God, John's noises. Charlie wishes he didn't have to tell him to be careful with them. He wishes he could beg John to touch him and not remember things that ruin the idea. At Ninth Avenue and at the West Side, it was easier -- he always went there with intent, never found himself there, and only rarely was he approached by a face he recognised. Even then he did more watching and touching than he did being touched.

He's feeling good, though. Really good, actually. He's getting warm despite the chilly air outside the blankets, and his mouth and throat are stretched and tingling. He nearly takes another quick glance at the perimeter, but finds that he can't quite summon the concern. It's just so much more satisfying to stay where he is: bottoming out on John's cock with a groan, pulling off to lap at the parts that wouldn't fit, listening to all John's thoughts on the matter, and getting rock-breakingly hard about it.

...and from there it would just be unthinkable not to tilt his head a little and lap at the tips of some of the tentacles too, right?