[He makes a choked sort of sound, when Rye comes - at the sound of Rye's voice, and the sudden surge of heat, and the change in the rhythm. It sounds suspiciously like a sob, caught there at the back of Hurricane's throat]

[He wants, with an intensity that steals his breath; he needs, the pheromones amping the heat up until he's begging with every inch of his body, hips working in unsteady circles]

[He hasn't stopped trying to rub himself off - can't seem to bring himself to, not when every nerve in his body is screaming for more. Every muscle is tense and trembling, convinced he's on the precipice, about to tip over]

[Hurricane moans, low and wavering - sobs again, face buried in the comforter - strokes his own cock with blatant need, fucking into his fist like his life depends on it]

[He teeters on the precipice for endless seconds, clenching hard around Rye's cock. He keens and whines and keeps trying - rocks his hips in needy, urgent little motions, working desperately to push himself over the edge]

[And still he doesn't come]