Charlie is not so far gone that he can't be funny. "S'pose that's allowed," he says, with a dreamy voice that's somewhere on the journey to wrecked, and a crooked, stupid smile, and an expression that's blissed as all hell.

He's delighted to make the acquaintance of John's -- tongue?? -- and gets straightaway to the very important business of fellating the hell out of it. He's not as mindful of his breathing as he was before, and has to breathe in through his nose with a sudden snort when he's reminded that tentacles aren't oxygen.

Half of him wants his clothes torn off, but he's feeling agreeable and so he moves languidly here and there to make their removal easier. Just being handled like that feels great, actually. Anywhere John's tentacles wiggle against his flushed and sweaty skin, he leans towards them, which -- well honestly John could probably kite him around quite effectively like this. Despite his relaxation, no part of him is exactly calm, and his muscles flex and twitch in reaction to the touches and to his own bubbling arousal.

He's already not being quiet, but he whimpers more distinctly when his pyjama pants are lifted away from his red and twitching cock. They stay connected, for several moments, by the long string of precum that's already made the front of them messy.

It's hard to speak intelligibly around the tentacle, but there's a distinct short 'o' sound coming up a lot in Charlie's moaning.