[Hurricane whines, long and wavering, as Rye holds his hip, forcing him to slow. He starts to squirm against the grip immediately, the pheromones making it an imperative instead of a want, demanding something he can't provide. He needs, and it's buried under his skin like an itch he can't scratch, though the hand on his cock is doing its best to grant relief, tugging more urgently as the waves of heat begin to rise]

Nnn - I can't - c-can't take care of it myself. I need you, I need - need you in me, need you f-filling me up, it feels - g-god, it feels so good.

[Then Rye is pressing himself all the way in, and for an instant, it brings a sort of primal satisfaction - right up until Hurricane realizes he's stopped moving]

[He whimpers, softly - struggles to roll his hips against the awful stillnesss, the maddening tease of being so full but it just not being enough. His hand is still trying, the motions almost desperate now, but somehow that's not enough, either, not when it could be Rye's hand instead]

O-oh, jesus, please - what're you - what're you waiting for - fuck me, god, t-touch me, rub me off, why ain't you moving - ? I need more, I need m-more, god, please -

[And then finally - finally - Rye begins to move]

[Hurricane shudders, hard, at the rougher pace; his hips work to meet the thrusts as they come, wordlessly begging for more. The sound of his hand on his own cock is wet and distinct; on the bed beneath them, the precome has begun to create a damp patch on the covers]

[It isn't long before he's drawn up tight and trembling again, thighs tense and toes curling]

O-oh my god, please - please - I'm so close -