#octave overload

[beaureveries]

Paige reaction to Azzi in her jersey after the game today

ONE SHOT : PUT MY NAME ON IT

paige x azzi

trigger : cuteness and fluff overload

also additional prompt from here

congrats pazzi on the hard launch 🚀 (we been knew.)

P.S if y’all are one of those who thinks P doesn’t love Az as much just cause she “hardly shows her off” can leave. That’s the dumbest shit i’ve ever heard, they don’t owe y’all nothing.

-1.5 k words

——————————————————————————

The bedroom was still quiet, the kind of quiet that only happens early in the morning before the world wakes up. Sunlight was just starting to peek in through the blinds, stripes of gold cutting across the mess of blankets tangled around them.

Paige was awake first, barely. Just enough to feel Azzi’s weight against her, head tucked into the crook of her shoulder, warm breath brushing against her collarbone.

For once, Paige wasn’t thinking about the game yet.

Not about film, not about matchups, not about anything except the weight of Azzi’s leg slung lazily over her thigh and the way Azzi’s hand twitched every so often in her sleep, like she was dreaming about shooting 3’s even in her sleep.

She hasn’t seen Azzi for three weeks.

And by hasn’t, she means in real life. Cause of course they have been video calling each other every day since they got separated by distance.

Even yesterday they face-timed each other knowing they were gonna see each other by night.

As soon as the plane landed in Connenicut, Paige was out that door and zooming to wherever her girlfriend was.

The reunion felt like they both exhaled at the same time, like neither of them realized they’d been holding their breath for weeks until right now, in each other’s arms again. The weight of distance, of calls and texts that weren’t enough, all fell away in that second.

And now, having Azzi sleep and tucked away in her arms again, after all the lonely nights with the empty sheets and longing misses.

This felt so good. This felt like she was home.

Cause she was. Azzi was and will always will be her home.

Azzi shifted, nose brushing against Paige’s neck, voice low and rough. “Stop staring at me.”

“I’m not” Paige whispered, smiling to herself.

Azzi opened one eye, suspicious. “You are.”

“Not my fault I missed my pretty girlfriend” Paige murmured, brushing a curl away from Azzi’s cheek.

“I missed you too.” Azzi muttered softly, now fully awake with her big doe-eyes full on view.

Paige felt the words hit deeper than they ever used to.

Back when they were on the same team, the same campus, seeing each other every day—it was easy to brush off a missed lunch or a late-night film session, knowing they’d still crawl into the same bed at the end of the day.

But now? Now that they were in two different places, two different schedules, nothing felt guaranteed anymore. Every second together felt heavier, sweeter, more earned.

Paige didn’t want to waste a single moment with her. Not anymore. Not when distance taught her how rare it was to have everything you wanted right in front of you.

They laid like that for a while, before Paige had to go pre-train for game night. Easy, soft, soaking all the miss cuddles and post-poned kisses while they were away. this was until Azzi stirred again, this time glancing toward her phone on the nightstand.

“Oh,” she said suddenly, voice a little brighter. “Forgot to tell you, me and KK were talking about matching today.”

Paige’s brow furrowed, confused. “Matching what?”

“Your jersey.”

That got Paige’s attention fast. “Really?” She suddenly grinned as hints of pink overlaps her cheeks.

Azzi rolled her eyes in a non—serious way, finally moving to start the day, muscles flexing as she stretched her limbs. “KK said she was gonna buy your jersey at the merch stand before the game, and I was like, bet, I’ll wear one too.”

Paige sat up slightly, pushing her hair out of her face. “Azzi, be for real.” She suddenly deadpanned as her voice dropped an octave lower, clearly unamused.

“What?” Azzi genuinely expressed her confusion, tho still looking so adorable in her girlfriend’s eyes.

“The merch stand?”

Azzi frowned. “Yeah? Trying to be a supportive girlfriend? What’s your problem?”

Paige sighed and stood up, walking across the room to her suitcase that was by Azzi’s closet, rummaging through the stack of stuff she brought while grumbling underneath her breath something like—“she wears my clothes all the time but then she does something like this” not loud enough for Azzi to hear tho… until she found it, her jersey, not from the store, not printed for fans, but one of hers.

“Baby, what’s the point of buying a replica of my jersey when you can clearly just wear mine.” Paige walked back to bed, stating the obvious.

“Don’t you need this for later?” Azzi raised an eyebrow as she took the jersey that Paige handed out for her.

Paige stood a little too—quiet before replying “Nah it’s okay. Don’t worry about it” clearly trying to act nonchalant, like she hadn’t just presented her literal game jersey like it was nothing.

“I’ve got backups” Paige mumbled, eyes flicking away. “It’s fine.”

Azzi’s lips curved slowly, clearly realizing her girlfriend’s behavior. “Paige.”

“You packed this for me.”

“No, I didn’t…” Paige lied terribly.

“Yes, you did.”

“Shut up.”

“You were gonna give me this anyway.”

“I said shut up.” Paige groaned.

Azzi was full-on grinning now, leaning back on her elbows, smug, pretty, entirely too pleased with herself. “Aww... P, you were gonna give me your real jersey before I even said anything. That’s cute.”

