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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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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."

Sprawled underneath Rose, cheeks flushed to bruising, chest rising and falling as she shivers and sighs... It’s not so unlike other sights.

Rose tries not to look too pleased.

“I’m dreadful, I know. The only thing worse would be if you rewarded me for it.” Close enough to lean: to nudge her nose against Pearl’s, playful. She smells like chamomile and cold. “Maybe with a kiss?”

How can Pearl deny her that? (Pearl can't deny her anything.) Indeed, she's suddenly starving for Rose's mouth. She shimmies so her head is propped up against the armrest, in the perfect position for her to put both her hands on Rose's face and bravely tug her down for a good, slow one.

It’s a bit like sculpting, kissing Pearl. Rose never has of course -- sculpted, that is -- but something in the way Pearl goes altogether supple in the brow, in the voice, in the well-formed angle of her jaw… a bit like shaping warm clay, each time Rose deepens the touch, with a swivel of chin: cool and unhurried, like a kiss underwater.

Tonight, though, she finishes quickly and sweetly: punctuated with a teasing little nibble on Pearl’s lower lip before she ducks away, grinning. Tempting. It’s tempting, to just… convince Pearl to forget why she even came here tonight. For at least half an hour or so.

But Rose has her moments of self-restraint. She shifts back onto her knees, pulling away -- offering Pearl a hand to sit upright. “I suppose I ought to let you shower someday.”

"That would be nice, yes." Pearl sighs as Rose pulls away, her lips tingling pleasantly with the aftermath. Kissing Rose is like -- it dissolves every anxious, buzzing thought in her head, leaves her present in a world of sensation, a rare and tenuous state of being for her. Even this relatively brief kiss has left her with a sense of good-quiet, warm-heat. She takes Rose's hand, swinging her long legs off the couch and then pushing herself to her feet with a hint of unsteadiness. The brush of cool air against her skin through the open robe makes her miss being curled up next to Rose on the couch, already.

Maybe Rose will let her stay for a little while after her shower.

The robe is lipping open near the belt, just a bit -- just enough for Rose to pause for an appreciative eye. She looks good. Even if her clothes are far too large for Pearl, Rose likes seeing them on her. Knowing Pearl is all wrapped up in her scent. Burying her nose against it to breathe in, when she isn’t looking.

It’s cute, and satisfying, but also quieting. Soothing. It’s nice, is all, it should be fine to leave it at that.

The moment passes, and Rose tips a wink before taking her hand to gently tug Pearl in the direction of the hallway. “You know where the shower is. Go ahead! Use my towel -- it’s the green one hanging up.”

She bends to scoop up the plastic bag with the sopping clothes, and begins to make way for the laundry nook.

After a few steps she pauses, though. Adds slyly over her shoulder, “Oh, and… new showerhead. Very nice. Very nice.” A delicious little shiver as illustrating, hips tilting in just a suggestion of a stir. “Do give it a try, sweet thing.”

One more candied look, trimmed with a smile, and Rose whisks away down to the other end of the hall.

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.

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oops here's more introspection

rose u sneaky shithead

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