At the request, Vrenille reaches a hand forward to Mustang's hair, fisting into the strands at the base, pulling his head back to make his back arch, force his hips to naturally tilt forward and down and bring his tailbone up, altering his angle of entry just a touch. His forearm braces against the column of Mustang's spine, elbow between his shoulder blades. And if that forces him to lean forward, pinning his chest flush against the mirror, so be it.

"Guess the city got one right when they marked you then," he says, the words a low, throaty growl in the moment before he really lets loose.

If what Mustang wants is punishment, Vrenille is certainly willing and able to oblige him, his hips bucking into the man fast and hard, giving himself free rein for a breathless gallop, an all-out sprint. It's not a pace he'll be able to keep up indefinitely, but if Mustang wants him to feel him really exert himself, he certainly will.