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The kettle had been just over halfway to boiling when Pearl’s text came through, and was whistling steam by the time Rose could calm her laughter over the phone.

She looks halfway freezerburnt in the pic she had sent: Pearl, already layered in the muss of a long day and the sweat of dance practice, red-nosed and miserable and bundled up to her chin with the snow-caked doors of the rec center behind her. A sign in one of them reads “NO WATER -- PIPES BURST”

The caption, though, is the clincher: “My dorm’s plumbing is out, too. I hate to ask, but would it be okay if I showered at yours?”

First of all, that picture was going to be Rose’s new home screen. But the real punchline, here -- which she tried to articulate to Pearl over the phone, through her doubled-over gigglefit -- is that Pearl would think twice about asking to come over. That she would 'hate to ask'! She’s been doing so for months. And with all other possible showers on the opposite end of campus, and Rose’s apartment hardly a couple blocks from the rec center, it just hits her as a uniquely Pearlish blend of pitiful-funny that she would even feel the need to ask permission.

To use her shower, especially. (Well. She left that a bit more implicit, over the phone.)

Rose grins to herself, still, watching the tea steep. She isn’t exactly dolled up -- it’s a healthy piece of late in the evening, and she had just planned to read until bed -- but Pearl has a way of shyly eyeing Rose in even her most kickaround outfits.

(Gold-good things flutter in her chest, there. Sweeten soft.)

Instead of changing, she’s piled a stack of towels and her bathrobe next to the door -- a couple mugs of hot, cheery chamomile on the coffee table, too. So when the door sounds off with a tangle of tender knocks (oh, oh, her knuckles must be numb), Rose is quick to whisk it open with one towel over her shoulder, making little effort to hide the bubble of laughter in her voice: “Poor thing, oh no! Come on, come on -- oof, goodness, it is cold out --”

Hopefully her smile doesn’t look too pleased.

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She brought a towel of her own, but it seems like too much effort to dig it out of her gym bag right now. And Rose's towels are all much fluffier than hers, anyway. Fluffy and generous, and they smell like the copious amounts of product Rose uses to keep her curls looking the way they do. (They smell like Rose.)

Rose's highly unsubtle suggestion puts the colour back in her cheeks, just like that. Pearl still manages to call out after her, a weak parting short: "I'm trying to get clean here, you know." Really, Rose is incorrigible. Shaking her head, she pulls the robe around herself and goes into the bathroom.

The robe gets hung neatly on a hook and Pearl steps straight into the shower. She lets out a quiet groan of relief as the caked sweat of the long day and hours of dance practice and tramping around in the snow begins to wash off. Heat, soaking into her muscles, steaming off her skin. This new showerhead is nice. Powerful, a steady torrent. Rose's words come to mind, and with them an image of Rose herself in the shower, all gleaming curves and hair heavy and dark with water, head thrown back. Pearl shivers, hot as the water is. She trails her hands down from her collarbones, over her chest, down her belly and her hips...she wasn't going to take Rose up on her suggestion, this time, but the touch does feel nice.

As she's rinsing shampoo out of her hair, it seems to her that it might be a good idea to try out some of the new settings on the fancy showerhead. Mere curiosity, of course. She detaches it to examine it better, but then a dollop of foam sneaks into her left eye and her hands instinctively fly to get it out -- except that more water just makes its way into her eyes in the process, and then she's losing her balance and grabbing blindly for something and knocking what sounds like twenty bottles of shampoo and conditioner and body wash off the racks, loofahs and razors and brushes in a great thudding rolling mess, and naturally as she falls she catches herself against the door and it flies open so that water from the errant showerhead sprays all over the tile and thoroughly soaks the floor rug.

"Shit!"

It’s not that Rose intends to eavesdrop, really. But there isn’t much else to do, once Pearl’s sodden outfit is humming away in a soapy load of wash.

Rose considers whiling away the time until Pearl is finished by thumbing through her novel -- maybe with a glass of dark wine. Maybe with enough mulled invitation in her gaze to draw her into bed. Keep her here, a little longer. It is awful cold outside.

Instead she finds herself wheedling away at the hardwood with her toe -- a few stray streaks of damp lead to the bathroom from the couch. For all her half-sincere efforts, she hadn’t gotten her guest completely dry.

But even with the traces of water long gone, Rose lingers still near the bathroom. And she feels herself listening a bit too intently through the wood of the door. (Pearl can never keep quiet for long.)

