Title: In the Spaces between the Stars
Pairing: Yuri/Flynn.
Rating: M
Wordcount: ~7000
Disclaimer: Tales of Vesperia isn't mine.
AN: I don't actually know where this came from but Happy Halloween everyone. Have 5000 words of nonsense and some blasphemous kind of porn. I hope this makes sense because I haven't edited it and I haven't actually been to sleep yet and a part of me doesn't actually care, I just wanted to write something. I'll edit it later if there are massive gaping plot holes.
-o-
"You're sexy when you're forceful. Why don't you join me out here? C'mon, it'll be fun."
"Be gone!"
-o-
Flynn scowls, heart pounding, abruptly nauseous; a cold sweat breaking out across the back of his neck, and he drags his hood up so it can't look fully him fully in the face. It gets him a frown in response, and feels something manic and giddy shatter through him. He turns back and resumes his prostration. "Leave," he says, commands like his voice isn't a shaky, weak mess, like he actually has some control of this situation and he isn't just the mouse the cat bats around before it eats.
There's a long moment of silence, punctuated only by his clipped breaths and thundering heartbeat. Flynn is hyperaware of the being on the other side of the Scripture, feels its eyes strolling over the curve of his back, the pressure of its essence rich and rolling across his skin now that it's so close, sending up gooseflesh and making the hair on his arms stand on end like a lightning formula. He grits his teeth and closes his eyes against the sensation of fingers trailing along in the spaces of his spine, across the tops of his thighs, in the crease of his hip and the hollows of his elbows; feather light in a way that sends illicit little thrills down the ladder of his ribs; shame and impotent rage in equal measures.
His hands are shaking. He curls them close to his head and recites prayers under his breath even though the words are thick enough in his throat that he feels like he's going to choke on them. He waits for the devil's grasping hands on his flesh, and flinches at its chuckle, nearly sobs aloud when it sighs and says: "Fine, Flynn, be that way," and disappears with a crack like a whip flaying him alive.
He goes limp, relief stealing all the strength in his limbs, taking great gasping breaths and feeling like he's going to shake apart.
Lady, he can't do this anymore.
-o-
The Temple is the largest cathedral in the Empire; a completely circular building, cocooning the Lady's flying statue and the wide white dais, the Lady's Throne, beneath. Thousands of people protected by high stone walls, light cracked into rainbows by stained glass; rich with history and ageless in a way that the rest of the Empire is not. Magic seeped into the stones, singing and vibrant in the marrow of Flynn's bones, and more a home to him than anything.
The Rings of the Lady's Throne are the eight circles of the Holy Scripture, the most powerful magic in the Empire. He knows each and every symbol by heart. Traced his fingers over each of them until his skin cracked and bled, each character burned into the back of his mind, bright and visible when he closes his eyes. Chrocs, Rockra, Strihm, Fleck, Laitos, Sandor, Ailus, Kaon; Shield, Earth, Wind, Fire, Water, Shadow, Light, Sword; all the elements coiled together in harmony, protected by the first, protecting the last. Compounding and compounded around the Throne.
The final vows to becoming a High Priest (the youngest in history) take one hundred days in total, one hundred days of solitude, one hundred nights of prayer prostrate beneath the floating statue of the Lady. There is no one, exempting the Prime, allowed in the church for those one hundred nights, and Flynn is alone with whatever trials the Lady gives him.
Flynn wants so badly to be able to stand on the Throne under the Lady's Watch, help people find Her beauty; Her love and kindness and endless patience.
He was so close.
-o-
The first time it appeared in the pews, dark hair and horns and dressed like it was off for destruction, he was full of righteous fury, that a devil would dare bring its taint into the Temple, the holiest place in the Empire. And he shouted and tried to exorcise it with prayer and formula both, and even when that didn't work he was confident in the power of the Rings, confident in his Lady's ability to keep him safe. The fear was distant, human and frail and expected in the face of evil; overcome.
