[ Nagas... the most beautiful.......nagas.. She can't help it. She bites both of her lips back as far as her teeth will allow, a curled hand pressing hard against her mouth, trying to suppress a tremble for a laugh. Sure, Kishibe might have that art house inkblot vibe going for him, the naga she thinks of first is Yuya — with his bright, clashing stripes and the cute (whip) viper in his hair and his candy-crayon coloration and the size and spectacle of his rattle, the easy target in the shape of an inflated human hand, like a mascot costume glove tied to the end, locked in the wide-finger splay of a wave.
She loves him, but beautiful isn't the word.
With effort she forces laughter down, steadying her mood the longer he goes on — for each type of creature he names, she thinks of who she knows bearing that pelt, who bore that skin before. The ones who are still alive, and the ones— ]
Me? [ Oh, her opinions. ] Eh, just on looks alone, or anything?
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She loves him, but beautiful isn't the word.
With effort she forces laughter down, steadying her mood the longer he goes on — for each type of creature he names, she thinks of who she knows bearing that pelt, who bore that skin before. The ones who are still alive, and the ones— ]
Me? [ Oh, her opinions. ] Eh, just on looks alone, or anything?