If the mocking tone and words Vrenille directs at him, as the man continues his relentless reaming of Mustang’s ass, humiliates the alchemist, he doesn’t allow it to show. Not much in any case; if someone were to look closely, they might see the single leap of muscle in Roy’s jaw.

What he shows is the flushed, sweaty skin behind an escalating lust that has the potential to tip into frantic need. Roy closes his eyes to shut out everything outside of them. Only he and Vrenille inhabit this place of sex and sin, of searing pleasure and the beginnings of pain, unintentional but erotic. The sound of skin smacking, lewd and delicious, and Roy hardens at the nascent promise of Vrenille’s bruising hips. Opening his eyes, Mustang peers through the soot of his lashes, watching the other man intently through the mirror.

So he’s startled by the sudden clutching of his arms being twisted behind him. He’s crushed against the mirror again, and while Roy loves being manhandled, he’s confused.

Until Vrenille’s filthy, gorgeous mouth opens and explains, suggesting they engage, in vulgar, arousing words, the kind of sex about which Roy’s always dreamt and never experienced.

He hadn’t realized he’d stepped outside the boundaries of a Submissive, thinking Vrenille referred only to his own hands, not Mustang’s. And there’s no way he’ll correct him now, too eager to see and feel everything the other man dreams up.

And to seal the deal, Roy grins against the mirror. “Yes. Sir.”