One's own hands can't compare to those of a lover.
At times, Flynn and Yuri have to be separated for long periods of time. Flynn is a knight; he's constantly being shipped off to various locations around the world, and Yuri is… well, Yuri. He's not one to pay unnecessary visits.
And Flynn gets lonely.
He groans into his pillow, his hands stroking along his cock. Up, down, play over the tip… His usual technique isn't working for him, and the blankets are tangled up in his legs, fabric scratchy and itchy on his bare flesh. He grits his teeth with a hiss. Frustration fuels the movement of his fingers, and he presses his forehead against the pillow, but picking up the pace does nothing for him. Yuri left a shirt over the last time he was in this room, and Flynn holds it in his grasp, the scent of the other man filling his nose.
It's not enough.
Lifting himself up, he stretches across the bed and takes the oils from his nightstand, soaking his fingers with the warm solution before spreading his legs. Bracing himself on one forearm, he presses his fingers against the cleft of his ass and spread his thighs. One finger isn't enough; two doesn't feel like Yuri either.
Yuri.
Flynn feels a pang of guilt quickly followed by a familiar feeling pooling in his stomach. Is it his fault Yuri has been too busy lately? No. He shouldn't feel guilty about doing something like this. As for the rest… the fact that even Yuri's name is enough in a situation like this to turn him on his something he could never admit to the other man.
"Y…uri…" Flynn moans his name, dreaming that it's his fingers wrapped around his cock. He can almost sense Yuri's breath on his neck. He can feel the other man's calloused palms running along his back. Over his shoulder, he can hear the other man close to his ear, I've barely touched you and you're already this hard? You want it so much? Such a lewd body… His fingers may be unable to match the feeling of Yuri's cock but his imagination is enough to fill in the gaps, and a few strokes later he comes with a shudder.
Yuri's shirt lies on the bed by him, wrinkled from Flynn's tight grip. The blonde flips onto his back and cradles the shirt, eyes closed. He holds it up to his nose and inhales deeply, unable to shake the uneasy feeling that such a thing makes him a pervert. How he craves to have Yuri back in his bed again.
One's own hands can't compare, but they're better than nothing.