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“Aren’t you a little too old to be this reckless?”
Ororon yelps, one hand still shoved into his pants. He scrambles to take it out, act casual, as if he wasn’t trying to jerk off in a Fatui tent in the middle of the night, and Capitano just fixes him in place with a silent stare.
He can’t possibly tell what he is looking at for sure, but hoping for a best-case scenario feels more foolish than usual.
“I—” He blinks up at him, body still slack across the sleeping bag. Even without the mask, it would’ve been incredibly difficult to make out the expression on his face. His tall, hulking body is enough to cover any aiding light the moon was attempting to offer him. What little of it does filter past his shoulders is barely enough to let him confirm that it is indeed The Captain staring down at him from the outside, a clawed glove pushing the tent aside for an opening. Not that the voice hadn’t been enough of a giveaway. “Sorry.”
Capitano doesn’t answer—not immediately, at least.
Ororon waits it out, his erection painfully unattended to. Unsure of what else he could add that would satisfy the Harbinger.
Sorry I was touching my dick right in the middle of one of your encampments? Gods forbid, sorry I’ve been so pent up after all this time in your—
He fights the urge to shake his head to himself.
“At ease,” Capitano says, eventually, as if he’s speaking to one of his soldiers. Ororon doesn’t bother pointing it out. “Are you not going to ask why I barged into your tent at this hour?”
Ororon finds himself blinking in confusion again.
“Should I be asking that?” he asks, then.
Under the moonlight’s shadow, Capitano’s fingers close up into a fist and then unfurl themselves again.
“Too old to be this reckless,” he says, “yet too young and sheltered to develop a proper sense of self-preservation.”
When Capitano leans down, drops to one knee, and slots himself into the tent (that most certainly wasn’t made to accommodate two people, let alone someone of his height), Ororon startles.
“Um,” is all he finds himself able to utter.
“Let me take care of that,” he grunts, hands clawing at Ororon’s hips and shoving his pants down before the younger has a chance to react. “I cannot bring you with me in this state.”
Heart caught in his throat and shameful embarrassment washing over him in waves, Ororon’s eyes widen.
“I don’t think that’s necessary,” is all he’s able to say before Capitano’s gloved hand draws a choked whimper out of his throat.
“I will be the judge of what is necessary or not,” Capitano murmurs, thumb ghosting across the side of his cock.
Ororon hadn’t gotten that far yet before Capitano arrived—he’s half-hard, yet remarkably dry, and the lack of proper friction is the first thing that gets an annoyed huff out of The Captain. For a brief, slightly delusional moment, Ororon is almost expecting him to make him spit in his hand, but that thought gets quickly discarded when small particles of darkened Cryo hurry to coalesce around his fingertips on command.
“Shit,” Ororon blurts out under his breath, one hand closing in around the cloth of his sleeping bag.
The cold is as overwhelming as it is short-lived—it quickly melts into thick, viscous water under the heat of his hardening cock, and somehow gives Capitano the friction he’d been looking for.
“We cannot afford to drag this out,” he drawls, his voice rough around the edges as it reaches Ororon’s ears through a fog of arousal. His brain zeroes in on we, how Capitano’s voice so easily shapes around it, and his cock throbs in the warrior’s hand. “I can feel how eager you are, Ororon. Lean into it.”
“I don’t—” A moan spills from his lips, then another, as if synchronized with the push and pull of Capitano’s strokes. Capitano exhales a sharper breath, the sound mixing with Ororon’s hushed, muffled whines. “I… oh—”
“Ororon,” he whispers, and it almost sounds kind, a gentle softness to his voice he hasn’t and didn’t think he’d ever hear leaving his mouth. “Focus.”
Capitano reaches out with his free hand, to rest his palm on Ororon’s lips, likely to stifle whatever sounds the younger doesn’t manage to keep to himself. Somehow, that in itself is enough for a louder moan to rip through him. Wholly undeterred, Capitano keeps his hand still, thumbing at the head of his cock with the other. Smaller, intermittent bursts of Cryo energy alternate in between one stroke and the next, and all Ororon can focus on is that he is so close it hurts.
“Be good, Ororon,” Capitano breathes out, his name so mind-blowing on his tongue. It’s a fleeting thought, yet Ororon finds himself wondering whether he’d take off that mask and take him into his mouth if he just managed to drag it out a little longer. “Come for me.”
He doesn’t know what’s under the mask, has absolutely no idea where to even begin with his imagination—yet it’s his own, short-lived fantasy that ends up betraying a mission he didn’t even realize he wanted to fulfil.
When he reaches his climax, finally pushed to the edge by one last touch of Cryo, it’s with the deeply embarrassing realization that he hasn’t made himself come this fast since he was a teenager.
He hasn’t even finished processing that thought when Capitano pulls him out of it.
“Took your sweet time,” he murmurs, somehow, Cryo wiping his hand clean.
Ororon blinks at him as he catches his breath, utterly confused.
“I—” he tries, until he realizes he doesn’t know what to say.
“Think nothing of it,” Capitano says in a quick dismissal, as if he’d rather not dwell on it a second longer. He dusts off his knees, then, retreating out of the tent with a grunt. “Get up and come with me, now. There’s something I need your help with.”
Ororon wordlessly obliges, heart thumping in his chest, and Capitano doesn’t mention it again.