[Hurricane makes a soft, strangled sound around the tentacle in his throat; the muscles ripple as he swallows, and then swallows again, struggling to adjust to how deep it is. He makes another sound, choked and quiet, as he makes to move. It isn't clear whether he means to pull back or to take a more active role, but either way he can't manage, pinned too thoroughly to do more than squirm]
[He sucks a trembling breath in when Rye pulls out a little - shudders and shakes, the keening whine building to an outright wail when that tentacle curls along his navel, so close to his cock without touching. His erection is absolutely dripping by now, achingly hard and curved up toward his stomach. His cock twitches urgently against the open air; Hurricane bucks and twists, struggling with all his strength to press up into that tentacle, to get some kind of friction, some kind of anything. It's impossible not to imagine how those suckers would feel on his cock, after he's felt them on his nipples, and the wordless pleas start again, pathetic little whimpers caught at the back of his throat]
[Another hitched sob comes, as Rye starts pressing a tentacle into himself; Hurricane shakes his head, as best he can manage with such limited range of motion, squeezing his eyes shut against the agony of seeing but not feeling]
[His hands begin moving, finally, in response to that threat - stroking off the tentacles pressed to his palms. The motion is shaky and unsteady; it's awkward from the angle, the rhythm jerky due to the sheer desperation behind the strokes. It starts fast and immediately stutters faster, Hurricane's cock twitching in sympathetic want as another long strand of precome drips free]
no subject
[He sucks a trembling breath in when Rye pulls out a little - shudders and shakes, the keening whine building to an outright wail when that tentacle curls along his navel, so close to his cock without touching. His erection is absolutely dripping by now, achingly hard and curved up toward his stomach. His cock twitches urgently against the open air; Hurricane bucks and twists, struggling with all his strength to press up into that tentacle, to get some kind of friction, some kind of anything. It's impossible not to imagine how those suckers would feel on his cock, after he's felt them on his nipples, and the wordless pleas start again, pathetic little whimpers caught at the back of his throat]
[Another hitched sob comes, as Rye starts pressing a tentacle into himself; Hurricane shakes his head, as best he can manage with such limited range of motion, squeezing his eyes shut against the agony of seeing but not feeling]
[His hands begin moving, finally, in response to that threat - stroking off the tentacles pressed to his palms. The motion is shaky and unsteady; it's awkward from the angle, the rhythm jerky due to the sheer desperation behind the strokes. It starts fast and immediately stutters faster, Hurricane's cock twitching in sympathetic want as another long strand of precome drips free]