you filthy thing!

The Narrator: ... What's done is done. I can't do anything to stop her now. Whatever. The Princess, gasping at the sight of you flicking the blade away, rushes to aid you back up on you feet.

The Princess: "You - you meant it! I am so sorry! I'm so sorry! I hit you so hard while this entire time, this hasn't been you. It's somethign else controlling you. But now that's gone, right? You are you again."

The Narrator: She clutches your hand with hers, looking into your eyes with genuine concern.

Voice of the Smitten: We have an opportunity! Quick, kiss her! Prove her that our love was no mere illusion! Prove to her that we are ourself!

---CHOICE---

[Kiss her.] [go to: 510]

[Hug her.] [go to: 520]

---

[500] --- Voice of the Hero: Damn it!

The Narrator: You ignore The Princess' yelp in pain, quickly dashing towards her staggerng form, and driving your blade into her neck, blood flowing out in a waterfall as it pierces and cuts into her arteries. Finally.

The Princess: " ... I see ... Okay ... I see how it is ... "

Voice of the Smitten: No! No! This can't be! Why would you let him escape, you fools?

The Narrator: It was foolish enough to think that there was ever a way where you can rescue her! This isn't about rescuing some helpless captive, or the love of your life, or an equal - NO - this was about saving the world, and the price you all would've paid........

Voice of the Stubborn: .... What? Speak up!

Voice of the Hero: He's gone, again.

The Princess: "If this is how we are meant to be then, fine ... you win, I guess ... ... Do you always have to be so cold?"

[But you do not get the chance to respond, nor will you ever. Something has taken her and left something in her place instead.]

[THE END - Ending 3/? : "A Rightful Cause" - Don't let your inner voices keep you away from your destiny.]

(Don't like this ending? Go back to previous choices and see what you end up with!)

---

[520] --- The Narrator: Eugh ... You reach forwards and wrap your arms around The Princess, the two of you embracing eachother warmly after fighting eachother, both of your bodies bruised and beaten - I hate you, I hate you all and I hate that you are making me describe this!

Voice of the Hero: Come on, we could've asked you to describe far worse things! This is tame.

Voice of the Smitten: Her embrace is like being swallowed by the graceful ocean itself. The calmest thing in the world. Pure bliss!

Voice of the Stubborn: Yeah yeah, it's nice ... can we get out now?

The Princess: "Thank you, I - .. no .. we needed that. It's so good to know that no one's trying to backstab me this time. Thank you! ... Quick, let's get out of here!"

[proceed to: 511!]

---

[510] --- The Narrator: You hold me down while I'm trying to save all of you and myself and my world, and now you force me to describe this?! What kind of torture is this?!

Voice of the Hero: ... Well?

Voice of the Smitten: Narrator, we choose to, finally, smooch our beloved!

The Narrator: [Sigh] You hold The Princess' cheek, lifting it up slightly and you kiss her, the two of you sharing this selfish, idiotic, and stupid moment - but atleast it's the two of you, together.... Bleghh...

Voice of the Hero: That wasn't so hard now, was it?

The Narrator: I hate you all. I hate all of you so, so much.

The Princess: "M-My ... I guess, that's a way to prove that it is you now, huh? ... That felt nice. Thank you. We've gotta get out of here before either of us collapses, or gets any other bad ideas."

---

[511] --- The Narrator: You and The Princess, grasping eachother's hands together, rush up the carpet covered marble stairs, rushing to doom the world.

Voice of the Stubborn: I'm just happy I finally got to get some payback on our real enemy.

Voice of the Smitten: You have finally turned yourself around and saw what was really worth fighting for! Not for some vague idea of a world ending, but for a new one starting! Our world! With her!

Voice of the Hero: I doubt the world will end, actually. From what I saw, we are both pretty easily killable. We don't seem to be able to really hurt anything but eachother - and even then - we don't want to.

The Narrator: I can't believe I really thought I could trust you four. I am ... so stupid. But it doesn't matter anymore, does it? I can nag all I want. The world is about to end, isn't it? I have all the right to be upset!

Voice of the Stubborn: Just cheer up, will you? It's over. You can finally relax at least after this.

The Narrator: And once you and The Princess reach the top of the marble stairs, the two of you rush out the metal gate that once lead you inside, returning to......

Voice of the Hero: ... To what? Are you going to finish?

Voice of the Stubborn: He's gone. Finally.