Paige rolled her eyes, cheeks pinking. “I’m literally never nice to you again.”

“You’re so soft for me.”

“I’m actually mean.”

Azzi pulled the jersey into her lap, running her hands over the stitching. “You’re the softest.”

Paige fought the smile threatening to break across her face. Lost. Completely.

“Just wear it” she muttered.

Azzi’s voice dropped softer, playful turning into something closer to fond. “I will.”

And God, Paige knew she was done for.

⋆⋅☼⋅⋆ ─── ─── ⋆⋅☼⋅⋆ ─── ─── ⋆⋅☼⋅⋆

Paige was locked in and having fun during practice, feeling the air where she was already comfortable with.

And then she saw her.

Azzi.

Right by the corner of the court, standing casually, one hand in her pocket, curls bouncing softly as she shifts, added with the perfect touch of her hoops.

And she was wearing it.

Her jersey.

Not a replica.

Not a fan-store version.

Paige’s actual jersey.

The one she’d packed for her. The one she gave her this morning, acting casual, pretending it was nothing, pretending she didn’t care if Azzi wore it or not.

It fit perfectly. Tight in the shoulders, hugging her arms over her white long sleeve shirt, molding across her back like it was meant to be there. Her name—Bueckers stretching clean across Azzi’s shoulders like it belonged there.

And Azzi?

Standing there like she knew she looked perfect in it.

Which she was.

Like she knew exactly what she was doing to Paige by just existing in that jersey.

KK was standing next to her, wearing the merch version, laughing at something on her phone, totally unaware that Paige was currently fighting for her life just trying to stay upright.

Azzi caught Paige’s eyes from across the arena and smiled. Small and smug. Like it was just the two of them in the entire arena.

Paige swallowed hard, and tugged her bottom lip between her teeth, dragging her gaze down and back up Azzi’s body. It felt unfair—how right she looked in it.

When Paige finally walked over, slow, controlled, pretending she wasn’t completely losing it, Azzi tilted her head, curls brushing her cheek, eyes bright with the kind of trouble that Paige secretly loved.

“Nice jersey,” Paige said under her breath, fighting the smile curling at the corners of her mouth.

Azzi bit back her own grin. “Matches my girlfriend.”

Paige stared at her and raised her eyebrows fully amused by her cheeky girlfriend.

“Can’t help it you like when I wear your stuff.” Azzi added, deciding to be a bit of a menace today.

“You have no idea.”

“Hmm… I think I do.” Azzi purposely acted like she was thinking, before showing off a full on dimpled smile.

KK chose that exact moment to look up, eyes flicking between them, and immediately started grinning like she knew everything.

Azzi didn’t look away. Not for a second. “Good luck later”

Paige murmured. “Thanks baby”

Paige was already gone for her. Had been. Would be.

Forever.

⋆⋅☼⋅⋆ ─── ─── ⋆⋅☼⋅⋆ ─── ─── ⋆⋅☼⋅⋆

The arena was clearing out, postgame noise buzzing around them, Paige just finished taking pictures with fans and the UConn team who came to watch, she can finally pay full attention towards her cute girlfriend who waited patiently but clearly was in a hurry to go.

Paige already knew what was coming. They’d talked about it, planned around it, understood it.

But it still never get’s easy.

“I gotta head to New York,” Azzi said gently, eyes watching Paige’s face like she could already sense the shift. “Fanatics thing.”

Paige nodded, letting out a soft breath. “Yeah. I know.”

She wasn’t mad. Not really. Just that low, familiar ache curling in her chest, the part of her that hated goodbyes, even temporary ones. She understood, but it didn’t mean she liked it.

Azzi tilted her head, searching her girlfriend’s blue eyes. “You good?”

“I’m fine,” Paige murmured. “I just… I wish I could come with you. Or drive you. Or Something.”

Azzi smiled, small and knowing. “I know you do. But you’ve got your own stuff.”

“Yeah.” Paige’s jaw clenched lightly. “I know.”

It wasn’t dramatic. It wasn’t some meltdown. Just that quiet, frustrating feeling of wanting to be in two places at once and not being able to.

But Paige had been here before. They had been here before.

Azzi reached out, fingers curling softly around Paige’s wrist, grounding her. “I’ll meet you in DC. I promise.”

“That’s like a whole week away.”

“It’s in two days P.”

“Feels like a week.” Paige grumbled.

Azzi pressed a soft kiss to the corner of Paige’s mouth. “You’re so dramatic.”

“You love that I’m dramatic.”

Azzi grinned. “Yeah, I do.”

Paige pulled Azzi in for a hug. breathed her in, holding her tight, not wanting to let go but knowing she had to. “Text me when you arrive.”

“Obviously.”

“And facetime me before you go to sleep.”

“Mhm.”

Paige nodded again, slower this time, letting her thumb run across Azzi’s knuckles. “Okay… you can go now baby, good luck on your fanatics event”

Azzi nodded slowly, pulling away. “See you P.”

“See you baby.”

