"Tang da-ge," she presses, trying to reel him back for a final snatch of constructive conversation before he sets off into the wilderness of his own head again, "who was that handsome gentleman?"
"So familiar." Tang Fan's preening at her address persists as far as them both toeing over the threshold before the smug smile falls flat from his face. Then, "Wait," he starts, craning so far to toss a look over his shoulder that he ends up twisting himself around in a circle. "What— what handsome gentleman?"
“Why do you wear your face like that?”
Nie Huaisang's hand comes up partway to Meng Yao's face before his fingers curl inwards. Meng Yao's eyes go wide and tremulous before the corners of his mouth curl into a small smile, like one of the soundless laughs shared between them in the midst of a banquet speech.
They do a lot of talking in the sweet air of the control room, about everything and nothing.
Talking at someone is only fun for so long. That's all being a sect leader is: talking and talking to people bound by courtesy to listen to you. It's so fucking dull. A relief, then, to face one’s equal, and no less an old friend who is inclined to interrupt you whenever you ramble. He likes it. It’s one of Jiang Cheng’s best qualities.
In the years after Guanyin Temple, Nie Huaisang attends to unfinished business.
Eddie has a horny alien living in his head and a functional dick, and the combination almost immediately becomes a problem.
Poor Peter, you see, had just realized that he was going to be King of Narnia, and I hope you do not think less of him when I tell you that he lost his breakfast in the heather.
Lil Murda considers Teak's question; who is Clifford to him?
Letter of Fr. Francisco Nadal to Fr. Bartolomeo Strozzi, 1588.