Pearl. Oh. Oh, just imagine. She has such trouble with coming while standing. It hasn’t happened yet, in fact; at least Rose has yet to see. Her knees give out, first -- turned to water, spilled and runny under warm blossoms of pleasure -- shivering and folded double at the waist: legs useless as she unspools with a ribbon of moan. Sometimes she curls inward so tightly that her nose buries between her knees: like she’s trying to hide from her own candy-bright livewire body.

It’s so sweet. So wickedly, unbearably sweet, Rose can’t help but picture it now. How the strings of muscle in her legs would jump as she leaned against the tile wall for support -- maybe posting a leg on the wash bench, craving a tentative hold -- wringing every ounce of coordination available to remain standing as she gasped, as she grinded -- rolled her hips against nothing but a pour of heat --

-- just as a tangle of clatters and knocks and a furtive ”Shit!” seem to prove her right.

They aren’t the happy sounds Rose expected, though. Sounds like they fucking hurt. So without much consideration for how conspicuous the speediness may be, Rose flurries a few knocks against the door.

“Pearl? Everything alright?”

… and at the same time begins to crack the door open, impatient for an answer.

Pearl flails for the knob and manages to get the water off before the entire bathroom is consumed by flood. Wincing, she twists to look at the spot on her hip where she hit something on the way down. No injury, thank god, though it promises to blossom into a future bruise. That could've gone worse.

"Yeah, everything's fine!" she calls out, voice pitched slightly too high. She's on her knees, half out of the shower and scooping up bottles, when the door opens. So much for a peaceful shower: she must look like a half-drowned kitten, her hair dripping bathwater onto the floor. She darts a glance up at Rose, mortified.

"Sorry, I'm sorry! I just...had a klutzy moment. I'll clean this up right away."

The wall of heat pours a sticky greeting as the door swings open. She first notices the lack of running water -- cut off, ostensibly -- and manages to land her sock in the middle of a fat puddle with her first step inside.

Urgh.

Enough steam spills out of the bathroom, after a moment, to reveal Pearl: half-hanging out of the shower, favoring one leg, and looking ready to disintegrate all over the shampoo bottles cradled in one arm.

Oh, no.

Rose tries for something sympathetic-sounding -- it almost turns into a guffaw -- but the compromise is a chirping little cluck as she steps further into the bathroom.

“Oh, baby, no --” She can’t quite fight off the ring of laughter in her voice. Her foot nudges a pumice stone that’s flung itself near the sink as she bends to help Pearl upright. Very dutifully ignores her vulnerable state of dress, too. Seemingly. “Oh, ouch! Are you okay?”

"Yes, yes!" Flustered in several ways, Pearl fumbles the bottles before managing to set them down on the sink. She darts a guilty look at Rose's feet, hearing the squelch of soaked socks on tile. "Nothing serious -- you don't have to get wet for me!" Oh, no. Worse and worse.

Honestly, sometimes Pearl feels as if all she's done since she met Rose is make ridiculous messes in front of her. If her skin wasn't already flushed thoroughly pink from the shower, her creeping blush would be visible. Shying out of Rose's grasp, she kneels again to gather up the pumice stone and a razor, head bowed.

Rose can't help it. She wants to laugh. Pretty, poised, hyper-competent Pearl, with her discerning looks down an aristocrat nose and manicured outfits set to match down to her class notes is just... kind of a disaster, really, when it comes down to it, and not just when Rose is around.

(Though. She does boost the odds an awful lot.)

Rose's mouth opens to reply. But as she watches Pearl double over again, it becomes brightly difficult to ignore how beautifully biddable she looks this way. Bent as if to kneel. The just-pinked skin of lower back curving: her shoulder blades framing eaves above the tender Braille of backbone: freckled fretboard ribs --

"Let me get them." Low, kind, dulcet. Hearing her speak, one would never believe Rose's mouth has gone a bit dry. Gently -- gently -- her hand rests on Pearl's shoulder for attention. She's warm, and Rose can feel the static pop of her nerves, and a fondness tugs alongside hunger on the little pulleys in her chest. "Finish your shower, sweetness."

Edited 2015-10-22 14:25 (UTC)

Pearl looks back up at her, hesitates. There's something about Rose's tone that brooks no argument. The endearment, the way Rose's mouth wraps around the word, sends a little tremor through Pearl-- or perhaps it's the intent way Rose is looking at her-- she's suddenly aware of how very naked she is, the faint caress of air against her cooling skin--

Pearl's mouth is dry too.