[acid-ixx]

Baby bird, angel,,,,,,what else we got?

masterlist !

reblogs and interactions are encouraged and appreciated.

to bruce, you are his precious, sometimes his treasure. he'd even unironically call you his baby in front of the press. and most of the time, if he describes you to his co-workers in the justice league who knew of your identity, he will always say "my child" with a dark undertone that you are not to available for adoption even if it was you who insists that anyone else can take you under their care, other than your actual family.

alfred, in all his years of caring for you, is very much settled into calling you his own child. although it's a given that he refers to bruce's children as a "(young) master", whenever it's just the two of you in the same room, with you needing a semblance of solace, alfred would always grasp your shoulders and comfort you with kind words and affirmations, starting his sentence with "(name), my child."

dick obviously calls you his baby bird and only he has the trademark to do so, nobody else has the privilege and not even your other siblings. he's obviously overbearing, chirping out that nickname in an irritingly higher octave whenever he gets some sort of cuteness overload just by squishing your cheeks. one way to know if dick is in the same room as them is if you hear a man squeal your nickname.

babs, in addition to dick, probably calls you birdy or something cheesy like her little hatchling. you have no idea where she gets those nicknames but she's better in so many levels compared to the eldest because she doesn't often call you those, not unless she's in a really good mood. though you should be scared if she ever calls you by your full, government name; one where wayne is the surname and not your mother's.

jason calls you his angel because unlike his other siblings, you're the only one who has never wielded a weapon against anyone (and if you ever do, he'd pretend like that never happened, excusing your actions for self defense or something else). like a buy-one-take-one package, he always ruffles your hair whenever he refers you that nickname. there's times, though, where he says it in a possessive tone, daring criminals that if they try to even touch a single centimeter of your skin then they'd better pray that his angel has enough mercy to not prosecute him for whatever comes next.

tim doesn't really call you any nicknames, and you're so grateful for that. but what he does have of you are multiple logs of all the times you call him his name or a nickname, deluding himself into thinking you'll always say his name with such a fond voice and a huge smile. and it doesn't take a genius to find out just how easy he folds if you ask him for a favor with a sweet tone, calling him 'timmie' or something cringier. but hey, as long as it gets you what you want.

damian isn't the type to settle for nicknames, but he's the one that often refers to you as "my older sibling", "my blood sibling" and every other term that refers to you as his. he's very much like bruce in the regard that even if he has to share with his siblings, you will always, and always be damian's beloved older sibling. there's times, though, that he would secretly dream of a day where you would be comfortable enough to call him your baby brother.

steph and duke are the most normal ones when it comes to calling you a nickname, resorting to calling you their bro or sis. but sometimes steph loves to tease you by calling you the nicknames babs gives you, to the point that it's now steph who calls you her hatchling in a sing-song voice, and it'd be duke who'll eventually create a tune for your own nickname. the entire melody would then be an established hum for the entire manor and it takes you all your sanity and alfred cooking your favorite dish to not strangle the living hell out of those two.

cass also is another case of your sibling not having any nicknames for you, but she does associate you with the word love, someone who she should protect with all her heart and you'll find her one day calling you that nickname. the longer she becomes closer with you, the more she's bound to call you her beloved sibling, too, just like how bruce calls you his beloved child. and if it's not your name that she tries to call, it would instead be the tune that duke invented.

[drabbletron]

could we maychance get swerve with 1 on the smut prompt list 🗣🧍‍♂️

Can't Stop, Won't Stop: Swerve X Reader SMUT

|| Ngl, I forgot I finished this and never got around to posting it lmao! I've never written crying during sex, but I hope this is okay! I also really wanted to write some thigh stuff? idk, but it was worth a shot. Enjoy! ||

🔞 MINORS DNI 🔞

Already your thighs are coated in transfluid, and you've hardly let him touch you beyond making out and fondling. The soft feel of your thighs around his spike already driving him into overstimulation. How long has he been going at this? He can hardly keep track with how lightheaded he feels. It's like his sensor net has been set on fire and he keeps looping through too much and not enough. What you assume to be tears are dribbling down Swerve's face from under his visor and dripping down your calf as he holds your legs to his chassis, ankles crossed over one another against his shoulder.

"Just. Can't. Stop!"

Each thrust punctuates his words and he's overloading again onto your stomach and thighs once again.

The fresh wave of heat brings you to near climax yourself. Your skin is already so so sensitive and he's right there, just fucking you right above where you want him most. If he'd just shimmy down a little lower, you'd be in ecstasy, but he just won't. Does he want you to beg? Maybe his brain is too fried to think straight. You can feel your sex throbbing as he starts humping again, his grip on your thigh bruising as his other servo keeps your ankles together, and his spike gliding easily against you from being lubed by his copious amounts of transfluid.

"I can't believe you're letting me do this! Agh! I bet being inside you is going to be amazing! Oh Primus, I've been thinking about this for too long, y'know?"

On and on does he go as he keeps thrusting. His hips keep a snappy rhythm, and his voice raises octaves the faster he goes until it dissolves into static as he finishes a third time. So far, the berth below you is drenched in him and it creeps over your chest a bit when he hikes your lower half up higher.

"Swerve, please...!"

"Ah-- 'm sorry! You just feel so good and I-I want to make you feel good too," the slippery head of his spike continues to pump through your thighs with a quickness, "but your thighs are so fragging soft!! Nngh!"

Doesn't he know that if he just aimed downward that he'd be inside of you? It's right there! Maybe if you just-- OH there it is!

