[ wriothesley squirms within his fabric prison, much like a fish would out of water. she wraps her arms around him over the towel, her hold steady and firm, and to anyone else it looks nothing more than one lover embracing the other from behind. her hands can't quite link due to his bulk, but it's fine; she can still lean up just a little to put her mouth near his ear. ]
no subject
Your swim bottoms, Your Grace.