John's body relaxes then, his back touching down again on the mattress, hips shifting and cock laying soft against his belly in the languid aftermath of his pleasure. The glowing eyes don't even flutter, but the 'mask' of his face tilts up a little more, the shadows hiding what is underneath as a long, tentacle-like tongue begins to lick up the mess on his jaw and along his throat. A tongue is not a perfect tool for such a thing, however, so all it does is spread a thinner coat there, the curve of his jaw and clavicle now catching the light just so before the tongue slips back under and the 'mask' lowers again. The muscles of his abdomen flex and relax in turn and the tentacles unravel, coiling slowly in the sheets like a set of sated kittens.

It looks like he's going to nod back off before-

"...Charlie?"

Questioning, hazy, between waking and sleep, the sound of a tongue against something (if not lips) tasting the air, catching a scent.

Then-

"...it was real?"

Because the slivers of gold are open and looking right at Charlie, who's here. In bed with him.