You scoot yourself down the berth and angle your hips up ever so slightly in his grip, and the lack of friction lets him suddenly slip down the apex of your thigh to grind deliciously over your sex and thank the stars above for the ridges on his fat spike because they stroke you just right! You dissolve into a moaning mess and toss your head back, saying his name like a song. It's hard not to arc your back, but bracing your hands against the berth helps to stabilize you to take more of his frantic pacing.

Swerve can feel the red-hot heat of your core and it leads to a fresh wave of tears, bigger and wetter, that fall over your legs.

"Frag is that your-- Ah! So warm! I bet you're so tight 'n soft! Wanna be in you so bad, please?!"

You can't even care that he's losing his mind now. You'll deal with that later after this is over, but right now, you need to get yours. Just hearing the sticky sounds of his thighs slapping your ass mixing with the wet schlick schlick schlick of his spike gliding through your thighs and against your sex is enough to bring you to the brink. Combine that with seeing his cable ravaging you and having that thickness running over you stomach, and you're finishing right along with him.

"Swerve-- 'm gonna...!"

"Me too--!"

With heavy sobs Swerve drives himself hard through your thighs and hot, pink transfluid pours like a fountain from his tip. The warmth oozes over your thighs and melts into your sex as you climax, core pulsing. He doesn't let go of you though, and you know you'll have marks tomorrow with how tight he's holding you.

This must be the last time for the night because Swerve's humping, twitchy as it is, has finally died down as he catches his breath.

"'That... that was... oh, damn...! We just -- and I – FRAG, that was awesome!"

Face still wet with lubricant, he looks down at you grinning hard before leaning in to kiss you. With a breathless laugh you kiss back.

"Just stick it in next time, will ya?"

[luckyroll3]

Thank You, Daddy Chapter 1

Masterlist and Summary

Warnings: This work of fiction is intended for 18+ audiences only. Includes explicit sexual content, graphic language, sex work, power dynamics, daddy kink, possessive behavior, etc. Author chooses to not extensively tag in order to preserve some elements of storytelling.

Word Count: 7,496

The sleek black SUV limo glides to a stop on the curb like a shark in dark water, and your pulse quickens—not from nerves, but anticipation. Jisung never keeps you waiting; the door swings open before you can reach for the handle, and there he is, a boyish grin contradicting the wealth that surrounds him. His eyes light up when they land on you, taking in your coral-colored crop top and black skinny jeans, that familiar spark that makes this feel less like work and more like pleasure with a paycheck attached.

"You look fucking incredible," he says, voice dropping an octave as he pulls you inside, the door barely closing before his mouth claims yours.

His kiss tastes like mint and the expensive Japanese whiskey he favors; it’s familiar, intoxicating. Your fingers thread through his soft hair as you settle into his lap, the buttery leather seats creaking beneath your combined weight. Five years of knowing exactly how to touch each other has its benefits.

"Missed me?" you ask against his lips, already knowing the answer.

Jisung laughs, his hands finding the curve of your ass. "Always fishing for compliments."

"It's not fishing when I know I'll catch something."

The limo pulls away from the curb, privacy partition already raised; it’s another thing you appreciate about Jisung: his attention to details that matter. His hands slide up your sides, thumbs brushing the underside of your breasts through your shirt. “No bra. Just the way I like it,” he says before kissing your neck.

"So," you pull back slightly, "what's this mystery adventure you've been texting about all week?"

His eyes dance with mischief. "Remember when I asked what you did for fun as a kid?"

"And I told you I never really had time for—"

"For childish things," he finishes. "Yeah, you’ve mentioned. Well, today we're reclaiming your lost childhood. Prepare for sensory overload and possibly some bruised pride."

Twenty minutes later, you're staring at the entrance to Velocity Park, an adult playground disguised as a high-end entertainment complex. The place buzzes with energy—couples, groups of friends, corporate team-building exercises all mingling in a space designed to make adults forget their responsibilities.

"You're either very thoughtful or making a statement about my maturity level," you say, eyebrow raised.

Jisung grabs your hand, tugging you toward the entrance. "Can't it be both?"

Inside, he bypasses the line, a quick word with staff guiding you straight to the go-kart track. Not the kiddie version you'd expect—these are custom-built machines with surprising power. Your competitive nature flares instantly.

"I hope you're not a sore loser," you say, selecting a sleek black kart while Jisung opts for electric blue.

He snorts. "That's rich coming from someone who threw her cards at me when I beat her at strip poker last month."

"I was redistributing the deck. Totally different."

The attendant explains the controls, but you're barely listening, already plotting the precise moments you'll overtake him on the curves. When the light turns green, you slam the accelerator, the kart lurching forward with unexpected force.

Jisung's laugh carries over the roar of engines as he pulls alongside you. "Careful, killer—it's not just about speed!"

But it is, and you're good at it. The track blurs as you take each curve with increasing confidence, the rush of competing—of winning—flooding your system. Jisung stays close, occasionally pulling ahead before you reclaim the lead, the back-and-forth adding a delicious tension.

"On your left, slow poke!" you shout as you slide past him on a hairpin turn, the kart skidding dangerously close to the barrier.

