His touch is soft, gentle and careful, but those hands are strong, still calloused from all those years of sword-fighting and guqin playing, no matter how often he moisturizes. Sizhui uses the roughness to his advantage, keeping his left hand steadily holding Itto's horn while the opposite one drifts to his hair, fingertips dragging through the bi-colored strands. He tightens his grip as well when Itto's claws catch his waist, inhales sharply then breathes out a quiet, stuttering exhale. Are his robes torn? Most likely. Does he care? Nope, not in the slightest.

Albeit with blatant reluctance, he forces his eyes fully open, bites his lower lip in an attempt to stop his teeth from chattering, although to no avail. Regardless, Sizhui moves the hand from Itto's hair to his face, gingerly wiping away the tears rolling down his cheeks and he manages, “Unless you—ah—want me to come in your mouth...” They should probably stop? Even if it's the last thing he wants to do.