"Mmm," Vrenille purrs against the man's ear, his lips the only part that's actually moving closer at all, "no, not yet. I will when I'm ready." In his own time, in other words, and not in Mustang's.

For now the man is going to have to endure this--the way he's exposed, the vulnerability of standing like this without the security of Vrenille's body to warm or shield him. If anything, the way Vrenille's gaze travels across his skin might be a formula to make him feel even more bare. He makes a little mental map: scars, birthmarks, brands--nothing else that looks like the symbol on the back of his hand, but there is the sign of a substantial old wound on one flank. He doesn't remark on it, doesn't ask; he does notice though.

Now's not the time for talking about war wounds though, not when his hand is dipping between the man's thighs, fingers edging forward to his taint, and then to cup his balls through the fabric of the jockstrap.

"You're gonna have to be patient," he goes on talking, letting his breath stir Mustang's hair as his thumb stretches back again, moving in the direction of the man's hole, just reaching it with the pad of his thumb and lightly resting on the surface. "This is such a nice view, I reckon I'm gonna wanna take my time."