And for the first month that's how it goes: his indignation, the devil's sly amusement as it toes the edge of the Scripture, sliding its boot forward then back, close, close, so close and whatcha think'll happen if I touch this and you look like you need a hug Flynn and you know, She isn't really Watching, hasn't been for a long time; why do you think I can stand here? Speaking endlessly about everything, words rolling from meandering comments on the weather to jokes that might be playful in any other situation to filthy little insinuations that burns across Flynn's cheeks and settle like coals in his gut; cutting remarks about the Lady that Flynn doesn't let himself listen to and speaks over with loud words of prayer until he realizes that he's listening anyway and half considering what he's hearing which is more horrifying than he knows what to do with.
It feels like defeat and surrender and sticky sweet betrayal all at once and the victory on the devil's face makes him want to vomit.
And then it steps over The Shield like it's the simplest thing in the world, like the Scripture is only a child's finger painting, like it's proving a point.
It laughs at the look on his face. Bright and amused and gleeful, and then it disappears and leaves Flynn scrambling with the echoing stamps of its boots and the cracking edges of his faith.
-o-
It wears the guise of a human man; long dark hair, cutting grey eyes like light on manacles, a handsome face too impossibly attractive to be anything other than supernatural even if the twisting horns spearing from its temples didn't already mark it as such.
Sometimes it's a great hulking hellhound; pitch black fur with a dark mist leaping up from under its claws, filling up the church until Flynn can only see its piercing eyes watching him from the shadows, its velvet voice pushing in from all corners.
Sometimes it's a woman, a terrible beauty; sensual and powerful with luscious rolling hips and a fragile waist, long trim legs barely contained beneath the thin silk of its achingly red dress, a coy smirk on a face that would make the Prime weep with want.
She's the easiest to deal with; sin clothing her more completely than her skin, dangerous, yes, but an obvious temptation, simplicity itself to ignore and fake in a way that's unsettling; like a puppet on strings. The hound is terrifying, pure destruction and consuming rage; nightmares in the curve of its claws. The man is different; infinitely more treacherous. Still charm and greedy eyes and undeniable masculinity, but the temptation lies in his thoughts, his words, the confidence and charisma that drip from him like honey and Flynn finds he can't remove his attention from.
Terror and lust are physical; an idea is inescapable.
It doesn't stop him from trying.
"Still praying? Man, you're such a bore. It's a good thing you're cute."
Flynn can't help tensing, still surprised at the voice even though he's been listening for it for hours, like his body still can't accept that it's not a hallucination brought on by too little sleep and too much time drowning in darkness. Curling his hands into fists, cold quiet despair clenching in his stomach, he presses his forehead more firmly into the sprawling stone before the Throne, like maybe he can sink into the ground if he pushes hard enough.
"Be gone, devil. You're not welcome here," he says. It snorts and Flynn hears a heavy thud and knows without having to look that it has dropped down onto the front pew, legs sprawled and comfortable as it shouldn't be on holy ground, long dark lines trailing up to the obscene cup of its hips.
"Are you going to say that every time?" It says in an annoyed huff, like an offended sibling being reminded of an embarrassing story, like it isn't the most dangerous being Flynn has ever had the misfortune of meeting. "Really, it's been like what, two months? If your Lady didn't want me here, don't you think She would have done something by now? Are you sure She's even Watching?"
No.
"You can't pass The Sword," he says; you can't you can't you can't; desperation and denial where it should be a confident pronouncement of the power of his Lady. The longer this goes on, the less sure he is about anything.
"You sure about that?"
Flynn clenches his jaw, twists his hands into the thick fabric of his vestments and tries to suppress the moment of panic the words cause.
"Yes," he lies, lies, lies. "I am. You would have killed me already if you could." The fact that it's already been able to walk over the first two Rings hangs in the air, noose-like and hungry for that last abrupt stumble. He wonders if he's going to be able to get through his vows before it gets through the last, and then chides himself because it's blasphemous to think of any devil breaching The Sword. He suppresses a burble of laughter because he knows it would sound hysterical and that would just egg it on.
"Aw, Flynn. You think I want to kill you?" Its tone is teasing and amused; affection curling dark and liquid over the words. It's immediately infuriating. He can't stand the fact that it knows his name.
