"Demon's not a type," says Shen Qingqiu, because that's important to establish. The words Lan Wangji and entirely dominant personality are really bouncing around in his head, conjuring somehow as if in answer the louche and loose-mouthed way Wei Wuxian drinks wine, and he would suddenly kind of like Claudius to go away so he can give them his full attention. But they're in it, now, so he stores it away for later. "Crowley's grass. And dark."