"O-okay." Snatching up a bottle of body wash from the sink counter, she backs into the shower. "I'll just! Finish up in here. Thank you."

"Atta girl," she offers to Pearl's retreating back. It comes across less charmingly flip than intended -- lower -- snagging to a richer register that sounds... warm. Rose hadn't meant for that. Rose had meant to pepper some teases in before retreating to the room. She's pressing too much. Too aggressive. Part of Pearl is enjoying it, along with most of Rose, but that doesn't mean this is appropriate for their arrangement.

Pearl's entitled to breathing room, and right now Rose is removing that option.

And despite her own urging being the reason behind it, the snick of the shower door sounds awfully close to the snap-shut of a cookie jar.

The bottles try to slip out of her grip as she stands them on the sink -- they can always be stashed later -- while Rose collects her thoughts. Weighs options. It's only when Rose is just beginning to mop up the spilled water with a spare towel that she realizes the shower hasn't been running. She blinks; twice.

"... did you belatedly freeze stiff in there?"

Edited 2015-10-23 04:19 (UTC)

"Rose..." Pearl's voice from behind the door is pained. "I think I broke the showerhead, maybe." She's been standing there for long, increasingly uncomfortable minutes, unsuccessfully trying to turn the water back on. Beginning to shiver as the heat fades from her body. Trying to figure out what the hell to do. Of course this would happen, and after Rose was so kind, letting her shower here, and making her tea, and everything. Was this showerhead expensive? Rose has fairly lavish taste; it must have been.

She swallows apprehensively. "Can you take a look?"

“Goodness,” she says, making room for a few ‘tsk’s. “At this rate we’ll just have to find you a garden hose.” Still smiling, though. Despite that Pearl’s making it awfully damn hard to be decent.

She reaches down to roll off her soggy socks -- they can wait in the sink, a moment -- before padding the half-step needed to the shower door. Normally the collection of steam on the glass would be enough to obfuscate anyone inside, but the room has cooled, and Pearl is plain to see: long and lovely and needing Rose.

(It’s delicious. Having her boxed in like this. Want tugs, quick and slight and bright as a struck match.)

Considering a playful little knock on the glass -- but discarding the idea -- Rose tugs the door open and neatly plucks the showerhead from Pearl’s hands. She can see right away that it isn’t broken. Pearl must have been squeezing the nozzle too tightly from nerves, and thought she’d jammed it.

But Rose takes a few long, long seconds studying it closely. Her head shakes gravely, and her mouth hums with significant thinking sounds. “Oh, my… I don’t know… hmm…”

(Pearl shivering in her peripheral is a little too sweet to pass up.)

“I’m sorry, Pearl…” She sighs. “Maybe it just --” The showerhead springs to life in her hand and she laughs, “-- works just fine after all!”

The spray is on a gentle setting, but that doesn’t make hosing down her beleaguered houseguest from head to hip any less fun.

Pearl begins to droop as Rose's countenance falls, a dejected slump creeping into her shoulders. But she looks up as an irrepressible giggle fills the shower, and --

"Ah!"

The spray hits her right in the face, as warm and exuberant as Rose's laughter, and she instinctively throws up her arms to ward it off. Not that it does any good, of course. Then she's half-sputtering, half-laughing along -- almost rushing forward to give Rose a relieved hug, but mindful of her drenched state at the last moment. She's already gotten Rose wet enough tonight, surely.

"I was really worried for a minute, there!"

The spray dips down -- she can afford a drop of mercy -- as Rose glows at the reassured grin on Pearl’s face: a little shy, a little sheepish. And anemic in love.

It makes Rose feel a little godless, that thrill of power. And on top of her so bare and open, and cornered in Rose’s home... Oh, she just wants to put Pearl in her pocket.

“Never worry, sweet thing,” she hums. The shower is small enough that she can lean in, easily -- can drop a double-peck, quick and laughing, on Pearl’s damp cheek. “You’re worth a thousand fancy showerheads.”

Though. She still hasn’t handed it back to her. The water continues to flow down along Pearl’s feet and shins as Rose pauses; quiet and steam fill the shower with heated weight.

“Although.” Rose watches a rivulet of water start from her collar -- down her proud tilt of breastbone -- along her navel -- “This one is quite nice.”

