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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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"True," Pearl agrees -- and indeed, there have been very many of Rose's items of clothing that have been inadvertently left behind in her room, to be carefully, solicitously washed by her and returned to their careless owner. Pearl never does anything pathetically lovelorn like burying her face in a shirt, or trying on one of Rose’s sweaters, of course. She wouldn’t dream of it.

Into the bag the pullover goes, hitting the bottom with a satisfying rustle. Grasping at boldness, she goes quickly for her shirt and sweatpants next. She's all too aware of Rose's gaze on her, fixed in a way that's a shade too intense to be merely perfunctory attention. It sends a hot prickle up her spine: Rose tends to have this effect on her, she acknowledges with chagrin. Still she deliberately keeps her breathing slow, dropping the sweat-damp clothing into the bag as casually as she can.

She could take off her underwear in the bathroom, technically, but why stop now that she’s come this far? No bra, just a pair of blue cotton boyshorts, and they slide down her long, slim legs easily enough. There’s finally a faint tinge of pink in her cheeks as she steps out of them.

Rose has to tuck her chin -- Pearl is clearly not keen to draw out any kind of tease -- but she’s still carrying a humble grin as the last stitch of clothing disappears into the bag. “So efficient.”

Politely ignoring Pearl’s obvious nudity, she twists the bag closed into a neat bundle (it is awful roomy) that she sets aside next to the armchair.

One glance is all Rose indulges in. Just one! It’s good to know where the tender places are. For posterity. The snow has pinked Pearl’s skin to rawness, in places -- ribbed with goosebumps and shivering, still. It goes without saying that her nipples would be hard from the cold, and should be duly avoided when drying off, but Rose spares a glance just to check.

“I don’t have anything of yours you can slip in -- serves you right, for never forgetting anything --” She takes a step forward again and sets to a brisk towel-drying. Brisk, but ginger. Steps back again, too, with Pearl in tow, once she realizes she's barefoot on the freezing-wet welcome mat. “But you can use my robe while we get some hot tea in you.”

A quick run over her arms, her sliver of shoulders, the slope of neck… Rose nearly surprises herself, even, when she tugs the loop of towel just enough to tip Pearl closer: just enough to sneak a quick peck on her chilly nose. Her look is impish. “I’ve missed you, you know.”

But then she’s already side-stepping to grab her robe, and another towel -- leaving the other draped languid on Pearl’s shivery shoulders.

Edited 2015-10-13 05:39 (UTC)

Rose is being remarkably proper about this whole thing, and Pearl feels a little sheepish for having had even one inappropriate thought to the contrary. No: Rose is just caring for her with all the extraordinary depths of sweetness she's capable of. That assurance relaxes her enough that she leans into the towel-rub with a small noise of pleasure, enjoying the way it returns the circulation to her shivering skin. When Rose's lips brush briefly full and soft against her nose it feels just right, a feeling that settles calm to the bottom of her belly and makes her tilt her chin up with a fond smile. Pearl's warm now, through and through.

"I missed you too -- it's been a long week. A cup of tea sounds wonderful, thank you."

Drawing the towel about her, she takes a step, reaching for the robe.

Impulse nibbles: just imagine the look on Pearl’s face if Rose drew the robe out of reach. If she cut a few steps back, snickering -- if Pearl would be willing to make chase in the buff.

But that would probably trash any chance of this happening again. And Rose likes having her here. So instead, she half-offers, half-helps Pearl into the fluffy coral-colored thing, maneuvering her shoulder-towel when appropriate. (The robe is far too roomy in every dimension, but still cozy and plush, Rose is sure.)

Success. With an accomplished sigh, she takes a step back for a moment -- layers Pearl with an appraising up-and-down -- and reaches for her hand.

“God! How aren’t you blue by now?” Rose shivers cartoonishly and tugs her guest the handful of feet to the couch. Then she settles herself in the middle, humming low. ‘Inordinately content’ would be a good way to describe her look.

“Sit back against the armrest, and --” Her palm makes a muffled little pat against her lap, where she’s spread another towel, “-- kick on up here! Your legs are still a little damp.”

Hardly enough to warrant towel-drying, but Rose strives to be… thorough.

Cleaning herself up can certainly wait a little longer, if the intervening minutes are going to involve chamomile tea, and being on the couch with Rose. Pearl picks up one of the mugs and sighs as the liquid warmth goes straight to her bones. Cupping it with slim fingers, she folds herself cautiously onto the couch -- mindful of spilling -- and obediently puts one foot into Rose's lap, then the other.

Even though being fussed over is nice, some sort of perfunctory protest seems necessary, so she tries: "It's all right, really -- I am going to be getting wet again in the shower."

A hum. “I know.”

There’s a very specific look she likes to give Pearl: chin tucked with tender simper near her shoulder, dimples peeking. Eyes plum-dark with heavy, heavy promise. She holds the gaze as her thumb flickers, as though by accident, over a slim ankle -- and then Rose is wrapping the chilly limbs with the towel. Is pressing slow and rich into the flesh underneath in a careful, coquettish massage.

“This is more for me.”

