[Pyrrha curls her fingers in the fabric, which seems unexpectedly soft for such a simple item of clothing as a hoodie. She's careful with it, rolling it up in furls under her thumb as she lifts it off his chest and up, over his head. Her mouth follows the movement in the opposite direction, down Matt's neck to the dip of his collarbone.]
Mine. [The word is a soft whisper, fingers wandering, tracing over criss-crossing lines on Matt's chest. She spares a moment to lift her circlet from her head, letting her hair fall down in waves.
She stands, then, slides off Matt's lap and offers her hands, cheeks flushed and eyes bright. Perhaps, not everything was as it should be, but it was as close as they were going to get and Pyrrha would make the most of it.] Bed?
no subject
Mine. [The word is a soft whisper, fingers wandering, tracing over criss-crossing lines on Matt's chest. She spares a moment to lift her circlet from her head, letting her hair fall down in waves.
She stands, then, slides off Matt's lap and offers her hands, cheeks flushed and eyes bright. Perhaps, not everything was as it should be, but it was as close as they were going to get and Pyrrha would make the most of it.] Bed?