[Hurricane groans, long and low, the sound pure frustration - tries to press up off the mattress, chasing after Rye's mouth, or trying to grind down against those fingers, to get them back where he needs them, or both]

J-jesus, dude. You can't - you can't just say stuff like that.

[He can't seem to decide what he wants more, though - ends up ineffectual at both, cock red and glistening, the hard length of it bobbing untouched against his stomach. As Rye watches, a drop of precome squeezes free, trickling down the length of him, and Hurricane groans again - squirms, panting open-mouthed]

Your mouth's so - good. G-god, the things you say. It makes it better - makes it worse - makes me want you so bad -

[He's reaching for himself before he can stop to think about it, one hand leaving his nipple to take his cock in hand, needing just another stroke or two to send him over the edge]