VOYEUR ( FEBRUARY ) — OTA.

[redsoil]

💕 VOYEUR

PROFILE GENERATED BY THE HOUSE

SET

@SET

💗 PERFORMER

LOOP 1/4

LOOP 2/4

LOOP 3/4

LOOP 4/4

💌 PATRON REQUESTS

💕 Request #1: "Let them take the knife to you, the crop, the clenched fist, the teeth; it's not like you haven't taken it before, over and over and over. It's what you were made for."

💕 Request #2: "I know you can't stand tenderness, you don't trust it. Let them treat you so sweetly it drives you mad with guilt. You still don't deserve any of it."

PROFILE

When you're the god of the desert, the line in the sand is a suggestion, rather than the rule. A shapeshifer that could become anything or anyone you've dreamt of — male, female, animal or object — want double of your lover? that person you desire but don't have a chance with? that ex you want to hatefuck one more time? look no further than the most malleable house guest there is. Best requested for: pushing boundaries ( yours, mostly; his, if you have the guts ) and immersive roleplay.

⚠️ PERFORMER NOTES:

Hard limits: bathroom play. Specializes in extreme acts of violence, giving or receiving. Best paired with people fed up, frustrated and/or looking for a someone that will last far longer than their favorite rechargeable toy.

DETECTED KINKS

#VERSATILITY #SHAPESHIFTING #ROLE-PLAY #EXTREME VIOLENCE ⚠️ #MEAN MOMMY #DEGRADATION ⚠️ #DIRTY TALK#WINNER TAKES ALL

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You are the content. They are watching.

Comments

cw mentions of assault

[hymen]

[ holy fucking shit.

there's a certain dissonance in all of it that threatens to tear him in two. the white dress of his choosing, his skin heating with the memory of being underneath greer's wedding dress in her dressing room right before her wedding to ash, on his knees with his mouth licking hungrily at her cunt. set's blazing hair tumbling down the arch of his spine, like abilene's the one time she'd been naked in his bed, his head splitting and mouth dry. for a brief fracture in time, he imagines wrapping those long locks in his fist and yanking hard enough to snap her neck.

he drifts away from the thought, a hand sliding down his face. beneath the covers, his cock throbs. sharply, shame cuts him into. then, with equal ferocity, desire. ]

Come ask me in person. Nicely.
And bring me a drink.

[ unsaid: he can't do this sober. ]

[redsoil]

[ A president is a bit like a king, then. Despite that the last king he'd ever followed had lied so thoroughly to him that Set had brutally shattered his own family into fragments, it really isn't that difficult to remember the loose, casual comfort there was to be found in working alongside someone he'd trusted. Implicitly. ( He doesn't trust Embry. Likes him, well enough, but men are men — they're monstrous at their core, unsavory and untrustworthy. Remembering that, at all times, is what keeps him from being disappointed and hurt again. )

He doesn't reply to the conversation, picking himself up from the floor where he'd sprawled and primped and fashioned the taunting ( tempting? ) image for both audience and Embry. The gown gapes along his pale spine, sags around his shoulders; it leaves him looking disheveled in attire, albeit pristine in appearance when he steps into Embry's rooms with the quiet sweep of the door behind him. A decanter of amber-hued alcohol held in the palm of his hand, corners cradled by long fingers. The gown held to the curve of round, full breasts by his other hand.

Even wearing the shape of a woman, Set exudes an unearthly, genderless quality. His face smaller, but no less him — as he smiles, predatory and feline. It doesn't reach his eyes, with the slender, dark pupils like a prey animal caught staring glassy and the light at the end of a hunter's rifle. More red iris than black pupil, fixated on some distant thing that isn't quite Embry, but also: undoubtedly is. ]

President Moore, [ one shoulder rolls forward, Set's hips following in a sinuous ripple; the long line of his body twists to the side, exposing that hint of pale, unmarked skin along his back. ] Do you like my dress better this way, maybe? It almost looks like someone had their hands on me before you.

