John hums, the tone distinctly smug. Surprising Martin to the point of a fond scolding has become a badge of honor, as far as John's concerned, and he logs the move away alongside some of his other more potent options: best used in moderation, but not to be forgotten.

He reconsiders moderation when Martin offers his neck again, the mark John left already stark against his pale skin. But there's nothing wrong with making him wait a bit, so when John leans back in, he contents himself with brushing a series of gentle kisses down Martin's throat. He gives particular attention to the few freckles scattered between Martin's neck and the collar of his shirt, then turns his head to survey the territory and consider his next move.

The mark he left has only grown more visible. Christ, it almost looks like a bruise. John lets his head rest against Martin's shoulder as he peers up at it, eyes narrowed, his wine-addled brain laboriously cross-referencing it against the other marks he's left on Martin before: paler, pinker things that would fade within the hour.

This one doesn't look like it's going anywhere. Not in that time frame, anyway.

"... Huh," he says at length, lifting his head, then lifting his hand to brush his finger over the spot. He isn't a child; he knows exactly what he's looking at. But he hadn't realized it would be that bloody easy to inflict. "I appear," he says slowly, with as much boozy dignity as he can muster, "to have given you... a hickey."