The new angle of Wei Ying's neck is distraction enough as Wangji's hand moves, though he bears in mind the instructions. He goes slow still, a few strokes, before he picks up the pace. It's different, in the water.

He wonders how if feels, if it's enough friction or feels rough. "Good?" he accents the question with a bite, then sucks on the tender flesh and soothes it with a swipe of his tongue.