Her eyes have gone soft. Sweet. She leans in, again: close enough to kiss. “I’d like to show you how.”

Edited 2015-10-25 02:14 (UTC)

Pearl's abruptly aware of every inch of distance between them as it narrows and narrows again. She can't help but crane her neck a little, wanting to be closer, drawn inexorably in by Rose's gravity. Those eyes, fixed all on her; lips, faintly parted with promise. The stream of water, still spilling across her skin in little prickles and curls of heat, pattering against the tile with a soft and constant noise that's entirely at odds with the way Pearl's pulse is suddenly thudding in her ears.

She was going to ask Rose if they could maybe...after her shower, but...now. Now's not a bad time, either.

"I...okay. Yes." After a moment she adds, with a little hitch in her voice, "Please."

The way Rose smiles, one would think there was never any question of how she planned to proceed: pleased, but unsurprised. She almost looks as though she’d orchestrated it to the moment.

“Such manners.” Still holding Pearl’s eyes with her own (shuttered low, crinkling warm), she reaches with her free hand. A slight adjustment to the nozzle, and the water begins to thrum at a new pace. “How can I refuse.”

Pleasant luck, the shower dimensions. The floor is already wet, and pajamas can always be washed, so Rose has no qualms about lifting the nozzle to wash over Pearl’s chest, a moment -- warm, unhurried. “This is one of the gentler settings,” she murmurs, just as she dips in for a chaste press of lips. She wants to feel the sound Pearl makes as she suddenly angles the nozzle directly over her nipple: the stream a hot, pouring purr.

Not unlike Rose's own. "Isn't that nice?"

Edited 2015-10-25 02:55 (UTC)

Gentler? Really?

Pearl's so sensitive from the cold air earlier and the closeness and just being around Rose, she almost hunches over. Instead she gasps into Rose's mouth, her own lips moving wordlessly. This setting's significantly stronger than the one she was showering with before; the pressure of it strokes sweetly, relentlessly against her nipple.

"God-- yes."

She's about to lift her hands to brace herself against Rose's hips, but no, she's soaked, soaking wet, she can't bring herself to sully Rose's clothes even if Rose herself doesn't seem to care at all. All she can do is curl her fingers into her palms.

So agreeable. So earnest. Rose hums her approval as her free hand wanders: reaches, tangling in the wet hair along the back of Pearl’s head. So agreeable, and so earnest in fact, that Rose decides to reward her with a little massage along her neck as she guides her into a kiss.

Deeper, this time. Rose’s taffy-soft mouth folds full, settling easy: familiar: warm brush of tongue along Pearl’s lower lip.

“You’ve made an awful lot of messes tonight, sweetness.” She still massages the taut cords of sinew in Pearl’s neck, even as the nozzle lazes over to rush against her other nipple. “You’ll behave from now on, won’t you?”

Edited 2015-10-25 03:44 (UTC)

Pearl kisses back openmouthed; sweet, easy, yearning. It's the most natural thing: Rose leads, and she yields. Her world of sensation narrows to the heat of mouths pressed against each other, the caress of the water, Rose's hand on her neck. Soothing, gentle, but also almost -- proprietary. Pearl tilts her head into it with a whimper.

"I'm sorry," she breathes. "I'll do better."

“That’s my girl.” Another kiss to partner the praise: purring, too, in her obedient mouth. Rose forgets sometimes how well Pearl can kiss. She could drink her in all night. Leave it to a dancer to read another’s skin. “That’s my good girl.”

It’s already a challenge to tolerate her clothes. Damn. Damn. She’ll have to wait, at least a little bit. Rose caps off another kiss with a teasing nip of teeth -- quick lave of tongue to soothe the spot -- before pulling away. Her hand drifts from her nape: down, down -- “You’re so sweet, Pearl. So sweet… so sensitive.” -- over a tender nipple, and tweaks.

The kisses, so soft, with the faintest hint of an edge, are making Pearl's knees weak. Those, and Rose's voice, so sure and compelling that Pearl can never be certain if she's describing, or commanding. Coaxing Pearl into becoming exactly what she wants. Sweet: yes, her limbs heavy with the warm liquid honey of Rose's approval, soaking through her from the crown of her head to the tips of her toes. And -- sensitive: the touch catches her by surprise, a bright electric twitch of pleasure-pain, and without thinking she puts out a hand to steady herself, her damp fingers brushing against the fabric of Rose's clothing.