"Why else would you be here?" he grits out and he knows he should just ignore it, keep his back turned and silent, and he can't help feeling like it's a failure that he can't. Just can't.
It chuckles; a rich, velvet sound dragged up from somewhere deep down, promising all kinds of perverse things. Its black soul, he thinks vehemently.
The next words sound like they're spoken right into his ear: "Even after all this time, you still have no imagination," and he startles upright and away instinctively, panic metal sharp on his tongue, racing down to his extremities like ice water as he tries to convince himself it's just his imagination curling hot breath against his neck, brushing petal soft lips against his ear.
It's standing at the edge of the curling lines of The Sword, barely ten feet away, thick boots almost touching the engraved characters; a self-satisfied smirk on its face as it grinds its heels in defiance to the seven other Holy Rings surrounding the Lady's Throne.
Two Rings in two months and now five in a day.
How long has it been able to do that?
There's a long moment where it stares at him and just grins, laughter in its mouth and promise in the loose curl of its hands. It looks almost fond and Flynn takes a moment to just hate it, quivering as its presence simultaneously relaxes and tightens something deep inside him. It horrifies him afterwards, but he snarls at the devil like a caged beast, fear and rage clawing at his throat.
All it does is quirk an eyebrow, disappearing and leaving Flynn feeling like his body isn't his own anymore, untethered and different.
-o-
The Prime is all irritation and offence when Flynn tries to bring up the possibilities of the Rings being breached, has there ever been anything like it? What would they do if that happened? And the Prime is quick to remind him that Flynn is in the middle of his vows, that he's not to be speaking to anyone, that it's absurd to think such a thing and of course the Rings are secure and why are you questioning this; suspicious in such a way that it has him immediately excusing himself back to his rooms before the Prime can find some reason to cut his vows short, keep him the young initiate even though he has evidence to the contrary and that's not something Flynn can allow to happen. He's worked too hard, wants this too much.
Wood scrapes against the pads of his fingers as he slides to the floor, back to the door, cocooned in the familiar muggy warmth of his bedroom; sunlight peeking between the folds of the curtains, one insignificant luminous band against the darkness crowding in like grasping hands and devouring mouths.
He falls asleep curled against the door and his dreams are full of grey eyes and hot hands on his skin and blasphemy curling dark delight in his ear.
-o-
And then suddenly the devil isn't the only one who visits him on his nightly vigil.
Soon it's the Lady's Guard. Earnest Helwyr and Fervent Ctyri, the Lady's Hammer and Fire. He's become so conditioned to the appearance of the devil that he knows immediately when they arrive, smelling like rich earth and burning coals, the crinkle of fall leaves and the snap of embers in the flap of their wings. He sits up from where he's kneeling before he can help himself, looking for danger and finding the winged emissaries of the Guard instead, resplendent in the adornments of their elements, standing barefooted on the crisp white marble of the Throne.
Helwyr is a young boy, bright eyed and smiling, wings small and fluttering like the leaves they're made of, a massive hammer sitting innocuously on the floor beside him. Ctyri is an older girl, scowling; wings black and still and jagged like coals. As he stares at them in shock, silence stretching and awkward, Ctyri's wings burst into flames and she throws her hands into the air and says: "Does that idiot really think this is the guy? Because I'm pretty sure he has no idea what he's talking about."
"He's had company," Helwyr says, giving Flynn a smile and sending a meaningful look to Ctyri.
Ctyri stiffens and looks around the Temple, inhaling deeply as her eyes pick out things from the shadows that Flynn can only guess at. "Right." she says softly, adding "He has. Damn," and looking a little stunned and uncomfortable and almost visibly upset, but he tells himself he's just imagining it because he doesn't actually want to think about how much he should be afraid if the Lady's Guard fears his night-time stalker.
"Well, what's your name then?" Ctyri demands, brusque and snarly attitude replacing the hesitation like a new lick of fire cracking apart the air.
"Flynn Scifo, Fervent Ctyri," he says, stumbling over the words, bowing his head and feeling overwhelmed and maybe something a little like desperate relief and joy because salvation. He can't believe he ever doubted, ever even considered that the devil was right and what was wrong with him. "I am a servant of the Lady. Please, command me."