Edited 2015-10-15 04:04 (UTC)

That look -- it drops something heavy and hot straight to the bottom of Pearl's belly. She swallows, throat suddenly dry, and covers it up by taking a long sip of her tea.

"Well, in that case. Who am I to deny you?" It comes out a hair less wry than she intends. Rose's hands are so very firm on her legs, the deliberation of her touch sending a little shiver of a thrill through Pearl, even with the towel between Rose's skin and hers. It's almost too much: the look, the hands, the impossibility of even thinking about extricating herself -- she goes tense for a moment, shoulders hunching, and has to consciously make herself relax back against the armrest. Which is ridiculous, because by god, Rose isn't even doing anything.

The dusky come-hither aura is butchered when Rose tips her head back and barks a laugh. “Who indeed! How gracious of you!”

Still giggling, though careful not to jostle too much (can’t have Pearl scalding herself with tea), Rose sets about with soothing, careful dollops of pressure along the scant meat of one calf. She’s immediately annoyed with the towel. Ugh. A massage should be full of long, languid, sweeping strokes -- soft oils, and rounded heat -- lovely waves of rolling touch that wring lush, royal sounds from the object of attention.

Which… well. That isn’t to say she can’t win some lovely noises now, even with a towel in the way. Rose simply makes a self-note to shape intimate conditions with greater care, in the future. (And to pick up some nice lavender oil.)

It’s simple enough, letting her hands work in slow, loving circuits into Pearl’s muscles. But she can certainly see how this can become tiring; Rose is a thespian, not a masseuse. “I’ll bet you’re sore from dance,” she coos, watching her hands. And because she kind of wants to see how good a job she’s doing -- how much or how little Pearl’s legs have relaxed -- she adds, a touch airy, “Did Jasper play nice?”

"A little sore," Pearl mumbles, "but I think I'm getting stronger." Bit by bit, Rose's hands have teased the tension of the day out of her, unknotting muscles, coaxing joints languid. When fingers press softly into a particularly tight spot, she obligingly makes a small noise of pleasure, low and sweet in the back of her throat.

The question does make her stiffen, toes twitching. There's a sliver of petulance in the angle of her chin as she tips it up. "Jasper could try to look a little less thrilled about getting to boss the rest of us around."

What's the most appropriate sound, here -- a laugh? Sympathy? Rose settles for a wincing kind of smile. "Sorry, sweetness. She can be a bit harsh."

She spends a few moments readjusting -- kneading Pearl's thigh, now -- before leaning over with mock conspiracy: "Should I go beat her up for you?"

Edited 2015-10-15 15:47 (UTC)

The harshness would be tolerable -- it's not like Pearl isn't capable of taking critique or working hard -- but the smugness Jasper heaps liberally on top of it sets every one of her teeth on edge during practice, makes her brow furrow in an echo of annoyance even now. Still, Rose's suggestion draws a laugh out of her: half-delighted, half-scandalized. Of course Rose is joking, but--

"Would...would she like that?"

Edited 2015-10-15 17:25 (UTC)

She has a nice laugh. A really, really cute one. It hangs a little long in some places and hiccup short in others -- Rose might call the sound ‘messy’ if it were anyone but Pearl’s. Always an undercurrent of surprise to the sound, too, like the action’s an unexpected one.

Rose wouldn’t mind mind drawing it out some more.

“Pearl, my goodness.” Her eyelids flutter, and her fingers tent over her chest in plastic affront. She’s mostly shied away from the topic of Jasper, at least in sultrier tones, ever since divulging her... thoughts about the two dancers. But if Pearl is the first to toe those waters... “If she did, I’d have to make sure to take her milk money, too.”

(Fact: Yes, Jasper would probably find it very enjoyable.) (Fact: Yes, Rose possesses the tact not to elaborate.)

Her hand sneaks: snaking a few more intimate inches up Pearl’s thigh. “But I’m afraid you’re much more fun to bully.”

Pearl ducks her head, her momentary boldness failing her, the ghost of her smile lingering despite it. She takes another drink of her tea -- too fast -- and coughs. Rose's sure hand on her thigh palms heat against her skin, the chill of the snow outside a faint memory by now.

She was just...she's been wondering. Being with Rose has awakened in her a curiosity about things she'd never even have imagined before. A shy curiosity: stray, sideways, creeping, but persistent nevertheless. She always wants to know more -- about Rose, about what she likes. (Even if it involves Jasper, of all people.)

Failing to come up with a suitable riposte, she says, faintly, "Yes, I've...noticed you having fun."

Edited 2015-10-15 21:38 (UTC)

Cute, cute, cute. Oh, this is awful. Pearl’s come such a long, adorable way in matching Rose’s quips, tit-for-twat, but she still fumbles back into flushed habits sometimes.

So cute, God. Makes Rose want to pin her down, and just… do things.

She drops a girlish wink. Then, laughing low, wiggles in her seat (careful to avoid knocking Pearl to the floor) and folds her legs up underneath herself -- turning to face Pearl more. The towel mysteriously shifts in the process, and Rose’s hand finds a bare knee. “I’ll make it up to you! Promise.”

(Ooh. Her legs are much warmer, now.)

