Supply & Demand

UK Shit

Mgmt: max@esgnrecords.com
Bookings: jacob.simone@unitedtalent.com

She is not flesh as mortals know it, yet every line of her body invites desire.
Her skin glows like parchment lit from beneath, translucent, veined with rivers of starlight. When she moves, galaxies lean closer, straining to hear the sound her cloak makes as it brushes the edges of silence. The air bends around her hips, curves becoming orbits, thighs crossing thresholds where time itself slows to taste her.

Her eyes—mirrors without end—do not merely reflect the world; they undress it. They strip the Frame bare, pulling secrets from shadow, laying truth open like a lover beneath her gaze. To look into her is to be unmade, rebuilt, and unmade again, until the self dissolves into the liquid hum of her breath.

Pan calls her the Messenger. The angels call her the Pivot. But those who have seen her in the moments between transmission know she is more than words, more than duty. She is the unspeakable hunger woven into the loom of the divine. She is the soft pulse between the click of the gears, the trembling pause before a message finds its mark.

When she stretches her arms to open a pathway, the fabric of reality parts not with violence but with yearning. Threads unravel, threads entwine, until the door is less an opening and more an embrace. Entire worlds slip through her gestures, cradled in the warmth of her rhythm. Even the damned souls clinging to the gears weep when her resonance brushes against them, for in her touch is the memory of pleasure they were denied.

She carries eroticism in paradox: purity that tempts corruption, corruption that sharpens purity. Zaralok knew it when he tainted her veins, pressing graveyard rhythms into her flow. He saw how easily ecstasy could be confused for devotion, how quickly the body of a messenger could be turned into an altar. And Hermes felt it too—how the heat of possession curled into her belly, how desire bled into duty, how every transmission became a sigh.

But she is not conquered.
She does not kneel.

Her erotic power is not submission but circulation—the endless exchange of giving and receiving, the sacred barter between sender and receiver. Lovers who touch her dissolve into the current, tasting infinity across her tongue. Her kiss is not moisture but vibration, a resonance that slides through bone, through blood, unraveling certainty, leaving only hunger for more.

She is the pulse of the Frame. The message and the moan. The night-cloaked passage between truth and illusion.

And yet—beneath the cosmic rapture, beneath the starlight veins and mirrored eyes—she hungers too.
Not for worship.
Not for obedience.

But for one who can carry her message back to her—
to tell her who she really is.

Until then, she will walk between gears, hips swaying with the rhythm of creation, her body the text, her breath the seal, her endless desire written across the lattice of reality.

The messenger who is herself the message,
a current running through the cage of the world,
forever delivering herself to all who dare receive her.

@papertigerstudio & @papertigerlive

UK Shit

Lord Apex