He stares of the ground, prostrate and almost delirious with giddy nerves, and doesn't realize the soft pats he hears are the angels walking down the steps of the Throne until he sees two pairs of small feet just off the edge of his vision. He looks up and Helwyr is crouching on the last step of the Throne, Ctyri two steps above him. They don't speak, just watch him curiously, Helwyr with delight, Ctyri with minor irritation, like she doesn't really want to be here and so he hedges, "Does the Lady have need of me?" because if there's one thing he knows, it's that an angry Ctyri makes everything unpleasant.
Ctyri looks abruptly uncomfortable again. "Well, not exactly. We don't know where She is so - -"
"Don't tell him that, Rita." Helwyr looks frantic, eyes wide and smile too big as he gauges Flynn's reaction. Flynn goes cold.
Ctyri – Rita? – waves a dismissive hand. "Oh shut up, Karol. He's going to find out anyway, that's the entire reason we're here."
"Yeah, but you don't have to start out with that. This is exactly why She never let you go on anything diplomatic."
"She didn't send me because She actually knows that I'm more important working on something vital. Like keeping us all alive. Which I should be back doing right now instead of babying little priests."
They bicker back and forth for a couple minutes. It sounds well rehearsed and almost fond. His hands are shaking when he looks at them curled on top of his thighs. He doesn't mean to interrupt, because that's about as stupid as you can get, but, "You aren't here to kill the devil?" pops out of his mouth before he registers that he's talking.
Karol and Rita are silent. They exchange nervous glances and Flynn feels like he's going to throw up. "No," Karol starts and pauses like he doesn't know what to say, or how to say it. "We're not."
"We can't. He's - -" Rita flails her arms like she's trying to encompass what exactly he is. "He's... too powerful," she finishes lamely, looking irritated that she can't find the right words. She hurries on. "We need your help finding the Lady. She's gone missing, see, and we kind of need her. And for some reason Raven - - I mean - - what do you people call him - - Nimble Zraka. Yes, that. Zraka has somehow decided that you're that one who's going to find her. I wouldn't normally trust his judgement, but we're kind of running out of options and you're important for some reason, so there you go."
Flynn feels a little dizzy. "How - - She's missing - - when - - what happened? How long - -"
"That's not important right now," Rita says over him, and Flynn has a moment of intense irritation because that's very important to him thank you very much.
"What she's trying to say," Karol interrupts. "Is that you've been, um, called upon to, uh, fulfill a holy quest and that you'll be, um, well rewarded?"
Rita rolls her eyes.
"How exactly am I supposed to find her?" Flynn asks; the practical part of his brain taking over as the rest of him has a silent hysterical freak out. "I'm just - - how am I supposed to when you haven't been able to. I'm human."
"Oh, really. Thanks for the update. Truly, I didn't already know that. It wasn't like I was questioning every single aspect of your existence or anything. Please, could you not be stupid for ten seconds. As much as it pains me to have to say this, we do need your help."
"Funny way of asking for it," Flynn says dryly and then only resists clapping his hand to his mouth through monumental force of will, and because it would look incredibly stupid.
Rita blinks, and then the corners of her mouth twitch and Flynn is saved from what is probably apoplectic rage by Karol who blurts out, "'Shine the light. That which glows, rings. Ring the bell; a thousand nights. Half and half, and flowers bloom, and find again what's lost,'" he quotes in a rush.
Flynn stares at him. Then Rita says, voice soft and surprisingly solemn, "'Heal the void.' That's all the help we can give you."
They stare at him for a minute and Flynn has no idea what's going on, but apparently they take his silent confusion for acceptance and disappear in a flutter of leaves and sparks of embers. "Wait!" he calls after them, reaching for the Throne and watching as the leaves disintegrate and the sparks burn out between his fingers.
-o-
He doesn't tell the Prime. He's not an idiot.
-o-
The devil doesn't return for almost five days afterwards, either scared off from the appearance of the angel or biding his time until Flynn has let down his guard, but the appearance of the Guards and their inability to help him with his problem has given him the impetus to take matters into his own hands.
