...pleasure house. Of course. This would be his luck, his ruin. Wet-eyed and the long sleep of thoughtless lethargy is slipping from him, leaves him restless and awake like a stalk of green, eager to shoot up between sprinkled spring's grass at the first lazy lick of sun's greeting. He lives in a home of sins, wood sinewy, trade old, every footstep that haunts his sleep less a scavenger's retreat but the dance of lovers, meeting.

Were he a disciple still, there might be a flush stuck to him, like sickness. Now, his ears threaten to colour, but he only breathes, reaches out and, cat-like, swipes at Wei Ying's sleeve — hooks and tugs to pull him down.

"Stay." He wonders, just once, if he may have this: a toy that sits where Wangji's mind eye pleases, a creature decisively not a pet that respects, nevertheless, those same inclinations. "The road gave you back with bruising."

Lan Wangji, self-satisfied, hopefully added at least two more. Earlier, a heartfelt thud. Promising. Wei Ying's earned the inks of a few hurts, for that cheek.