John has the time to nod and really just that before Charlie is getting his mouth around him and he's rumbling, low and heated, almost immediately afterward. His hand, delicately claw tipped, will slip over and into Charlie's hair, careful but overwhelmed, hips as still as he can make them.

"Fuck," he adds intelligently, and Charlie will get a pulse of that shimmering liquid straight to the back of the throat.

"Oh, Charlie," he adds, like he's seeing something wondrous. "Fuck, your mouth." Descriptive words fail him for the moment, but his eyes slip closed again to focus on the sensation, the vision of it burned into his memory.