"That you want to submit to me," Vrenille answers plainly, letting the words be low and private, not travelling beyond the little space between them. "That you're going to accept doing as I say, yield your will, and hand control to me. Not 'cause the city says you're meant to. 'Cause you're asking for it to happen."

The way that Mustang angles his head, drops his eyes, and then raises his gaze to him through the veil of his lashes, though, makes Vrenille suspect that he probably already knows that, at least on some level. It's the body language of one who's savvy to the little game he's playing, even if he might claim not to be.

Vrenille reaches out a hand to brush his companion's jaw, fingers tracing up along the column of his throat. The invitation is mutual. If Mustang wants to say no now that he's heard the offer, he still can. All he has to do is step back and shift his energy to withdraw. Or he can stay, encourage it, signal his willingness and his want to say yes.