That— the sound of her breathing, the rush of it running hot across his tongue, the heave of her chest beneath the edges of his gauntleted fingers— is a language he comprehends well where so many others fail. It is persuasive, it speaks to the simplicity of his hunger.

Or, were he so willing to examine it, his desire.

Her teeth snare his lip, scuff and scrape and bite, and somewhere without intending to he finds himself already working at the clasps of his gauntlets, the ties securing his cloak, his breastplate. Impatient, irritated, even.

But earnest, also.

Had she doubts about his investment, perhaps this will put them to bed.