Shifted as she is, Rose’s other arm settles on the backrest of the couch as she nestles closer. “... mm, after some tea.” But her own is all the way on the coffee table...

She makes a point of illustrating this fact. Her lips purse in a perfect little heart, looking longingly at her mug for a moment, before she asks: “Could I have some of yours?”

Edited 2015-10-16 01:09 (UTC)

Pearl almost misses the soothing pressure of hands massaging her legs, but she can't bring herself to voice any complaints, what with Rose's attention narrowed on her, Rose's skin against her skin. Rose, almost in her lap: close enough for any number of delightful things. That playful look she's wearing, eyes fond and sly from under her tumbling curls, usually bodes very well for Pearl, or sometimes very dangerously; often, both at once.

"Yes, of course." Blinking her gaze away from those full, soft lips, she proffers her mug.

Rose croons under her breath before reaching with her free hand.

She doesn’t take the mug from Pearl’s hand, though. Instead, Rose cups her fingers along the tops of Pearl’s -- thumbpad petting skin, even -- and leans that last slim inch forward enough that she can tip the cup to her lips.

It’s a bit elaborate, sure. But it means Pearl’s knuckles are close enough to drop a warm, tea-damp kiss upon once she’s finished… and that Pearl’s unlikely to notice that Rose has begun stroking her bare thigh. (Just above the knee! Nothing indecent.)

“Thank you,” she purrs. “And thank you for not spilling, too.”

Don't drop the cup -- don't let your hands shake -- Pearl's eyes are back to Rose's lips, glued to them as they shape themselves against the edge of the mug. There's a hint of stray liquid gleaming irresistably on her bottom lip as she pulls away, and then, oh -- Rose's mouth pressed gently against her hand, a curl of heat and damp on her skin that echoes the tingle of fingers on her thigh.

Pearl's shifted position without noticing, and not just so Rose can reach the mug more easily. Leaning forward, reeled in by want.

"You're," she breathes, "welcome."

Pearl looks mesmerized. It's one of Rose's favorite things. Her eyes shade as slow as a snakecharmer's: trying to swallow her up.

Palm pets a little higher along the creamy thigh.

"Do you know what I like about you, Pearl?"

Another inch.

Pearl's knuckles are pale now with how tightly her fingers are wrapped around the mug. It's like Rose has her on a line: yes, reeling her in by ruthless inches, giving her just enough slack to breathe. So easy, it's ridiculous. She's been hooked from the start. They both know it.

Her throat's dry. "You've -- you've mentioned any number of things."

Pearl’s fingers are rattletrap-shaking around her mug: like she’s trying to hide, nearly. Rose can’t have that.

She smiles at her reply -- “That’s true.” -- and gently, gently takes the mug. It’s mostly empty. Rose wouldn’t be able to reach the coffee table to place it down if she weren’t rearranging Pearl’s legs in her lap: if she weren’t sitting up, shifting position: settling herself between them.

“But one thing in particular, now.” Her arms post on either side of Pearl’s waist, and the bottom hem of the robe begins to ride up gently as she leans closer. Rose’s eyes drink her in: ways far more warming than tea. “Would you like to know what it is?”

Pearl's grip loosens, letting Rose take the cup without protest. Not knowing what else to do with her hands, she lets them fall into her lap, fingers twisting around each other. Her lips move almost without volition, shaping the word.

"What?"

She was so cold, fifteen minutes ago: she thinks she'll never be cold again. Is that Rose's body heat that swirls across her skin, or something else? It smoulders through her, all the way from her nose down to the tips of her toes.

Big, rapt, cornflower blues -- hazy and sweet. Watching Rose move nearer. Fine trim of a blush, underneath: a fine place to aim for idle kisses.

Rose leans closer.

“I love, Pearl…”

Rose leans closer.

“... how you’re so…”

Pickpocket fingers slip along a slim waist.

“...ticklish.”

Pearl's eyes widen, catching on at the last moment, but all she gets out is a squeak of anticipation before it's upon her. She twists and squirms -- trying to escape! -- but it only seems to tangle her further in the fluffy, voluminous folds of Rose's robe. Which, nevertheless, offers no protection at all.

"Roooose!" she pleads, between gasps of laughter, wrists flapping as she weakly tries to bat away the insistent tease of fingers on her ribs.

Rose laughs too -- she lights up with giddy cruelty. Pearl’s body is a crafted instrument that she’s honed over the years to dance, and express, and carry herself with total awareness, and here she is now: wriggling helplessly on Rose’s couch.

“Confess! Confess!” she laughs, “There’s still time to atone!”

She keeps up the torment a few seconds longer, then relents -- still grinning -- and gives them both a moment to catch their breath.

Stays put over Pearl, though: still hovering.

Given a reprieve, Pearl just lies there for a moment, half-curled up small in the robe. Chest heaving as she sucks in air, muscles trembling with the echo of sensation. She almost expects a second, even stealthier attack -- Rose can be merciless when she wants to be -- but none comes. Finally she opens her eyes and looks up at Rose, trying for an accusing glare but probably landing somewhere around sweetly sheepish instead.

"That was underhanded."

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oops here's more introspection

rose u sneaky shithead

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