Voice of the Smitten: Well, fellas, we did it! Our bickering can finally be put to the grave along with that horrid traitor! Our beloved and us are finally together, just like how it was told by the stars!

The Princess: "It's been so long since I came out here. It felt like an eternity down there without you. But we are now here, together ... even if it's so cold ...... "

[But you do not get the chance to leave with her, nor do you get the chance to respond. Something has taken her and left something in her place instead.]

[THE END - 2/? - "Self-Control" - Cut the strings tying you to your "destiny".]

(Don't like this ending? Go back to previous choices and see what you end up with!)

---

[190] --- The Narrator: The whiplash from both the heavy chain and your head hitting the ground seem to knock out your senses, making you plant your bleeding and bruised face onto the marble floor. It feels cooling, allowing you a moment of peace before you feel the Princess rip your blade out from your limp hand.

The Princess: "I just want us to be happy!"

The Narrator: She raises your blade, ready to strike.

Voice of the Stubborn: Roll already! Roll anywhere that isn't right beneath her!

The Princess: "NO!"

The Narrator: As she sees you trying to roll away, she grabs your arm and pins it down. You are now laying on your back. As you look up, you see her face, tears and ruined mascara flowing down her cheeks as she raises the blade above you.

Voice of the Hero: She doesn't behave like this normally. This isn't like how she was in the first cycle.

Voice of the Stubborn: I am just hoping her technique is as bad as back then. We might still have a chance at pushing through this then.

Voice of the Smitten: My love, look at what they made you do. I embrace whatever death you cast upon me. If it means I'll be able to see you on the other side, I'll wait for you forever.

---CHOICE---

[Give up and let her finish you off.] [go to: 200]

[Catch the blade with your hand.] [go to: 210]

[Reach out to her.] [go to: 300]

---

[300] --- The Narrator: But before she could dig the blade into your chest, your arm weakly reaches out to her. Your hand caresses her face, wiping away the ruined mascara on her face, which now shows regret and concern.

The Princess: "Y-You know I don't want to do this, right? I don't want .. this .. to keep going. I want to be happy with you, together - but you just have a side to you that you can't let go of. It makes you violent, it hurts me ... I don't want to kill you."

Voice of the Hero: I don't want it to continue either. It's all the same. She realises that it isn't us, we show her that we've changed, and then we stab her in the back. Over, and over again. It's just ... sad.

Voice of the Stubborn: But that sadness is a force driving us forwards!

Voice of the Hero: That's a very negative way of looking at things. Maybe you could just, I don't know, let it go?

Voice of the Stubborn: ...

The Narrator: You know why all of you are here, little voice.

Voice of the Stubborn: Don't call me "little".

The Narrator: Your body rises up, The Princess' weight shifting backwards as she allows you to sit. You then take the blade from her hand and - t-toss it away? What? No no no - that's not - WHY?! She is right in front of you! What on Earth are you doing?!

Voice of the Stubborn: I guess, I let it go? Pushing on and on without any reason besides keeping your emotions at bay doesn't really sit well with me. Or atleast, not anymore. I'm done, with you, with all of you, and all of this. Let's just get this done with already. I ... I'll need to think.

Voice of the Hero: Are you being serious?

Voice of the Stubborn: When was I not?

The Princess: "Are you ... being serious? You ... you haven't said much this entire time. Are you really willing to put that side behind? Really?"

---CHOICE---

[Explore] "I promise." [go to: 310]

[Explore] "I don't know, but I know that my mind is clear looking at you." [go to: 320]

[Explore] [Nod silently] [go to: 310]

---

[310] --- The Narrator: A smile spreads across her once sadened visage, as she flings her upper body towards you, enveloping you in a joyful embrace. You two beautiful maniacs.

The Princess: "Thank you! Thank you! I knew there was still something within you that wanted to make things right!"

Voice of the Smitten: This embrace after all the struggle blesses all my pains away! My once sorrowful heart now can finally throb with her love once again!

[311] --- The Narrator: You and The Princess, grasping eachother's hands together, rush up the carpet covered marble stairs, rushing to doom the world.

Voice of the Stubborn: It's not the end of the world.

The Narrator: It is.

Voice of the Hero: No, he's right. This isn't an ending. Endings aren't really - THE end. You gotta change your mind and see things in a different way. This is just letting go.

Voice of the Hero: Have you tried not being like that? If he could change his mind then maybe you could, too?