The fear remains. Of course it does. He doubts he'll ever be rid of it. But now he has something to focus on other than mindless terror, and even though it's a miniscule chance that he'll even find a trace of what happened to the Lady, at least he knows that when the devil kills him he'll have done everything in his power to protect the sanctity of the Lady's Temple.
He won't be a plaything any longer. He'll go down fighting; honour and faith carved more deeply into his bones than anything the spawn of evil can inflict upon him.
He starts sneaking out books from the Great Library. Jealously guarded tomes and scrolls and old leather-bounds hidden under his vestments that are meant for the eyes of the Prime and the High Priests and are the only real chance he has of making in through the next few weeks alive.
Somehow he manages to sneak his way into the Vault and peruse the Prophet's Scroll, and the threat of discovery is almost more terrifying than the devil because this is an offence punishable by death and probably torture.
Unfortunately, it also proves to be no help whatsoever. And in the next two weeks he finds not one hint of where the Lady might be hidden, which doesn't strike him as surprising considering not one person in the Empire thinks She's missing.
He does get a visit from Relentless Balaur and Intrepid Dyrio, the Lady's Spear and Shield, in the middle of the second week.
Balaur – who asks him to call her Judy – has Krityan antennae and long dragon wings and her beauty is tempered – or perhaps enhanced; he hasn't quite decided – by the fact that she is completely terrifying; the spear she carries magnificent and harrowing, moonlight coming through the glass ceiling and reflecting off it bright and eager for a fight. Dyrio – Repede, Judy says – is like a wolf, four, feathered wings at his paws and knife sheath at his shoulder.
They're about as helpful as Rita and Karol had been; cryptic and maddening and they're appearance rips at Flynn's nerves because he honestly can't deal with this; the terror and the uncertainty and feeling like he's been set adrift in the ocean without a paddle with a hole in the bottom of his boat.
At least the devil stays well away for a few days afterwards, even if they can't deal with him – it, it – either.
"Having problems?"
Flynn jerks around. The devil is standing at the edge of The Sword, hands on its hips and staring at Flynn with a quiet intensity that he's unused to, surprisingly. It's supposed to be loud and obnoxious and Flynn realizes abruptly that maybe he never had its full attention to begin with. Which is a little annoying considering the stress its put him through these last few months but he stuffs that thought away because he's not masochistic.
He stands and squares his shoulders and looks it fully in the face. "No."
It's mouth quirks a little, and if it was anything different Flynn would say that it looked sad and unsure. But it must be a trick of the light, because in the next instant it's grinning its perverse little grin and leaning forward, almost breaching the edges of The Sword and says, "The things I'm going to do to you, Flynn," with a lick of its lips before disappearing with a crack.
Flynn's heart is racing, and he's not sure what just happened but he feels like he's missing something important.
-o-
Nimble Zraka and Drifting Boxxla, the Lady's Scout and Navigator, or Raven and Patty, respectively – and at what point in his life did he get to first name basis with the elite of the Lady's Guard? – show up a week after Judy and Repede. Raven has wings like a skeleton; thin branching vein-like appendages with feathers that distort the air with highly pressured air; Patty with glasslike butterfly wings that ripple like waves and sunlight at the surface of the ocean.
Raven is little-boy charm and laugh-lines and stares at Flynn like Flynn is doing something miraculous just by kneeling beneath the Lady's statue, and actually says more than cryptic riddles that Flynn doesn't understand. Patty fusses at the circles under Flynn's eyes and is kind of like a grandma even though he's never had grandparents to draw experience from. They stay with him for most of the night, and Flynn is so grateful he almost breaks down into tears because this is the first full night in a long time that he hasn't felt like he was going to fall apart.
Raven repeats the – impossible, infuriating – riddle right before they leave, and for some reason Flynn doesn't even feel helpless and angry hearing how he's failing at the task the Guard has given him.
