1 The Different Faces of Tension

"Another round?"

The smirk on Faine's face was quickly contrasted by his client's conflicted frown. He was teasing the other's savagery outside of its well-protected shell, presenting temptation on a platter as he slid his hand down the other's bare back, eliciting a trail of goosebumps with his touch.

On any other night, he would've been met with an eager 'yes', quiet in volume, but incredibly telling for the person he was speaking to at that very moment. But, as his client's eyes went downcast, as if apologetic, Faine realized that night was not like any other night.

"I can not. Father has been particularly prickly these days. He has been paying more attention to my absences."

Faine wasn't surprised. After all, his regular, the one who met his waiting gaze with a yearning, lovesick look, was no ordinary man, nor was he man, really; he was a higher being, a powerful god with duties not just anyone could take on without dissipating from the pressure, the sheer risk of his obligations.

So instead of pouting, instead of clinging onto the deity's sleeve like he usually would, demanding the god keep him company in his lonesome room until duty called for his presence as well, he nodded as a gesture of understanding, picking his clothes up from the wooden flooring of the almost empty room, and tidying himself up for the next client vying for his services.

To his surprise, Yvnir did not do the same. Instead, the stoic god watched him move across the room with an intense focus, eyeing the movement of his hands as his fingers grazed wrinkled fabric. A sharp inhale cut through the silence of the room as Faine's naked frame was met with moonlight. Although it barely reached his ears, the courtesan knew it was due to Yvnir's persistent attraction that he was so reactive. When Faine turned, he was met with the eyes of a starving feline, something dangerous lurking in their deepness.

Faine grew more conscious of himself as he covered up, fixing the slim line of fabric that halted him from, once again, baring himself to the wind. He was ready to put his nightly companion's staring into question when he was met with a husky voice, one that reminded Faine of his regular's status, high and mighty and capable of wiping out the entire city if he willed it. Yvnir's voice was powerful, deep, nothing short of divine and fitting for his position, and it made the mortal's knees weak.

"You have been busy." Yvnir pointed out, standing from his place on the used mattress to press his chest against Faine's back. The feeling of the god's toned torso sent shivers down his spine, a reminder of how it looked honeyed in sweat and sinful passion haunting the corners of his mind. The god could much easily snap his spine in half and still look unfairly exquisite bathed in his blood.

Faine halted his thoughts to focus on the way Yvnir's much larger hands toyed with the ribbon clumsily holding his robe together.

"Business has been booming for me ever since the locals have been made aware of your visits. I get more clients than I ever have in my time here, thanks to you."

Yvnir froze, and Faine could feel it from how close the two were pressed against each other.

He was about to speak more, a clear motivation igniting in his mind, as he mentally prepared more detailed ramblings about how pleasantly romantic his other clients were in comparison to Yvnir, take advantage of the little spark of jealousy the god let slip and let it consume him in the flames of the immortal's possessiveness. However, he was left speechless when a hand roughly, almost painfully, grabbed his chin, forcing his eyes to meet the other's piercing silver.

"You are enjoying the attention, are you not?" Yvnir mused, voice an octave lower, darker too, in a way that had Faine nibbling on his lower lip. Now, the god was the one smirking, and Faine could only muster an expression of surprise and embarrassingly enough, undeniable longing for his companion's touch.

"I— I don't necessarily enjoy it all the time, but I can't deny that some of my clients make my job a tad bit more enjoyable. Like that one traveling merchant, he is quite skilled in making pretty men preen—"

A yelp escaped Faine's lips as he was tossed to the mattress, the sudden motion fortunately softened by the foam his bottom landed on. A calloused hand, one he was oh so familiar with, wrapped around his nape, moving him closer to the hungry lips of a god, now leaving wet kisses on the expanse of his neck, carefully teasing his most sensitive parts.

"D— don't leave any marks. The other clients don't like being reminded that they're playing with someone else's used toy."

The courtesan, now whining and trembling from the electrifying sensations his client's kisses left on his skin, was only answered with a glare, a blatant warning that if he did not shut his mouth, he'd be met with consequences. A particularly harsh bite, sure to be seen for days, elicited a desperate noise from Faine. Had it been anyone else, in any other circumstance, he would've pushed the other away, demanding compensation for leaving such depraved marks on his flawless skin. But it was Yvnir, and even Faine could not deny his desires once in this feral state.

"You look— ahh! You look pleased with yourself."

A look that more than confirmed Faine's words had him anticipating the next few hours into the night, "Cancel all your appointments this week. I'll pay twice, thrice as much as you usually get."

"I thought you had somewhere to be."

The god could not deny how enticing Faine's panting and squirming had been, so instead, he nuzzled his face further into the other's neck, choosing to actively deny the swarm of butterflies overwhelming his stomach. His feelings could wait to be acknowledged another day. For now, he needed to ravish his little minx of a mortal.

"Those bastards can wait, I can't."

--

Upon stepping out of Faine's temporary room, one saved for their special activities, Yvnir, the feared god of death, the sole ruler of the unliving, was met with an uncanny silence. Usually, the halls of the brothel were bustling with interaction, gossip, and unspeakably dirty words thrown around from every door and every bystander lounging in the hallways.

However, at the sight of their most unexpected customer, everybody froze.

The god did not really understand why, but his favorite mortal requested he leave the establishment in this particular way every time they finished satisfying each other for the night, despite his ability to just teleport to the land of death at any given time. Out of respect, if not curiosity, Yvnir complied each and every time. And it brought upon the same shock from all the usual eyewitnesses, despite the frequency of his visits.

No one dared to let out a squeak. No one dared to meet his eyes for the fear of their souls leaving their physical bodies much too early. No one dared approach him or interact with him, if not for the respectful bows he received. No one except for the jewel of the city. Eyes a beautiful baby blue, hair a mop of light rose blonde. Altair, a name known by both the struggling and the wealthy. A courtesan envied and wanted by both male and female for his blinding beauty.

He opened his mouth, and it was as if sound itself could dance as gracefully as he could. "Your grace. It is an honor to be in the presence of such a powerful deity. The House of Himeros is eternally grateful for your visits. If I may—"

"If you are looking for someone who will pay for your services, you are looking in the wrong place. I do not wish to mingle with just any ordinary mortal." Yvnir cut him off, eager to leave the establishment surrounded by curious eyes and be left alone to bask in the quiet of his own sorrowful realm.

A soft blush formed on Altair's face, and if it had not been from shame, he would've taken advantage of the gentle peach color and feigned innocence in front of the god. However, his wounded ego had only urged him to snap.

"Oh? And what does that imply for our dear Faine?" Altair challenged despite the frantic eyes of his peers who were, at that moment, seemingly more concerned for his well-being than he was.

The god moved his face closer to the courtesan's, meeting his gaze with a fire of his own, "Be careful with the questions you ask, or you might end up endangering yourself, blond."

And in a swift move, Yvnir disappeared in a smoke of black, sending the gathering crowd gasping. Plenty pestered Altair, a mix of concerned and worrisomely invasive questions leaving their mouths like an endless stream. The beauty only clenched his fists in frustration, the painful pang of rejection brewing up in his chest—he bit his lip to alleviate the sting, still, it persisted like a never-ending hurricane, and no feeling had been more foreign to Altair.

He could not hold his temper any longer and stormed off, leaving many of his fellow courtesans with a myriad of questions.

"Do you think that Faine fellow is actually a powerful sorcerer?" One of them asked, genuinely curious.

"I don't know, but something tells me we're about to find out."