Hysaeda, despite having been accustomed to a fair amount of abuse and harassment as a child, he wasn't quite prepared to have her bite him. The moment was almost to spontaneous to be anticipated and, quite honestly, he was too preoccupied to really anticipate it even if he could. The pain did startle him, and make him want to run away (as pain did with most living things). Unlike her, he did not associate pain as some attempt to create pleasure or excitement. To him, pain was the epitome of survival. It served as nothing more than a reminder that you were still alive (even if that was only for about five more seconds). The base fact was that he wasn't a glutton for pain. But as far as he knew, while he would avoid it when he could, he would take whatever sort of discomfort came his way if that was his fate.
Hysaeda was raised so that he could associate different feelings with different facts of life. Pleasure was usually identified with good things like the comfort of family and friends (not that he had many); Humor, with that which deserved the playful honor of laughter, and Pain, with consequence and suffering as a result of a dire miscalculation or fault. Never at once would he associate any version of the three melded together in any shape or form. That was, until now.
He hadn't expected the action and was thusly pulled back to reality by it. A small grin threatened to pull at the ends of his lips as he listened to her scrambled for an explanation. It was amusing in the least to listen her spit it out while attempting to avoid direct contact with his eyes. "An accident... I... Momentarily overwhelmed." But despite the grin, he didn't laugh, for he had an idea that such an action might be enough cause for embarrassment. He couldn't tell beyond the pigment of her flesh but could partially from the way she refused to meet his gaze.
As if to encourage her, Hysaeda removed one hand from around her, felt his away from her side, along the outskirts of her breast and up to her face. From there he cupped her cheek as if in comfort, and gently raised her eyes to his. He smiled faintly as he said, "If that's what you do when you're overwhelmed, I'd hate to see what you do when you're life is at stake. If you do anything at all." For a moment he recalled how she reacted when he shot at her with an arrow. He knew he'd missed on purpose, but he wondered faintly just what she would have done in the event that they had a confrontation. In a way, if he had kept his guard up, that would have been the ultimate result.
Like his hands had been doing as of late, they explored the other parts of her that he'd missed before. And one was her face. She had an unusual look about her, one that was obviously well put together and whatever arcane creator took time in making her, they very careful about making her exceptionally beautiful. And that was another question: Did he think her beautiful? Yes, he did. But it was in his nature to find all things beautiful, unless he saw reason to think otherwise. His hand was careful in scrutinizing the fine lines of her face, gently tracing her jaw line, brushing her cheekbones with the back of his fingertips and placing his hands so that he had the whole of the side of her skull in his palm. He was dedicated to every motion, like an artist at work or a warrior with the soul of a poet. Each fingertip worked through the softness of her hair, his blood continuously rushed at the feel of it. And albeit they were still close, his voice was barely above a ghost of a whisper, "You asked me if this is what I wanted and replied, 'Yes.' Now, I ask you, what do you want?"