The Narrator: I am not talking to you anymore. And finally, once you and The Princess reach the top of the marble stairs, the two of you rush out the metal gate that once lead you inside, returning to......

Voice of the Smitten: .... Yes? Hello?

Voice of the Stubborn: He's gone.

The Princess: "Neither of us had to die down there to experience this. I'm so glad that I can actually walk out of there with you. It really means the world to me that you let go of whatever feud we've had between us .... Even if it's cold out here, I know it's nowhere near as cold it would've been without you ......"

[But you do not get the chance to leave with her, nor do you get the chance to respond. Something has taken her and left something in her place instead.]

[THE END - 4/? - "The Past Isn't You" - Let go of your violent side for your love.]

(Don't like this ending? Go back to previous choices and see what you end up with!)

---

[320] --- The Princess: "Then, I guess we both know what we want, right?"

The Narrator: She then takes her hands and squeezes them around yours, smiling.

The Princess: "Let's leave! Together!"

Voice of the Smitten: We never wanted anything more! Come, let us leave this prison behind, and let you see our new dawn!

The Narrator: While you do that, I'm going to open myself a bottle of gin. Have fun destroying the world, and all of us. I'd rather not do this sober.

---

[Proceed to: 311]

---

[200] --- The Narrator: But your hands are too slow, and her body weighs you down, allowing you not a single chance at escaping as she strikes the blade into your heart.

Voice of the Hero: Huh ... I guess she did learn.

Voice of the Stubborn: Good for her, I suppose.

The Princess: "Your blood pooling around you shows either that you are dumb enough to rather let me kill you out of stubbornness - or because you finally gave up trying to fight me. I am done. We are done."

The Narrator: Then, she rips the blade out of your heart and slits her wrist with it.

Voice of the Smitten: My love! No! What are you doing?! Are you ... Are you giving up your life like how we gave up ours after you were gone? Do we mean so much to you that there's nothing left to move on to after we're gone? Then come with us, my love - we shall see the pearly gates together!

Voice of the Hero: ... Hey? Hello? Where is he gone to?

The Princess: "This is quite a cold finish, isn't it......?"

[But you do not get the chance to die with her, nor do you get the chance to respond. Something has taken her and left something in her place instead.]

[THE END - 5/? - "Equal Exchange" - She had nothing left but you.]

(Don't like this ending? Go back to previous choices and see what you end up with!)

---

[210] --- The Narrator: You quickly raise a hand in her way, blocking the blade before i could strike into you, its metal slicing into your hand with a wet slash - it feels numbing at first, but then its like a wasp sting.

The Princess: "If you want me to kill you, then let me kill you! I'll die with you if I have to, if that means we can escape together! But if you don't want that - resist and finally let go of this! Just finally be happy with me! For once!"

The Narrator: But before she could push the blade further down, your other arm weakly reaches out to her. Your hand caresses her face, wiping away the ruined mascara on her face, which now shows regret and concern. She sobs looking down at you.

Voice of the Hero: I don't want this to continue. It's all the same. We die, she dies, we live again, she lives again. We kill her. She kills us. Over, and over again. It's just ... sad.

Voice of the Stubborn: But that sadness is a force driving us forwards!

Voice of the Hero: That's a very negative way of looking at things. Maybe you could just, I don't know, let it go?

Voice of the Stubborn: ...

The Narrator: You know why all of you are here, little voice.

Voice of the Stubborn: Don't call me "little".

The Narrator: Your body rises up, The Princess' weight shifting backwards as she allows you to sit. You then rip the blade out from your hand and - t-toss it away? What? No no no - that's not - WHY?! She is right in front of you! What on Earth are you doing?!

Voice of the Hero: Are you being serious?

Voice of the Stubborn: When was I not?

The Princess: "Are you ... being serious? You ... you haven't said much this entire time. Are you really willing to put that side behind? Really?"

---PROCEED TO SAME CHOICES AS AT: 300---

---

THIS IS THE END OF THE POST! IF YOU ARE LOOKING FOR FURTHER OPTIONS, SCROLL UP!

Holy hell this took a while to get done, 5 days on and off writing! 18 pages in word, almost 7000 words. If you legit read through this and got an ending, or heck, ALL of the endings - I genuinely hope you enjoyed it!

Let me know what yall think, and again, thank you for reading :)

96 notes · View notes

atsadi-shenanigans · 2 months ago

Text

FSBE 26 - Try to Keep it Hidden

The rogue is in a pickle.

