[No sooner than Hurricane is pulled up to his hands and knees - no sooner than he can't reach the covers to bite down on - the words start spilling from his lips again, like he can't keep them from tumbling out]

O-oh, jesus. Oh, please. I'm still so close. I can - I can almost -

[The motion of Hurricane's hand is even more urgent now, somehow. Every upstroke catches at the head, thumb tracing over that spot underneath that drives him wild. Probably he doesn't even need the pheromone boost - but when it comes, he goes very still for a moment, eyes going wide, lips parted in a soundless gasp]

[His hand redoubles its effort, then, frantic; his hips begin to move, trying to get more. He needs, like he needs to breathe, and hearing Rye talk about the release of all that pressure that hasn't abated at all for him feels a little like torture. It's a different kind of hell, too, to have Rye still seated inside him but only half hard, no longer moving: it's not deep enough, not thick enough, not doing enough to scratch that maddening itch]

Please - please, I - f-fuck me again. I need you to - to fill me up, it ain't - it ain't enough. You gotta - you gotta move, I need more. I need - oh my god, please let me come -