"Oh..."

For a moment, Rose nearly tolerates it. She nearly ignores the touch -- the grab -- in favor of unpiecing Pearl gently.

But inspiration strikes. And in a sense, so does Rose.

“Pearl.” Rose’s rancor is feigned but rings harsh against the tile, eyes tar-dark as she snatches Pearl’s wrist away. “Another mess? You aren’t even listening, are you.” The hand on the showerhead thumbs the nozzle up: a heavier pound of water thrums over Pearl’s already-tender chest.

“Do you want me to spend the rest of the night cleaning up after you?”

"Sorry!"

Pearl takes an instinctive step back, then stops herself, lest Rose think she's trying to escape. With the grip on her wrist, she's fairly trapped -- and there's nowhere to run in the shower, anyway. She's hemmed in. At Rose's mercy. It's the game that they play, of course, but the feeling is still real: something heavy in the bottom of her stomach, dropping like a stone. Wide-eyed, she cringes, shoulders rising as her chin dips. And at the same time...it's a thrill of excitement that's jittering its way up her spine.

Rose is majestic like this: her curls, even slightly damp, falling about her face, framing the intensity of her glare. Her look, usually so gentle, playfulness curving up the corners of her eyes -- now sharp enough to shred.

It makes something in Pearl want to roll over in that ageless gesture of deference. Shut her eyes and bare her throat deliciously for it.

"S-sorry," she repeats, and it's not just the sensation of the stream against her chest that's making her voice tremble.

Edited 2015-10-25 05:11 (UTC)

“Hmmm.” Rose’s lips pucker in a frown, the picture of unconvinced. She watches the poor thing trapped in her shower (so slight, so sweet: strings of muscle already jumping in the sliver of her waist). “Not yet, you aren’t.”

Her hand around her wrist tugs, steering it to the top of Pearl’s head. Rose wonders if she even got the chance to shampoo. “Both hands on top of your head… if either of them moves,” Her eyes glint, full of bite and flinty promise, “I’ll give you something to be sorry about.”

And her hand is moving, again: pulling her closer. Rose obviously takes no issue without moisture on her clothing, as long as Pearl isn’t the one putting it there. She lets the water rush over her chest a moment longer before lowering the spray: letting the heat play along the frail divots of her ribs. Her free hand joins, too -- claiming -- after a final parting pinch over Pearl's nipple.

"Turn around." The command in her voice could make rope stand upright. "Legs spread."

Edited 2015-10-25 05:26 (UTC)

Pearl leaps to obey. Her other hand's on top of the first in an instant, fingers lacing together, the thumbnail of one hand digging into the flesh of the other. It's a humiliating position, deliberate in its performativity. A position for bad girls who can't keep their hands to themselves. But she straightens her back, raising her chin -- she can do this, show Rose how good she wants to be. How good she can be.

Even if the promise of punishment sends a flash of heat straight down her centre.

You're so fucked, Pearl.

The way Rose handles her is firm but deft, almost casual. It makes her nerves quiver. She turns, and spreads, obedient.

Rose almost regrets how neatly Pearl moves to comply… had she waited a bit longer, maybe she could wring some stumbling and fumbling from the dancer. God, that would be cute.

But Pearl obeys, and she has to croon approval. Tugs her closer, even, until her damp back is brushing the front of Rose’s shirt. Her flesh is warm enough to send a shiver through the cloth, sticking humid and wishful as August, and hunger stirs heavy in Rose.

“Better.” Pearl’s hands over her head -- sometimes by order, sometimes by ties -- is always a lovely sight. Toothsome symmetry of latissimi and shoulder and pectoral and breast. But especially now, when Rose can reach from behind… can toy with the slight softness of her slim chest, can stroke the tremble of sinew in her belly. “Not perfect, but better.”

Can nibble her fill along the creamy curve of her neck.

“And so pretty...” Rose lets the pads of her fingers tease along Pearl’s navel, curious to see how strong her conviction is to keep her hands still. Her other hand, in the meantime, thumbs the nozzle to a softer setting again: brings the water to play over her waist. Lowering by dizzying inches. “Shame that such a pretty girl is so messy."

The water dips -- abrupt and stark as vertigo -- below the tender notch of navel, just grazing between her thighs. "You want to be good, though. Don't you, sweet thing?"

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!"