On AO3.

Astarion needs a bath. A rather an entire barrel of blood. Preferably in that order, though at this point, he’s not picky. His body still throbs with phantom pain, the memory of that woman tearing him apart from the inside.

He’s going to kill her. Slowly. Take her apart piece by screaming piece.

There is something wrong with his foolish, naive leader, however. Likely the crushing guilt of letting those goblins go and winning Astarion a gruesome death.

His head still feels odd, now that he thinks about it. Which isn’t too bad, as far as coming back from the deceased could be. At least this time he awoke on his back under a supernatural haze with the faces of his team of idiots staring down at him, rather than inside a box, buried under six feet of dirt. He got to sit up and complain and didn’t even have to grovel at the feet of…well. It was better, this time.

He trails his oddly silent leader up the stairs. Her face was horribly blank last he looked. Not even in her usual way, when she’s thinking or bored or plotting a murder. There was a tightness about her eyes, and there’s a slow stiffness to her limbs as she climbs. But her pulse remains normal, so she can’t be too out of sorts.

He wonders if he’ll be able to guilt her into something for him.

Then they reach the room—how very kind of the cleric to give him some privacy to get himself cleaned up (again). His dreadful, devoted dunce goes in first, leaving him to close the door behind himself.

She takes a few steps into the room. Stops. Stands there, with her back to him.

He regards her for a moment. Then crosses his arms, sighs, and says, “So, what have we learned?”

He only intends to bully her a bit. That beast of an orc killed him and he’s entitled to some retribution.

But she doesn’t answer. Her breathing stutters, as if she’s been kicked in the gut, a sort of ga-ga-gasp. She follows that with the tiniest sound. And promptly turns to face the closest wall, all but shoves her face against it, and chokes.

It’s not a loud sound. It’s actually very short. He might not have paid any attention to it were she not shoved against the wall like an imbecile.

“Dearest,” he drawls. It’s no fun if she doesn’t engage.

Her shoulders hunch in. As if she’s…making herself smaller. Which, given that she’s not a small woman, should be funny.

Except…except there’s something wrong about it. A wounded animal movement that draws his attention like, well. Like a vampire to an easy meal.

It nearly reminds him of how he’d try to curl in, chained on the floor of the kennels, because a dead part of him remembered the urge to shield his vulnerable middle.

“Darling?” he tries. He starts to reach for her when a new tremor shudders along the lines of her shoulders. She pants. Hiccups. Gasps again and goes quiet. She’s trying to hold her breath, but her lungs keep hitching. And she’s got her hands cupped around the sides of her face so he can’t see her expression at all.

But the tendons in her neck stand out as if she were lifting something heavy. Or if she were…screaming. Silently.

Because making noise attracts nasty things. She knows this. He knows this.

“Lover?” That one should get a reaction out of her. If only embarrassed hand flaps and a blush. But it doesn’t.

She tries to breathe a few times, stuttering both in and out. Manages a rough, “’Mfine.”

She. Isn’t fine. Is she. She’s not fine at all.

“Are, were you injured?” he says. He smells no blood. She didn’t have a limp and the cleric said nothing, but he was dead. Who knows what happened after that foul beast murdered him.

His leader makes another sound. It’s awful. Like it tears out of her, spilling through clenched teeth, high and tight and hurting.

Oh. Oh yes, he knows what this is. Has witnessed it in his siblings. Has done it.

It makes him…feel. It shouldn’t make him feel. But it does. His plan, his successful seduction, the way his chest tightens when he looks at her. If he doesn’t acknowledge that, then it can’t exist. Can’t be real.

There’s no reason (he will name) for her pain to affect him. He ought to wish her well and grab a set of clothing and head off to the bath to clean himself up. A month ago, he would have.

A month ago, he was barely away from that bastard, hadn’t tasted the blood of a thinking creature (hers, given freely, so practically). Hadn’t saved her or, fine, been (disgustingly) saved by her. Hadn’t seen her chew through the throat of a gur hunter who had all but captured him. Hadn’t watched her turn down a burgeoning god of seduction (melting the thing in the process). Hadn’t found her in the stumbling dark of a magical blindness and trekked halfway through the Underdark with her stories filling the horrid silence around them.