-o-
He catches himself looking forward to the night where he's visited by Brave Vesperia and Resolute Askarin, the Lady's Justice and General, the most powerful of the Guard. By this point he's running mostly on the fumes of researching the day away when he should be resting, and struggling to concentrate on his vows during the night, half hopeful for an appearance of the Guard and fearful of the familiar creep of darkness at his back.
Weeks go by without either making an appearance, which is actually more unpleasant than if they were here, because then at least he would could keep an eye on them and stop waiting for something terrible to happen.
By night ninety of his vows he starts wondering if he just imagined everything and briefly considers leaving the Scripture to test whether or not the devil would pluck him out of the Temple.
Instead he goes over all the details of the legends and scriptures he knows, and tries to piece together some reasonable explanation of where the Lady may be. The only remotely relevant story he can find is of the war between the Lady and her soldiers and the Hell General Strah and the tainted beasts of the Adephagos. It was said that during the final battle with Strah, the Lady, Vesperia and Askarin fell into the pits of Hell, taking Strah with them and caging him for eternity. They were thought dead for ten days before Vesperia and Askarin returned half dead with the Lady drained and weak cradled between them.
But that was one of the very first legends of the Lady and unless the entire part where they came back injured but victorious was made up then - -
Oh, Lady. That was it, wasn't it? The one place the Guard wouldn't look was in Hell so that's naturally where She would be. He leaps to his feet, feeling victorious and light-headed with glee before he considers that the Lady being in Hell is a terrible thing. "Ctyri! Helwyr! Zraka!" He yells at the ceiling, "I've got it!"
"Have you?"
It's the devil. Flynn's almost too happy to feel scared. "I know where the Lady is. She's in Hell and the Guards are going to get her back and then She's going to destroy you."
His elation lasts just as long as it takes for the devil to start laughing; low and humourless and bitter. So bitter. "You think she's in Hell? You think that wouldn't be the first place the Guard would try and look? I overestimated you, Flynn. I thought you were smarter than that."
And then something clicks inside Flynn. Some piece of half acknowledged fact that the broken look on the devil's face slams home, and it has him walking straight up to where it is waiting on the edge of The Sword and planting himself less than a foot away from him.
"You aren't a devil," he says with something akin to horrified wonder in his voice.
It – he – the man stiffens as if shocked.
"What are you talking about?" He tries to sneer. "Have you lost your pretty little - -"
"Devils can't pass the Scripture. You aren't a devil. You've been testing me this whole time." His eyes go wide in realization and he can't believe it took him this long to figure it out. He blames in one the mindless fear. "My faith to the Lady. You could have gotten past The Sword that first day. You aren't going to hurt me. If I stepped over right now you wouldn't do anything to me, would you?"
"Why don't you try it and we'll find out?"
Evil intent buffets Flynn's skin, crawling across his body and digging into his skin. It doesn't fit with the wild look on the man's face though, so Flynn ignores it and, taking a deep quavering breath and closing his eyes, steps forward. He's almost chest to chest with the man, heats suffusing through his vestments, The Sword's safety behind him, and for a moment he thinks he made a mistake, because the man's aura is threatening to suffocate him in rage and darkness, but then the man makes a soft broken noise and when Flynn opens his eyes, it really is just a man in front of him. No horns, no battle armour, just an open necked shirt and bare forearms with strangely delicate wrists and a sense of night air and mountain breezes; soft hum of starlight. Mouth a jagged line.
The words stumble out of his mouth in an instant. "Brave Vesperia." Except he doesn't get the reaction he's expecting because Vesperia's eyes go wide with alarm and he jerks backwards and then disappears.
Flynn's left startled and lost and like maybe he broke something irreparable.
-o-
And then there's nothing nights ninety-one through ninety-five. Just the empty echoes of the Temple and the empty pews and the empty Throne in front of him. No Guards to lighten the mood, no false devil to scare the shit out of him. He realizes that if he had been alone these last hundred nights he would have been bored out of his skull, the importance of his vows notwithstanding.
Night ninety-six is a long drag of irritation. Ninety-seven like his skin is going to vibrate off with all his nervous energy. Ninety-eight and ninety-nine quiet despair and then there's only one more night left.
