Turned like this, she can't see what Rose is doing. Can't see her face or her smile, and somehow that makes it worse, because her runaway brain fills it right in. Rose's lips, curved in a sharp smirk, pressed against the side of neck. Teeth, nipping at the tender, sensitive skin beneath which her pulse leaps and trembles. Sometimes Rose leaves marks -- a reminder for every time she unwinds her winter scarf.

(God, Pearl hopes she leaves marks.)

Messy, Rose says, and the characterization slices straight to her core -- she works so hard, to be so put together, all the time. Classes, grades, test prep, dance practice, colour-matching her outfits. But here she is, stripped of all that and trapped in Rose's shower. Making messes: herself a mess. Falling apart piece by wretched piece. Pearl whines in her throat -- fingers twitching atop her head. Unlacing and then lacing back together, not quite breaking position yet. But if Rose keeps pushing...the hint of a tease of sensation between her legs sends her up on her toes for a second, before she rocks back onto the balls of her feet.

"Yes!"