Part of him is glad for the slice of feeling, or thought, the rest of him, arching into that sensation, eyes registering pink in a way where he never even really sees, could almost care less.

Or cares too much. So much it's beyond blinding. Obliterating so.




At least enough that for the better or worse of all those things he doesn't stop himself -- doesn't stop his back from arching upward, doesn't stop his hands from fisting into Carlisle's hair directively, doesn't stop himself from trusting upward into Carlisle at a pace determined by the sensation his body and that mouth alone.

Doesn't stop himself. Doesn't try. Doesn't want to now.