He hadn’t kissed her (and rather liked it). Hadn’t held her (soft and warm and too afraid to touch him back). Hadn’t sat next to her, fully clothed in the first bed they’d found since the ship crashed, and done nothing but read a book to her. About a plague.

He does not leave her to her own misery. He doesn’t even laugh at her. He just…stands there. His skin itches on the inside. His muscles twitch with some nameless need to do something. He’s not even sure what. He looks to the door. Tries to will himself to take a step. Just one.

But his treacherous feet stay bolted to the floor (like a command, like an order and that is why he can’t do this, can’t be this, can’t feel this).

She gasps again. The tiniest scrap of a sob on her voice as she thumps her head against the wall.

Shit. Shit bloody hells.

“Eleanor?” he says so softly he’s sure her mortal ears won’t catch it. But he mistimes it—of course he does—and it lands right in the middle of her holding her breath again.

She flinches as if he struck her. And he can’t let himself examine the feelings that thought dredges out of the muck of his soul.

“Darling,” (yes, much safer), “perhaps you’d be more comfortable moving away from there, hmm? Since we do have a bed?”

She doesn’t answer. Unless one counts “a barely controlled collapse to one’s knees while hiding one’s face” as an answer.

His palms tingle. He has that thought again, of doing something. That isn’t stealing her pack while she’s distracted. He doesn’t like her like this. She should be, well, she’s usually quiet. But in a judgmental kind of way. A silent watchfulness. The furrow between her brow and the slight arch when someone is being an idiot and she’s trying not to say so.

Not…this.

Damn all the hells. He has no idea what to do. His body—usually so lithe and maneuverable—encases him in dead muscle and rotting bones. It’s an awkward thing, suddenly. Unwieldy.

He thinks of kneeling beside her and patting her shoulder and saying, “There, there.” As they do in mummeries or copper novels.

He searches his tattered memories for something better. Finds nothing suitable. Ends up kneeling beside her and patting her shoulder and saying, “There, there?”

She does not lift her face, wet with the pretty kind of tears maidens in mummeries do. She does not throw herself upon him to weep delicately over his bloodied armor (it’s coagulating and starting to dry off into large, disgusting flakes).

What she does do is make a sort of bleating sound. A laugh, he realizes after a moment.

And then. She lifts her face, finally. Turns to him.

No, she’s decidedly not a pretty crier. Her face is swollen and mottled, her wet eyes bloodshot. She swipes at the spit on her lips and gives a broken, painful looking smile.

Says, “I know, right?”

Which, what in the hells is he supposed to do with that? So he does nothing (looks again to the closed door). But she catches it, this time. Her face crumples even as she nods.

“You go on,” she says, voice thick and lungs still stuttering. “Probably needs to be warmed up, but I gave all my money to the Walking Dead.”

It takes several moments for that to mean anything. Withers.

He doesn’t quite remember being dead? Not in any detail. Remembers only dark and silence. And an ancient voice thrumming through him, “By doom and dusk, I strike thy name from the archives. Rise.”

Then breathing. Clawing. His body jerking to (un)life for the second time and the churning, screaming panic as he searched for those polished, leather boots, for the awful, crushing vice on his mind of the master.

The cleric had mentioned his leader had given the desiccated corpse all her gold to revive him. As she should, seeing as it was her foolish decision that got him killed.

They’d gotten that gold from the tollhouse, after the wizard exploded that awful creature. She had a ring, near the beginning of their little fiasco. A child’s toy, with a child’s cantrip on it. She’d said it was the first jewelry she’d ever owned. In her entire life. And she gave it up to the wizard’s consuming orb.

She has nothing but the clothes on her back and some potions, doesn’t she? She gives away everything else. Sometimes to vagabond children, but the rest of the time…

“Go ahead,” she says. Turns her face away and scrubs at it with her sleeves. “I’m good. I’ll get my shit together while you get cleaned up.”

Dismissing him. He’s free to march over to that door and not come back until she re-secures her own mask.

She would know better than anyone her own state. Her capabilities. And there’s no reason for him to stay (there isn’t, and that traitorous voice inside him will kindly shut up if it knows what’s good for it).

But.

But…

Damn it all. She’s not good. He knows she hides her emotions. He even knows why. It’s a perfectly sensible reaction, amongst people who would take advantage of such a weakness.

Yet the thought of him being someone she needs to hide that from (no). It, it prickles (no). He doesn’t care for the notion (he mustn’t dare, it’s not real, it’s not).

