#its ok damsel i fully intend for them both of have their moments in charge for the actual smut

[flickeringquip]

(1) You're starting to suspect Damsel is trying to tell you. . . something.

Pt. 1 — Damsel belongs to @rosurie

It had started out fairly innocuous. 

Stray touches that lingered just a little too long. The way she leaned into you at the slightest excuse. The way she toyed with her hair — and yours, on occasion. 

The emphasis she put on your name, or how she calls you babe, or on one particular memorable occasion—

"Aw, thanks babe, you're such a good girl."

Your cheeks warm just thinking about it. You aren't sure you're going to recover from that one any time soon. 

(1) But any time you question her, ask if her if there's anything she needs, she plays dumb. Giggles like you've said something absolutely ridiculous. 

And, well. . . 

You're stoic, not stupid. You've spent your own fair share of time swindling people out of their money at Briar's, enough to recognize when you're being baited. 

Damsel might paint a prettier picture doing it, but you're hardly incapable — and you think you're starting to know her well enough to know what might work. 

(1) And so the games begin.

You see her in the library straining for a book, just barely out of reach, and instead of grabbing it for her — you lift her the rest of the way up, smoothing your hands down her ribs and along her hips when you set her down. 

You scare off a creep she's rather genuinely wanting to get away from — and didn't that take you both a hot minute to figure out how to communicate — by sidling in close beside her, hitching an arm around her waist and tugging her in flush against your side, your bat resting against your opposite shoulder as you tell them to fuck off. 

You find things to whisper to her whenever you share a class together, inane observations or questions that you already know the answer to, lips close enough to brush against her ear before you pull back, expression as neutral as it always is. 

(1) You enjoy the faint surprise you see the first few times; had she expected you not to retaliate? To roll over and take her teasing until you snapped, or perhaps begged?

. . .With how readily you cater to her whims when helping her with things, you suppose maybe that was a fair assumption — but putting up with Damsel being a relentless tease and protecting her from creeps are two very different things, at least in your mind.

If anything, you think with a rare flicker of sly amusement, maybe this could be a life lesson? 

(1) Of course, it doesn't take long at all for Damsel to realize the game you're playing.

She grows bolder in her advances — lingering touches grow longer yet, fingers tracing patterns just below the hem of your skirt in classes, the faint catch of nails when you least expect it.

And you respond in kind — becoming more physically affectionate when you're pretending to be her girlfriend to unsettle unwanted admirers, hand in her back pocket with a possessive squeeze, arm slung over her shoulder as you press a kiss to her temple. 

You circle each other in a pseudo game of tag, hoping to catch the other unawares to score another point in your respective favours as the tension winds tighter between the two of you.

(1) It’s only a matter of time before that thread snaps.

Of all the times you’d have expected it to happen, you wouldn’t have expected it to be during a bout of actual danger. An seduction gone awry leads to a failed intimidation attempt — and now the both of you were hiding, taking refuge in one of Landry’s storerooms while a small handful of unsavories roamed the nearby streets looking for both of you. 

You lounge against a barrel, content to catch your breath and let your adrenaline wind down as you thunk your head softly back against it— 

“I had everything entirely under control; you just made everything worse by meddling, like usual.”

—Or not.

(1) It’s a testament to your own mood, that you actively weigh the pros and cons of ignoring your companion’s complaining for a long beat.

“She was about to drug you, Damsel,” You don’t bother to open your eyes, fatigue turning your tone sharp as shattered glass, “Didn’t think that’d fit into whatever 'plan' you thought you had all figured out.”

You were usually more considerate of Damsel’s. . . Mood, when something like this happened — and it happened so much less often these days, thank god — but you weren’t immune to the occasional bout of bitchiness.

You’d spent the week teasing and being teased — sue you if you had little empathy for Damsel’s whining, right then and there.

(1) Her silence is more concerning than if she’d snapped back, and you open your eyes in time for Damsel to snake a hand into the curls at your nape and fist tight. 

“For someone whose usually such a good girl,” Condescension drips from her voice, lips smiling despite the irritation gleaming in her eyes, “You can be a mouthy little bitch sometimes, you know that?” 

She tugs against your roots until you hiss, thighs sliding over your own as she settles in your lap. Her free hand brushes against your jaw with deceptive gentleness, so at odd with the cruel twist of her fingers that it's a little hard to concentrate on both at the same time.

“Maybe after you learn your fucking place, we can talk about how you can make up tonight’s fuck up to me.”

(1) And while you'd normally acquiesce to her anger to keep the peace, you find yourself coming up dry on submissiveness in this particular moment.

"We could do that, yeah," Your agreement is as much a trap as her sweet touch along your cheek, just waiting for her grip of your hair to loosen a little, "—But honestly? I don't fucking feel like it." 

And then you strike.

It's a little mean to use what small advantage your size gives you against her, but you can't say you feel particularly charitable as you shove Damsel backwards, pinning her wrists to the ground as you loom over her.

You have to admit that some part of you relishes the startled look on her face as she blinks up at you.

"I don't think I'm the only one who's gotta learn her place," Your thumbs stroke the pulse point of each of her wrists before you release her, confident in your ability to beat the other woman in a wrestle of all things, leaning back on your haunches as you smooth your hands over her hips, "And between the two of us, I'd wager you'd even enjoy it more, wouldn't you?"

(1) You let your gaze roam, catching on the way her shirt's ridden up and skirt gone askew; it's nice to admire at your own pace, after all her teasing. 

You also happen to find her pout kind of adorable, even with the baleful glare she levels up at you. 

(Honestly, you'll probably let her get her revenge another time. She enjoys the power, and you usually don't mind giving it to her — but there are always exceptions.)

"And you're going to be the one to give me that lesson, is that it?"

It's amazing, how she could sound so derisive yet taunting, challenging you to either prove her right or submit entirely — and ensuring she would get her way, regardless of which you chose. 

(1) But if you're going to be difficult anyway, you should at least have the decency to go all the way — wasn't that how she preferred it?

"I've never been a very good teacher," You lean forward again, letting your hands rise up to slip just beneath the edge of her top, curves soft and warm under your hands, "And you know I'd never take advantage of you." 

The way that makes her scowl at you makes you laugh despite yourself, an act that only increases her ire at you as her thighs squeeze in against your hips, surely tempted to try and roll you back under her for your audacity. 

This is probably why you indulged her as often as you did; you'd always had a weakness for cute things.  

"So to make sure I know exactly what you want, you'll just have to tell me exactly what you want—"

You flash her a grin that is just a little too sharp to be the look of someone planning to cede control.

(1) "And if you ask me nicely enough, maybe you'll even get your way."