“Damn it.” Mustang rarely curses, but sweat sheets his body between the stimulation and the PTSD his memories elicit, and he knows he can’t continue using Ishval to keep himself from ejaculating into the other man’s throat. He wants no part in a full-blown flashback and so falls back on breath control. He can think about fighting Lust should worse come to worst. When Vrenille pulls his cock in deeper and uses that expertise, he does, remembering her taunts, the way Havok screamed, the pain of being skewered by her fingernails, and huffs his breath in and out, focusing on that instead.

It’s when the prostate massager rocks back and forth, hitting that sweet spot inside him, echoed by a similar sensation at his perineum that makes his ass flex, that he drops his weight on both hands when they hit the wall above Vrenille.

If the man doesn’t want him to cum, then he shouldn’t be doing such a good job sucking him off and rocking that massager inside him so gleefully. A beat later, and a slow but virulent orgasm twists through his body, clenching Roy’s thighs, straightening his back, and his hips snap, pumping, and snap again. He can feel the contents of his balls surge through his cock, the orgasm wrapping around his spine, and he bites his tongue in lieu of crying out.

It lasts a long time. Roy’s entire body sags.

He breathes and growls good-naturedly, “Thanks, Vrenille. That was... nice.”