[ It doesn't bother him. He's seen enough blood to last a lifetime. But edgeplay draws a line of transgression -- and for him, all transgressive lines are erotically tempting to cross. He's interested in exploring people, their limitations, their boundaries. But that interest stems from his ambivalence to enumerating and delineating limits in his own intimate relations with the world. Whereas fucking his girlfriend on her period ... just strikes him as messy. Nothing taboo or profane about it. Just a natural bodily function, like pissing or shitting -- but one he prefers to allot her privacy in. ]
[ Korra's remark makes him blink, just as something stretches and ripples in his mind, taking the shape of a dim epiphany. That where he'd withdrawn physical attention, every time she was on the rag, because the workings of those girly-parts didn't interest him any more than the needs of bowels and bladders -- it was possible she'd interpreted it as distaste. In some shelf of his mind he still thinks of her as a Good Girl -- the ones who don't let their boyfriends get a legover during that time of the month. So he hadn't pressed. (He could have. But the idea of pushing her into something against her will -- once a matter of natural course, a way to satisfy his own selfish entitlement -- had instead awakened an instinctive recoil. He should've realized, at that moment, how terminally lovestruck -- whipped -- he'd grown.) ]
[ When he touches her, it's gentle, a skim of fingertips along her calf. In a tone that's mild, but somehow questioning, ]
no subject
[ Korra's remark makes him blink, just as something stretches and ripples in his mind, taking the shape of a dim epiphany. That where he'd withdrawn physical attention, every time she was on the rag, because the workings of those girly-parts didn't interest him any more than the needs of bowels and bladders -- it was possible she'd interpreted it as distaste. In some shelf of his mind he still thinks of her as a Good Girl -- the ones who don't let their boyfriends get a legover during that time of the month. So he hadn't pressed. (He could have. But the idea of pushing her into something against her will -- once a matter of natural course, a way to satisfy his own selfish entitlement -- had instead awakened an instinctive recoil. He should've realized, at that moment, how terminally lovestruck -- whipped -- he'd grown.) ]
[ When he touches her, it's gentle, a skim of fingertips along her calf. In a tone that's mild, but somehow questioning, ]
Blood doesn't bother me. I just assumed --
[ That it bothered you. ]