Wheeling Gull Isle a place called kokomo

Komodo wasn’t sure that anything had ever commanded his attention as strongly as the inksodden girl did at that very moment. The brute pushed himself upon a burly elbow, attempting to keep the rest of his body in place so that the girl would not have to reposition herself — how fine a thing it was, to have her lay upon him in such a way, clearly attempting to produce words. They were mere inches away from each other but still his ears pressed forward with gusto, straining to hear every rise and fall of her frail voice and shallow breath. It was clear the girl had little control over her tongue and lips, and it reminded him of a cub learning to make sounds. Only — Komodo did not understand how this was happening; as he had never known the girl to talk and figured he never would.

This was quite a momentous occasion and his heartbeat rose to task, thump thump thumping heavily against his ribcage as wind whistled through her teeth.

Her delicate head buried into his scruff, her movements featherlight against the solidarity of his frame. At first he did not know the meaning of the sound she spoke, but even still a shiver climbed up his spine. He struggled in the weight of the moment, not sure what the next right move now was. Oh, the man’s adrenaline thrummed through his veins despite his unconscious state just moments prior; he wanted to yell out and celebrate even such a small achievement — but he would not. Coelacanth needed a gentler touch. 

“Woah, woah,” he chuckled as the meaning of her fricative terminology dawned upon him. He leaned away from her embrace in order to extricate her visage from the crook of his ear… though she did fit there quiet nicely. “Y’can’t just go ‘round callin’ people sleepyhead.” His baritone was kept low and easy [allowing her to follow the position of his mouth, if she wished] but his eyebrow remained raised and a crooked smile came to match it.

“Not polite, y'know?”