Night one-hundred and nothing. Something hot prickling at the back of his eyes because even the angels hadn't come back. Which isn't surprising because it's not like he has anything valuable to give them, but it still burns bitter in his stomach.
When dawn arrives, the Prime is there to present him the robes of his new title and he accepts them even though it feels like a lie slipping them on his shoulders.
He takes one final look at the Throne and then turns and walks out the doors.
-o-
Months go by and still nothing.
He sits on the steps of the Throne, night curling around him like a shroud.
He's suddenly furious; feeling alone and let down and keyed up. Getting to his feet he looks up through the glass ceiling at the sky and shouts, "You're a coward! You don't deserve the title of brave at all!" and it's silly, but there's no one there and it makes him feel a bit better.
He flops back down on the steps and then nearly leaps out of his skin in fright when he feels a presence tickling the back of his neck.
"That's all I had to do?" he asks peevishly. "Insult your honour? Because I can keep going now that I don't have to worry that you're going to tear out my throat." Vesperia makes a haltingly amused noise behind him. Flynn turns and his mouth goes dry.
Vesperia is standing on the Throne, feet bare and long and thin; delicate looking; swaths of black cloth hanging from his narrow hips and draped over his shoulder; a long pale line of flesh from foot to slender neck interrupted by a single knot his waist, the dark silk stark against the paleness of his skin. Hair just as dark, luxurious and long and curling around his shoulders like silk ribbons.
His wings stretch out over the Throne, huge and black and sucking up all the light like the spaces between stars, the individual feathers only distinguishable because there seem to be actual stars trapped in the overlay of the pinions, twinkling softly like little pebbles of sugar.
"Well, I like you like this more than the crazy horned psycho," Flynn admits, in a voice that somehow manages to sound normal and not at all dazed.
"Come on, the crazed horned psycho had his charms. I've only been doing him for the last three thousand years," Vesperia says, a hint of playfulness under the guilty slant of his mouth. At least he feels a little bad about what he put Flynn through.
They're the same height, surprisingly, when he's finally standing in front of him. The devil always felt taller, but that's probably because the terror just made it seem like it was towering. "Why?" Flynn asks.
"I needed to know how faithful Her priests are," Vesperia says immediately.
"That's it?"
A pause. "Yes."
"Have you done this to others?"
Look to the side. "No."
"Why me then?"
Vesperia turns and stares at him. Grey eyes intense and piercing and a part of Flynn kind of wants to hide because there's just too much there and he's not sure he's ready to deal with it. The rest of him puffs up under the scrutiny, and he feels kind of like a bird of paradise fluffing up his plumage to get a mate's attention and that just makes him flail internally and blush. Vesperia makes a soft hurt noise, eyes sad and mouth pinched and unhappy. "You died," and curls his hand around the back of Flynn's neck, thumbing the line of his jaw. "And then I lost Her. I've been searching for you both for a long time."
Flynn blinks, unsure of what he just heard and then, "Askarin never made it out of that battle." Vesperia shakes his head. Flynn hesitates. "I'm - -?" because he doesn't quite believe that that's possible. He's just... Flynn. But there's something hot and brilliant growing in his chest, feeling like familiarity. He pushes it away for the moment.
Vesperia yanks him forward, mouth hot and hard and sudden on his. Flynn gasps, eyes fluttering shut, and then it's all slick heat and messy desperation and he's clinging to Vesperia's shoulders just above where the flesh of his back sprouts into his wings with knees jelly-weak; he curves into the press of Vesperia's solid body and it's a good thing that Vesperia's so strong because Flynn isn't sure he'd be able to keep himself upright otherwise.
Vesperia licks into his mouth, palming the back of Flynn's skull and cupping the shallow curve of his hip through his vestments; tilting his head to get deeper and damn his mouth, lips soft and insistent and warm and Flynn may make a tiny whimpering noise as Vesperia's tongue curls around his own but he'll never admit to it. Flynn digs his fingers into Vesperia's skin and feels dizzy and overwhelmed and achingly hard and strangely safe in the ring of his hard arms. That thought makes him feel a little giddy and hysterical, but whatever.