That bastard is leagues and leagues away. Astarion has an illithid tadpole nibbling at his brain, but it also keeps that brain free of any crushing orders. He can make his own decisions. He can choose to stay here, if that’s what he wants to do. No one can stop him.

“Please go,” she says. Gods, she sounds hollow. Pained. “I got you killed. You don't gotta s-stay here.” The stutter worsens. “D-don’t gotta coddle my st-tupid ass. You fucking d-died.”

“Yes, I did. And I’d rather not go through that a third time, if you please.”

He means it to be a joke. He can make her laugh sometimes (what a marvel).

This time he misses entirely. She crumples again. Sinks down to her knees, shoulder against the wall, and tucks her chin in. She so badly tries to hide her face from him. “I’m so, so s-sorry.”

He…

Astarion has been hurt by others. All the time, really. Almost everyone, the rest of them being dupes or fools. He’s laid on his narrow bunk in the dormitory, or curled on his side, naked in the kennels, and dreamed of hurting people back. Grabbing them by the throat as their eyes bulged. Ripping their throat out with his teeth, their hot blood a phantom dream, as they gurgled and begged for mercy which he would deny them.

But she. Eleanor. She apologizes to him. Not even this time, but others. Even when he (fine) might have technically been the one at fault. She just hands them out like sweets at a festival. Like it costs her nothing.

Like he deserves them.

It upsets her when he’s hurt. Not because it denies her anything, but because…because…

She cares. For him.

She truly cares for him, doesn’t she? More than a target of lust, more than a convenient dagger or a set of lock-picking tools or even a good fuck.

She asks him to read to her, by the hells. She laughs at even his bad jokes. She listens to him. Values his opinion. Gives him her blood while refusing sex (until recently) (and even then, she didn’t even find him attractive until she said she knew him) (he can’t let his mind go there).

She’s upset like this at herself. Because she got him hurt.

She’s this distressed for him.

“I…I don’t know how to be here,” she says. Wipes furiously at her eyes and he knows that will only make it worse. “Everything’s so…so fucked. I don’t know what to do.”

She hurts for him. Hurts so badly she can’t even breathe right. She gave all her money for him (which, yes, is only fair, but still). She’s cracked apart like this and trying to hide it for his sake. To spare him.

How does she exist?

(why couldn’t this have happened centuries ago)

“To be quite honest,” he says, his mouth moving of its own accord because he certainly didn’t plan this, even now panics as he sucks in another breath to continue. “Neither do I.”

She sniffles. Poor thing desperately needs a handkerchief. But a quick glance around the room reveals nothing of the sort. And he suspects whoever is left to maintain this place will be cross should he take a knife to the bedding to fashion one.

“Are you okay?” his darling leader says. On her knees on the floor, blood vessels burst in her eyes from holding in her own agony, and she still seeks his well-being.

It warms him even as he fights himself not to recoil.

“Aside from being covered in my own blood and rather hungry,” he says. Means it, again, to be light-hearted. But her gaze sharpens.

“You need blood?” she says. Looks to her snotty sleeve. To the arm beneath, with the faint marks of his teeth still lingering on her wrist.

She's going to give up her blood. Even after all this. Her first thought, what she seizes upon is something to help him.

Gods, his plan has worked spectacularly.

Gods, he feels ill.

Yet blood is blood, and his gaze locks on the proffered arm. On the blood he knows pulses beneath that warm skin of hers. His mouth waters as his fangs ache.

“If you’re offering?” he says. Because he can’t help himself. Can do nothing about the hunger clawing apart his insides even as he wants to vomit.

She sniffs again. “Only seems fair. Since…”

She seems to want to finish that sentence. But it gets caught up. Starts the tears again and she seems so determined to avoid that. She instead clears her throat and attempts a smile. “Wanna let me clean off my face? And you can take a bath?”

To dine like civilized people.

(Take advantage.)

“If that’s what you prefer,” he says.

(Another target.)

She nods. Searches around, he suspects, for something like a handkerchief.

(Another victim.)

“I can forgo warming the bath water, if you can,” he says. “Spare the coin and all.” Only her shoulders slump in some fresh misery.

(Naive.)

“Maybe they’ll take an I owe you,” she says. Reaches for her bag. “Maybe I can pawn off something. There’s that merchant lady out front somewhere.”

(Foolish.)

She barely owns anything at all. Yet she’ll give up more? For him?

(Idiot.)