Most people aren't like he is.
It's a reminder that rings heavily in Masrur's mind, no matter how solid and strong Sharrkan is against him. It's still not the same—not the concentrated,abnormal strength of a Finalis, and he has to remind himself to be careful, no matter how Sharrkan is as unbreakable as he is, in many ways.
Just not like this.
He's a swordsman, not a gladiator. He's lithe and squirming against Masrur, the flush of having had just a bit too much alcohol barely visible on his dark skin, and it's with a grunt that Masrur pulls him closer, deeper into his lap, his mouth on the side of Sharrkan's neck and Sharrkan's hands in his hair, pulling, scratching.
"Hey," is the grumble that follows, and Masrur feels another yank on his scalp. "Don't bite too hard, I don't want bruises."
"… How would you even see them?" is the honest question to follow, and Sharrkan snorts, his head dipping down to make it easier to kiss. Rather than something normal, though, his mouth brushes just over Masrur's lower lip, tongue flicking out over his piercing, and it's strange, how that alone makes him shiver—just like that lewd grin that follows, or the way Sharrkan shifts like someone eager and wanting.
"I bruise easily."
It's probably a shame Sharrkan told him that, because now Masrur wants to mark him up, just so there are questions asked the next day that only Sharrkan has to answer (probably awkwardly).