[Understandable reaction, of course. Maybe not this Gregor's wheelhouse entirely (see: sous-chef Gregor), but still enough to make him chuckle as he sits back a little and starts patting himself down without jostling the hook too much.

Because it's staying right there, for sure. Gently scratching back and forth, a little red mark on pristine merchandise.]

Strike one. You wound me, honoured guest~ I'm offerin' to let you get a hit, and you go questioning my motives...Cheeky, that.

[Then there's the click of the lighter, before the hook's point drops away from Akira's throat, replaced by Gregor's warm, gloved hand. His grip's pointed, index finger and thumb between mandible and skull to hold Akira's maw open as he exhales directly into it all fragrant smoke and warm rum breath.]

...That there's your punishment.