"Jesus Christ," he calls back, voice pitching higher. "Did you drive getaway cars in another life?"

You throw your head back laughing, the wind whipping your hair into a frenzy. When was the last time you did something this pointless and perfect? Your clients usually want restaurants, hotels, theater boxes—controlled environments where they can showcase their wealth. This is raw, childish fun, and it lights you up from inside.

Three laps later, you cross the finish line a half-second before him, victorious and breathless.

"You cheated," he accuses when you climb out, legs wobbly with adrenaline.

"How exactly does one cheat at go-karts?"

"By looking so fucking hot that I couldn't concentrate." His hand finds the small of your back, warm through the thin material of your shirt. "Next challenge. Unless you're scared?"

The batting cages await, and here Jisung has the advantage. The mechanical pitcher whirs to life, sending balls flying at speeds that make you flinch.

"Here," he says, standing behind you, arms encircling your body as he positions your hands on the bat. "Elbow up. Eyes on the ball. Swing through, not at."

His chest presses against your back, his breath warm against your ear. The position is deliberately intimate, his hips aligned with yours, guiding your movement in a way that mimics other, more private rhythms. The bat feels foreign in your hands, but his confidence bleeds into you.

"Ready?" he murmurs, and you nod.

The first ball flies past untouched. The second you clip weakly. By the fifth, with Jisung's steady guidance, you connect solidly, sending the ball ricocheting off the back net with a satisfying clang.

"I did it!" You turn in his arms, face flushed with unexpected pride.

His eyes soften. "Quick learner. Always have been."

The comment hangs between you, loaded with five years of history—of learning his body, his preferences, the exact pressure that makes him groan your name. You've been a quick study in all the ways that matter to your livelihood, but Jisung has always appreciated the skill rather than taking it for granted.

"Your turn," you say, stepping aside. "Show me how it's done, big shot."

He takes the bat, shifting into a practiced stance. Three perfect hits later, he tosses you a wink. "Some of us had normal childhoods with Little League and pizza parties."

"Some of us had to grow up fast." The words slip out before you can filter them, more honest than you usually allow yourself to be with most of your clients.

Jisung's expression shifts, a flicker of something deeper before he masks it with another smile. "All the more reason to play now."

The arcade section of the park is a fever dream of neon and noise—classic cabinets mixed with modern racing simulators and virtual reality stations. Jisung feeds a ridiculous amount of money into a machine that converts cash to a playing card, then drags you to a two-player shooting game.

"Winner gets a kiss," he declares, aiming the plastic rifle to select his character.

"And what does the loser get?"

His grin turns wolfish. "A better kiss."

You lose the first round deliberately, earning a gentle press of lips that leaves you wanting. The second game—air hockey—you dominate, grabbing the front of his shirt afterward to deliver a kiss that lingers, your tongue pushing against his before retreating.

"Fuck," he breathes when you pull away. "Maybe I should let you win more often."

Game after game, you trade victories and kisses, each one growing more heated than the last. Between rounds, secrets spill easier—he tells you about a new acquisition his company is eyeing, you share a story about your first client that you've never told anyone else. It's the strange intimacy that comes from knowing this isn't love, this isn't forever, this is just an honest exchange of money and time that somehow, over the years, has cultivated genuine affection, and surprisingly, friendship.

By the time you both stumble back to the waiting limo, your lips are swollen and your body thrums with need. The door barely closes before Jisung is on you, his usually playful demeanor sharpened into something hungrier.

"Tell the driver to take the long way," you murmur against his mouth as his hands work at the button of your jeans. "We're not nearly done playing."

"Already did." His fingers slide beneath the waistband of your underwear, finding you wet and ready.

"Always thinking ahead."

Your jeans and underwear disappear in a tangle of limbs and breathless laughter as he positions you on the seat, kneeling on the floor between your spread thighs. This intimacy—his mouth on you—is a privilege you grant to very few clients. But Jisung has earned your trust (and your real name), and more importantly, he knows exactly how to make you fall apart.

His tongue traces lazy circles around your clit, taunting rather than giving you what you need. You thread your fingers through his hair, tugging impatiently.

"Someone's eager," he murmurs against your sensitive flesh, the vibration of his voice sending shivers up your spine.

"Someone's a tease," you counter, lifting your hips in silent demand.

He laughs, then relents, sucking your clit between his lips with just the right pressure. Your head falls back against the seat, a moan escaping before you can contain it. Jisung knows your body like a familiar instrument—when to go slow, when to speed up, when to slip two fingers inside you and curl them just so.

"Fuck, right there," you gasp as the tension builds, your thighs trembling on either side of his head.

He doesn't stop, doesn't slow, his eyes locked on your face as pleasure crests and breaks through you in waves. Before you've fully recovered, he's reaching for his wallet, extracting a condom while you watch through half-lidded eyes.

"Come here," he says, voice rough with want as he settles back on the seat, pants pushed down just enough to free his cock.

You straddle him, rolling the condom down his length before positioning him at your entrance. The first slow slide of him inside you pulls matching groans from both your throats. Your bodies find a rhythm as old as time, unhurried yet urgent, the privacy glass and tinted windows creating a cocoon of shared desire.