[ ( He's driven thousands upon thousands of men to madness. He was made for this. Why not press a finger, so very subtly, into all those old scars and fresh bruises Embry likes to decorate himself in? ) ]

[hymen]

[ set enters, and embry has to struggle to remember the game. to remember that this isn't anything more than what it is — a request from a perverted fuck that wants to see set's servitude and embry's worst impulses fulfilled. well. he isn't sure how easy servitude comes to set, but his worst impulses are always lurking around the corner, a hungry, formless need that collars him like a prisoner. he feels it stir as set comes to his bedside, the pale satin of his dress clinging to the form he's taken. embry's cheeks darken. ]

You shouldn't talk about other people when you're supposed to be here for me.

[ unable to control the jealousy that flashes in his eyes — even if it feels like an intentional jab, a trap he's walked right into with his eyes wide open. he sits up straighter in his bed, the sheets falling to his hips. he's naked already, though sleep would be overstating it. he'd attempted a catnap for all of fifteen minutes before the buzz of another request had woken him. ]

Come here. [ keenly aware of the cameras watching, he gestures to the bed, motioning set to sit before him. he doesn't ask if he really wants to do this. neither of them have any real say, and even if embry wasn't allowed to say no to any request, he wouldn't anyway. not when he's determined to do what needs to be done to earn ash's way out of bronze. ] Let me see the dress.

[ his most demented idea yet, to pick this satiny, wedding white. a tease of what he'll never have. when set comes closer, he gathers his hair in his hand — not to yank it, but to twist it into a thick coil and lay it over his shoulder, so that he can admire the bare curve of his spine. his fingers trail down his soft skin, sliding around to grip his hip to pull set into his lap. ]

Why don't we leave it undone for now? [ his breath curls warm at set's shoulder, traveling down to press a kiss to the top of his spine. as quietly as he can — ] What do you think they want to see most? My mouth on your tits or my fingers in your cunt?

[redsoil]

I didn't know how you might want me to be for you, Mister President. My most sincere apologies, [ even at his most demure, Set's tone is full of feline wickedness; a particular mean-spiritedness that yearns to wrap around the most vulnerable part of someone's mind and crush it until they cry. He's undoubtedly insincere. And though he pours himself into his role with the flutter of red lashes and the darting, subservient gaze, there's no doubt he's still a creature that yearns to slip his teeth into Embry the moment he's presented with the opportunity to. That has to fight its own nature, its own unhappiness with the role, to achieve a goal. And really, it's nothing new. He's played a thousand roles throughout the ages. What's 'whatever Embry Moore wants, for 24 hours', compared to that? It could be worse. It could always be worse.

The gown, though. ]

Do you like it on me? It was an inspired choice.

[ The gown is a mystery, to him. Certainly, it's a pretty thing, soft and form-fitting ( especially once he'd molded his body to suit its seams and fill the bodice to bursting ); while the cultural meaning happens to be utterly lost upon him, he understands there is a personal meaning to it — one look at Embry is enough to confirm that. The burn of his envy, when Set pretends someone else might have undone him. The determination in his voice, when he summons the god to his side. The hunger in his hands.

It's into Embry's lap he pours himself, and the gown gapes in the back — dark pockets where it sags softly around the curve of Set's bare waist, the wings of his shoulder blades fanning apart as he subtly bows his spine away from the touch of a hand to his hair. The wedding gown he wears is begging to be defiled, the same as the pale, immortal skin below its satin softness. For the cameras: he flutters his lashes, and parts his lips on a soft, silent moan as he nestles his hips into the basin of Embry's thighs. A nearly picture-perfect startle reflex, dolled up in mild desperation and awe for the audience to sink their teeth into.

It takes everything he has not to roll his eyes and sigh warmly, as the hesitant pervert behind him asks where to begin for an audience that prefers seeing a god known for his durability torn apart by mortal hands. Softly, he wields the most saccharine blade — a tone that adores and scolds with exasperated affection, all at once: ] Mm. You wanted a drink, to start. Mouth to breasts: sip my offering from their cradle, as if I were your vessel. [ Smugly: ] I did not bring a glass, for that reason.

