Xichen shoots him a deeply skeptical look. He's tried this before on himself! (Then again, his fumbling attempts in his teenage years were probably not the best way of gauging A-Yao's pain levels.)

But he cannot resist that dark stare, drawn in by the depths of it, framed by long lashes that not moments ago had been tickling his cheeks and throat.

"If my husband is sure..." he hums, lips curling as he lets his fingers be guided. And then he slides them in, deep. The advantage of having the long slender fingers of of guqin master, it seems, is that he's not even buried in Jin Guangyao to the knuckle when he brushes against his prostate.