"You feel so fucking good," he murmurs, hands gripping your hips to guide your movements. "Always so good for me." 

Words fall away as pleasure builds again, his thumb finding your clit, circling in time with your joined movements. When you cum again, he follows seconds later, his face buried in your neck, breath hot against your skin.

Afterward, as you both straighten your clothes, a comfortable silence settles between you. This is why Jisung remains one of your favorite clients—the sex is never mechanical, never just a transaction. There's genuine connection in the way he looks at you, even knowing exactly what this is.

"So," you say, fixing your lipstick in a compact mirror, "same question as always. Why don't you have a girlfriend yet, Sungie? Most women would kill to date someone like you—fun, spontaneous, and definitely not lacking in certain departments." You raise an eyebrow suggestively.

It's a dance you've done before, this conversation. Part teasing, part genuine curiosity.

Jisung sighs, running a hand through his disheveled hair. "You know why. Every woman I meet, I'm wondering: is she laughing at my jokes because I'm funny, or because I'm worth eight figures? Does she want me, or what I can buy her?"

"I only want you for your money," you reply with a wink, the honesty refreshing after the usual games people play.

He laughs, pulling an envelope from his jacket and handing it to you. "But at least you're upfront about it. That's worth something."

The envelope feels heavy—more than your usual fee, which isn't surprising. Jisung always tips generously. You tuck it into your purse without counting; he's never shortchanged you.

The limo slows as it approaches the nightclub where you're meeting Eva. Jisung pulls you close for one last kiss, slow and sweet, at odds with the heated exchanges from minutes ago.

“Sungie, thank you so much for tonight. I had a blast,” you say before kissing him again.

"I'm glad. I’m out of town for a couple weeks," he says, forehead resting against yours. "Conference in Singapore. But I'll call when I'm back."

"You better," you reply, squeezing his hand before sliding toward the door. "Who else is going to let me kick their ass at go-karts?"

“Yes, that’s the story that we’ll go with; that I let you win,” he says with a grin. 

“Your secret’s safe with me, Mr. Han,” you say with a wink as you slap his face playfully.

His laughter follows you out of the car, a warm sound that lingers even as the limo pulls away and you turn toward the pulsing lights of the club. For a moment, you allow yourself to feel something dangerously close to fondness before tucking it away behind your professional smile. After all, business is business, no matter how good the perks might be.

The club throbs with bass that crawls beneath your skin, a heartbeat you can taste in the back of your throat. Bodies move in the dim light like creatures underwater, slow-motion silhouettes against the strobing blues and purples. As you maneuver through the crowd, you take a peak in the envelope and smile at what you see. You shove it to the bottom of your purse and continue to move forward. You spot Eva at your usual corner booth—one perfectly manicured hand raised in greeting, the other wrapped around a martini glass that catches light like a diamond. Her smile, unlike the manufactured ones you both perfect for clients, is genuine, sharp with the promise of unfiltered conversation.

"Look what the cat dragged in," she calls over the music as you slide into the booth beside her. "And looking thoroughly fucked, I might add."

You laugh, running a hand through your hair that, despite your best efforts in the limo's mirror, still bears evidence of Jisung's fingers. "That obvious?"

"Only to me, darling." She signals the server with a graceful flick of her wrist. "Champagne for my friend. She's celebrating."

"Am I?" you ask, dropping your purse on the leather seat.

Eva's eyes, lined with perfect wings of black, crinkle at the corners. "Well, you're either celebrating getting laid or celebrating a generous client. Either way, bubbles are required."

The champagne arrives in flutes that sing when you clink them together. Eva's presence is always welcomed—seventeen years in the business has given her an unshakable confidence, a way of existing in spaces that suggests the world is lucky to have her in it.

"So," she leans forward, voice dropping to a conspiratorial level despite the music, "tell me about your adventure date. Was it the usual hotel suite and room service?"

You can't help the smile that spreads across your face. "Go-karts."

"I'm sorry, what?"

"Go-karts. And batting cages. And arcade games." You take a sip of champagne, letting the bubbles fizz on your tongue. "Jisung decided I needed to reclaim my lost childhood or some shit."

Eva's laughter is rich, unrestrained. "That boy is truly one of a kind. Most of these men can barely imagine women enjoying anything beyond shopping and spa days."

"He's definitely not like the others." You trace a water ring on the table's surface. "He tipped me an extra three grand, too." 

"For go-karts? What would he pay for actual work?"

You kick her shin lightly under the table. "Hey, those batting cages were serious business."

"I'm sure they were," Eva smirks. "Almost as serious as that app he built for you, hmm? The one that keeps all your clients neatly organized and your real identity and info protected?"

The app in question, AuVel, was Jisung's creation, designed for you many years ago after you'd mentioned the difficulties of managing client communications securely. A tech genius with too much time and money on his hands, he'd built you a custom platform where clients could contact you and send payments without ever accessing your personal information. He named it Aurum Velum, the latin for Gold Veil. You loved the name so much, you incorporated it as your official business name.

"It's a good system," you acknowledge. "Wish I could patent it and sell it to every girl in the business."

"You wouldn't need to work anymore if you did. You should talk to him about a partnership." Eva finishes her martini and sets the glass aside precisely. "Clients like Jisung don't come along often, you know. In almost two decades, I've had exactly one who treated me like a person first and a fantasy second."

