It's a mixture of things that lets calm back into his bones: Being let go a gentle reminder that the Dark Urge hadn't until just then, and only for his hands to go elsewhere. The gentle touch of his fingers on his hips, a familiar place even without the bruises there. A correct place. It sends warm waves of hopefulness through him, radiating from there alongside that dull, insistent ache of the marks themselves. Then the question.

It puts him on more even footing. It gives him a chance to assert more control on the situation. And it allows him to ignore any silly feelings of self-consciousness that had no place here. Not in his domain. Not between them.

"No." The answer is quiet, but firm. "It seemed better not to complicate matters at the time. You asked for pleasure without pain, it would have muddled things to talk of gray areas." With one hand he lets his fingers trace over the other man's. "I... enjoy how they feel in some places. Mementos. Reminders in the hours after."

But they heal. Sometimes faster if he applies a salve or takes a potion because work will not allow for time to wait.