[With a deep, shuddering breath through his nose seems that Graham is finally ready to let his tongue have a break from being a conquistador. But this is Graham, so of course it's not going to stay put for long.
So, naturally, time for talking. He props his chin on Amelia's shoulder, lips near her ear, and goes to town.]
Amelia, I am a champion of the spoken word, and it is with only the humblest of factual intentions that I claim to be far and away its loyalest and purest adherent in the school, if not the country itself. I love talking and it, oh, it loves me too. Loves me more than the sea loves the shore, than the moon loves the earth, than the stars love the inky blackness that defines them by its void!
And so of course I know every little detail about something with so much love attached to it. Talk really, really gets around, especially in places like this, with so many eyes and so many lips and so many brains drowning in the hormonal sea of adolescence!
And talk breaks things, and loves to do it, ahh, one more reason why we are perfect together. Its favorite thing to break, to pummel, to ground into dust so, so, very, very fine you need a microscope to even see it - is a reputation.
But.
[His anger's flying to the foreground again. What to do? The juncture of flesh that joins Amelia's neck to her jawbone draws his attention, so he nips it with his incisors while giving a particularly firm squeeze to her legs. It takes some of the edge off his voice when he continues to speak, but he's still quite obviously in ~a mood~.]
I hate it when others besides me break my things. That's my job, my duty!! Now, what oh what kind of options do we face with the shadows of talk looming around us at all angles, hm?
[This... is probably Graham-ese for either "Are you sure about this?" or "Wanna get out of here?" or possibly a combination of the two. Maybe it's even just a comment about the weather. It's really hard to tell. The language is basically impossible to learn and only one person speaks it.]
no subject
So, naturally, time for talking. He props his chin on Amelia's shoulder, lips near her ear, and goes to town.]
Amelia, I am a champion of the spoken word, and it is with only the humblest of factual intentions that I claim to be far and away its loyalest and purest adherent in the school, if not the country itself. I love talking and it, oh, it loves me too. Loves me more than the sea loves the shore, than the moon loves the earth, than the stars love the inky blackness that defines them by its void!
And so of course I know every little detail about something with so much love attached to it. Talk really, really gets around, especially in places like this, with so many eyes and so many lips and so many brains drowning in the hormonal sea of adolescence!
And talk breaks things, and loves to do it, ahh, one more reason why we are perfect together. Its favorite thing to break, to pummel, to ground into dust so, so, very, very fine you need a microscope to even see it - is a reputation.
But.
[His anger's flying to the foreground again. What to do? The juncture of flesh that joins Amelia's neck to her jawbone draws his attention, so he nips it with his incisors while giving a particularly firm squeeze to her legs. It takes some of the edge off his voice when he continues to speak, but he's still quite obviously in ~a mood~.]
I hate it when others besides me break my things. That's my job, my duty!! Now, what oh what kind of options do we face with the shadows of talk looming around us at all angles, hm?
[This... is probably Graham-ese for either "Are you sure about this?" or "Wanna get out of here?" or possibly a combination of the two. Maybe it's even just a comment about the weather. It's really hard to tell. The language is basically impossible to learn and only one person speaks it.]