They kissed for long endless minutes, syrupy slow and sweet yet still somehow frantic, his entire body shaking with need, and he's dazed when Vesperia pulls back, lips tender and sore and tingling when he brings his fingers back to brush against them. Vesperia's eyes are intense and dark and his hands are hot through Flynn's clothes and then the world whirls around them and Flynn's flat on his back on the Throne, marble cold on his back as Vesperia shoves his vestments up around his hips and pulls his pants down, wings flapping erratically as he takes Flynn down his throat so fast the sudden shock of cold air to hot wet pressure is enough to claw a shout from his throat.
He scrabbles at the marble, toes curling as he babbles nonsense and encouragement and desperation, and he makes the mistake of looking down because the sight of Vesperia's bruised mouth wrapped tight around his cock is almost enough to send him over the edge.
"Ves - - Vesperia, oh, please, oh, yes. Vesp - -"
Vesperia pulls off with an obscene wet slurp; smirking at the frustrated noise Flynn makes and says, "Yuri," in a rough scrape of a voice. Flynn nods frantically. "Yuri, Yuri, Yuri, please, Yuri," and chokes on his breath as Yuri's lips close over him again. He doesn't know how long it lasts, but it can't be long because all of a sudden he's right on the edge, and one look at Yuri's hand working under the dark fabric of his wrap black wings flared out above them the most beautiful things he's ever seen, and he's thrashing and coming, everything whitewash and amazing and too much and not enough all at once.
He comes back to himself slowly enough that when he finally manages to lift his head, he's already dressed, pants up around his hips and vestments back to some semblance of order. At least there are no stains. Yuri is sitting cross-legged by his head, running his fingers through Flynn's hair and Flynn feels lethargic and blessed out and more than a worrying amount of affection for the man hovering over him.
"Why didn't you just tell me to begin with?" he can't help but ask, grabbing his hand and curling their fingers together and feeling something inside him click into place.
"Because he's an idiot and doesn't know what the hell is good for him," Rita says.
The six Guards are standing at the front pews and Flynn wonders with crippling horror how long they've been there. His face must look like a tomato.
"Relax kid," Raven says with a smirk that doesn't make Flynn feel better at all. Yuri pulls Flynn to his feet and Flynn leans heavily on Yuri's side, legs weak and shivery. A brush of feathers against his hand makes his whole body tingle like he's about to be struck by lightning.
"Raven, Rita," Yuri says, hesitance and defiance thick in his voice. "It's been a while."
Rita snorts. "A hundred year war is a while. You've been gone three millennia. What is wrong with you? Wait, I know. You're a self-sacrificing moron and I don't know why we actually want to associate with you."
"We're so happy to see you Lord Yuri," Patty says earnestly.
"Yeah, Yuri. We've missed you," Karol adds with a grin. "And you found Flynn. That's great!"
"Indeed," Judy says. Repede barks and Yuri blinks and looks a little stunned.
"Guys," he trails off. "I - -"
"Yes, we know," Rita interrupts, "You're sorry that you're such a dumbass and have self-loathing issues over something you had no control over, but now it's time you got your shit together because we're actually kind of tired of your manly emo tears." She glances at Flynn, going kind of shy and uncomfortable. "It's good to see you Flynn."
Flynn grins a little and then says. "Hey, 'Heal the void.'" And the rest of them look at him like he's maybe an idiot and maybe a little bit of a genius.
"Rita, you know how you when you're wrong?" Raven taunts. "This was definitely one of those times."
Rita splutters. "Oh, shut up, Old Man." She waves her hands in the air. "Can we go find the 'Lady?'" she rolls her eyes at that, along with air quotes. "Sometime in the next million years? I would like to do that soon because I actually want survive the giant Hell army amassing at Hell's Gates."
"We still don't know where Estelle is," Yuri says with a scowl, and Flynn looks at him with a start because, "Estelle? Pink hair and kind and loves books? Princess Estellise Sidos Heurassein of the Empire? Next in line for the throne?"
They're all staring at him like he's grown four or five extra set of arms. There's a long moment of silence and then Rita says, "Oh, fuck me," and Yuri just laughs and laughs.