[ She keeps laughing, because this - this is theirs, this isn't the council of counts, or a subject of vor gossip or anything else. Where she's pressed hard into him to not fall, to make the movements easier. Her laughter high, feeling his own rumble back into her chest. That - that is hers, that she doesn't have to share with the men and women he plies himself too, doesn't have to care about who is watching. Dizzying, better than drink or drug or - well things that were more her purview than hers as she grips tight. Pressing her face into the side of his, out of breath even if she isn't doing much at all. ]
no subject