The amount of times he wanted to kiss Jin Guangyao softly in a corner of a hallway, to wrap around him from behind and surprise him with sweet kisses on a neck ... they all pale before Xichen's simmering anger because that innocent, misunderstood man never existed. So he kisses him hard, yanks at a sash to loosen it, and gets his mouth on as much of him as possible once robes are peeled apart, licking a hot line down a throat to fasten a love-bite on a pale shoulder.

If he could force his sweet a-Yao back into reality, he isn't even sure he would. This is as close as he can get to that delusional, pure happiness he used to feel, and he will take it.

The finery of his sect leader robes part easily under insistent hands and he pays his own dishevelment no mind, too engrossed in tossing that sash aside and running his hands under the layers of Jin Guangyao's to map out his thighs, hips, and waist, kneading there to keep him planted firmly on his lap where his arousal is hardening under a sea of blue silks. He doesn't want to think of anyone else touching his a-Yao (whether his wife-sister was an innocent or not) because if he does he will be too disgusted to continue, so he focuses entirely on the present and the way his once-zhiji whimpers so prettily, pawing at him through a single remaining layer of cotton that hides little.