[hymen]

[ an inspired choice. he should tell set to take it off, to throw it out the window so he'll never have to think of it again. (he will be thinking about this for a long fucking time.) he thinks of greer, walking down the aisle to ash while their wedding rings burned a hole in embry's pocket. thinks of jenny. thinks of ash on his knees in the valley with a rifle slung over his shoulder, a black ring box held out in his hands.

how he would have torn himself open to say yes. how he still made himself say no. ]

It looks good on you. [ not a lie. set looks so fucking hot it should be a crime, like he was poured into the dress, all liquid, molten heat. his hand travels to his front, feeling up the row of dainty buttons to the plunging neckline, where he squeezes at his full breasts, fingertips skimming along the shimmering satin fabric where he can feel the press of his nipples beneath, flush with interest. through the dress, he pinches gently. ] You want me to ruin it with a drink?

[ and yet the thought of ruining set is exactly what his cock reacts to, aching beneath him. he digs his fingers into set's hips and turns him around to face him, lips pressing to his collarbone, trailing a line of hard kisses down to the swell of his breasts. pulling the front of the dress down, he dips his head to suck at one pert, rosy nipple, his tongue teasing the sensitive bud. his sooty lashes brush set's skin as he drags his gaze up, inhaling deeply. ]

Pour me a drink then.

cw mention of forced sexual reconstruction

[redsoil]

You can ruin whatever you want, I am yours. Your vessel, your service — your lady.

[ He whispers the word, like it means something else. The order was to be whatever Embry wanted. ( It urged him, to be a whore. He can play the whore, by now. What kind of whore, is the question. He's piss-poor at reading people, after all. )

And he knows what he isn't, and it's not a woman. Never a woman, no matter how desperately Osiris had slipped his hand inside of Set's body and rearranged it to suit a primal need — the god of life and green things, desperate to force unresponsive sands to bear, to one day be desperately and hopelessly bound to him and no other. He's not a woman, but Embry's Greer had said — taking the thing most distasteful to you and turning it into a part of a game... gives you the power over it. Shanks calls him "wife", and he permits it. Has permitted it, from the beginning. Now, he wears a pretty white gown and wonders — what need is Embry trying to fulfill, using the body draped across his thighs?

Into the waves and whorls of Embry's dusky hair, pale fingers slip and grasp and curl in steady passes; nails scratch across his scalp, petting sweetly at the back of Embry's skull like he's a particularly sweet animal meant to be rewarded. Of course, the front of the dress dips readily — unbound at the back, it falls around the swell of Set's breasts, and he tips his head back and lengthens his throat while Embry mouths at him until his shoulders are flushed. The tightening ache of his nipple tugs a testy, brief hiss from behind his sharp teeth; the slip of a nail-become-claws scores a shallow line down the back of Embry's neck.

Studious, sharp eyes gleam as he looks from the gown, to those painfully, hauntingly blue eyes. He turns his head, seeking the crystalline stopper on the bottle of amber alcohol, tongue curving around the head of it — mouth, plush and red, pushing full and swollen against the surface. Like he ought to be kissing the fat, blunt head of Embry's cock instead; Set rolls his hips, the shimmering material of the gown gathering higher on his spread thighs as he nestles down against the interested ( thank goodness ) heat below his cunt, wet and bare. Why bother wearing anything below the gown?

He tugs the stopper free from the decanter, tongue cradling it as he delicately turns his head and spills it onto the bed. The scent of alcohol, a strong plum and oak undercurrent to an expensive cognac, strengthening by the second as Set fits his elbows alongside the swell of his bare tits and lifts them, presses them together until the line of his cleavage forms a narrow basin — and he tips the decanter over them, heedless of flesh, gown or bed below the two of them and mercilessly aims to drown the man in a few mouthfuls of alcohol, steady rivulets dripping off the rosy tips of his nipples. ]

Embry, [ he sighs, softening the edges of his stern face as sweetly as he can. Teeth finding the bottom of his lip, faux-coquettish ( it just doesn't work, not well on his face; he's too sharp, too deadly ). ] All yours. Sweet, terrible boy — let me serve you properly, hm?