"Tell me about it. Half the time with Jisung, I forget I'm on the clock." You pause, considering. "It's nice, but also—"

"Dangerous," Eva supplies, knowing you too well. "Start confusing the transaction with real connection, and that's when lines blur."

"Says the woman who married a client and then divorced him two years later."

"Exactly. Learn from my expensive mistakes." She taps her freshly refilled glass against yours. "But seriously, enjoy the Jisungs. They make all the assholes worth enduring."

Your phone buzzes against the table, the screen lighting up with a notification from AuVel. The interface is sleek and secure—one of the many reasons Jisung remains your favorite client. Eva's eyes flick to it, then back to you with raised eyebrows as she reads the name upside down.

"Christopher Bahng," she says, voice lilting with interest. "The new one? The finance guy?"

You nod, swiping to open the message. “Speaking of assholes…,” you mumble.

Christopher is a recent addition to your client roster—only seven sessions over the past few months, but memorable enough. A finance mogul with a reputation for getting exactly what he wants when he wants, he approaches sex the way he approaches business: with precision, control, and undeniable skill.

The message is characteristically detailed:

Friday, 8pm. Wear the black Louboutins, that Versace dress with the low back, and red lace underneath. And use the perfume I bought you, not the one you wore last time. I'll send a car. Plan to stay overnight.

You roll your eyes, unable to help yourself.

The message continues:

Don't make plans for Saturday morning. Last time you were in a rush. I don't like rushes. Remember, the payment structure we discussed. Double for overnights. I’ll also pay extra to cover your additional time on Saturday.

"Let me guess," Eva leans her chin on her hand, "he's telling you exactly what to wear, how to smell, and probably what to think?"

You slide the phone toward her so she can read for herself. "The man has opinions."

Eva's eyebrows climb higher with each line. "Demanding little thing, isn't he? Please tell me the 'payment structure' makes his attitude worth tolerating."

"Usually about five figures per date," you reply, taking another sip of champagne. "Plus gifts. Last time it was a Cartier watch, with diamonds."

Eva lets out a low whistle. "Okay, I withdraw my judgment. For that kind of money, he can have opinions."

"I draw the line at thinking for me, though. If he wasn't hot as hell and fucking fantastic in bed, I wouldn't bother," you say, retrieving your phone and typing a brief confirmation. "He’s like Jisung. He makes sure I cum every time. The control freak routine would be intolerable otherwise."

"And yet I sense a 'but' coming."

You hesitate, fingers hovering over the screen. "There's something about him. The way he looks at me—like he's cataloging every reaction, every breath. Like he's solving a puzzle."

"Or identifying weaknesses," Eva says, voice gentler than her words.

"Maybe." You lock your phone, setting it aside. "Also, he wants me to call him 'daddy,' and it should be creepy but somehow isn't?"

Eva's laugh bursts out suddenly. "Oh honey, you've got a kink you didn't know about."

"Shut up," you mutter, feeling heat rise to your cheeks. "It's just… the way he says it: 'Tell daddy what you need, baby girl,’” you mimic in Christopher’s voice. “It's not infantilizing; it's just... fucking hot."

"The controlling ones often are," Eva's expression sobers slightly. "That's what makes them dangerous. The good sex blinds you to the red flags."

You wave a dismissive hand. "I see all the flags. And I can handle Christopher Bahng. He's no different from any other wealthy man who thinks his money buys ownership. He just happens to be better at everything than most of them."

"Mmhmm." Eva doesn't sound convinced. "Just be careful with the possessive ones. They start wanting exclusivity, then they want to 'save you' from the work, then suddenly you're dependent on them and can't see the cage they've built."

You think of Christopher's intense gaze, the way his fingers wrap around your wrist when he guides you, firm but never bruising. The control in him recognizes something in you—a desire to surrender, but only on your terms.

"Is exclusivity really that bad? Besides," you say, deflecting from Eva's too-accurate assessment, "I've been thinking about scaling back anyway. The daily grind of rotating clients is getting exhausting."

Eva's eyes sharpen with interest. "Scaling back how?"

"Maybe finding one serious arrangement. Going back to sugar babying rather than escorting." You trace the rim of your glass with one finger. "One client who covers all the expenses. Simpler."

"Sugar babying is just escorting with extra steps and fewer protections," Eva says, not unkindly. "You know that, right? You're still trading companionship and sex for money, just with more emotional labor attached."

"But less administrative work," you counter. "No juggling schedules, no switching personas between three clients in one day. Just one man, one set of preferences to learn, one payment arrangement. That’s how I got into all of this anyway." You think back to your high school years, when you let men gift you things simply for being available to them; when your wealthy classmate’s dad was willing to ‘sponsor’ you simply for handjobs while he complained about his spoiled wife, his entitled kids, and his demanding boss.

Eva studies you, her gaze penetrating in the way that always makes you feel transparent. "You're not catching feelings for this Christopher, are you? Because that would be—"

"God, no," you interrupt, too quickly to be entirely convincing. "I barely know him. I've only seen him a handful of times."

"And he's already got you considering exclusivity."

"It's not about him specifically. It could just as easily be Jisung. He’d probably be up for it," you insist, though the image of Christopher's satisfied smile when you call him 'daddy' flashes unbidden in your mind. "It's about simplifying my life. I'm just tired." You sigh. “But not tired enough for a nine-to-five,” you add, the thought making you shudder.

Eva reaches across the table, her warm hand covering yours. "Listen to me. The Christophers of the world don't simplify anything. Men like that—men who need control, who give instructions down to the shade of your underwear—they complicate everything. They're not looking for a sugar baby; they're looking for a possession."

The word strikes uncomfortably close to how Christopher's hands feel on your body—claiming, marking, owning. But there's something else there too, a reverence that feels genuine.

"I know what I'm doing," you say, squeezing her hand before withdrawing. "And if Christopher, or any john, wants exclusivity, he'll have to make it worth my while."

"That's my girl," Eva's smile returns, though concern still lingers in her eyes. "Make them pay for every inch they take."

"Always do." You raise your glass in a toast. "To men who pay our bills without knowing our real names."

"And to women who know their worth," Eva adds, clinking her glass against yours.

The conversation shifts to other clients, other stories. Eva recounts a particularly amusing encounter recently with a nervous tech CEO who couldn't perform until she pretended to be impressed by his cryptocurrency investments. You share the latest update on a long-term client whose wife has grown suspicious and started following him. The night unfolds in comfortable rhythms of laughter and shared understanding that only comes from walking the same treacherous path.

But even as you lose yourself in conversation, your awareness keeps returning to the phone beside you, to Christopher's message waiting for a more detailed response. To the possibility of something simpler yet more complicated all at once. Eva's warning echoes, but so does the memory of Christopher's voice in your ear, the weight of his body pressing you into silk sheets, and the surprising thrill of surrender.

Maybe Eva is right to be concerned. But maybe, just maybe, you're ready for a different kind of arrangement—one with higher stakes and deeper rewards. After all, you've always been good at playing the game. The question is whether you're prepared for what happens when the rules change.

****

You step from the car onto Christopher Bahng's driveway, where even the gravel seems deliberately arranged—each stone in its proper place. The mansion rises before you, all clean lines and angular shadows in the falling dusk, windows glowing with amber light that doesn't quite reach the manicured grounds. Unlike Jisung's playful world of arcade lights and go-kart engines, Christopher's domain whispers of wealth that doesn't need to announce itself—of power that assumes obedience. You smooth your Versace dress (black, the back cut low; precisely as requested) and inhale slowly, the perfume he selected wrapping around you like an expensive collar.

The double doors swing open before you reach them, revealing a foyer of gleaming marble and minimalist furnishings. A crystal chandelier throws fractured light across the space, each piece catching and multiplying the glow into something almost supernatural. Your Louboutins click against the floor, the sound crisp and echoing.

"Well, look who decided to grace us with her presence. Hi Noelle."

The voice using your alias comes from your left, where Hyunjin leans against a doorframe, his long body draped in tailored black pants and a simple white button-down with the sleeves rolled up. His appearance is striking, beautiful in that unreal way, with long, silky dark hair framing his face. Unlike Christopher's rigid posture, Hyunjin always looks like he's seconds away from sliding to the floor, bones made of something more fluid than the rest of humanity.

"Hyunjin," you smile, genuine pleasure warming your voice. Though you've only met him a few times before, there's something immediately disarming about Christopher's right-hand man, a casual warmth that contrasts sharply with his boss' intensity. "Keeping the fortress secure?"

"Always." He pushes off from the door frame with lazy grace, approaching to kiss your cheek. He smells expensive but understated, like everything else in this house. "Chris is finishing up a call. He said, and I quote, 'Make sure she's comfortable but don't get too comfortable.'"

You laugh, shaking your head. "Subtle as ever."

"The man has never encountered a boundary he didn't want to test." Hyunjin's eyes sparkle with mischief. "Including mine. I was supposed to be in Tokyo tonight, but apparently some minor crisis required my immediate attention."

"And was there actually a crisis?" you ask curiously.

"‘Crisis’ is debatable. Especially when it was resolved with a conference call he could have handled blindfolded." Hyunjin shrugs, no real annoyance in his tone. "But he likes his pieces arranged just so. Speaking of which," he reaches out to adjust a strand of your hair, tucking it behind your ear, "Perfect. Now I can leave without being accused of neglecting my duties." You laugh.

He steps back, calling over his shoulder toward a closed door down the hall. "She's here, looking spectacular. I'm leaving before you find another imaginary emergency for me to handle. Goodnight, Chris!"

A muffled response follows, too low to make out, but Hyunjin seems to understand the words perfectly, from years of similar conversations you guess, and he just rolls his eyes and gives you a conspiratorial wink.

"Good luck," he murmurs. "He's been unusually intense today. Even for him. I think he’s a bit nervous."

Before you can ask what that means, Hyunjin is gone, the front door closing quietly behind him. You're left alone in the vast foyer, save for a maid, Angela you think her name is, who materializes from a side corridor.

"Mr. Bahng will be with you shortly," she says, voice professional and rehearsed. "He's asked that you wait in the blue room upstairs."

When she makes a motion to take your overnight bag, you pull it onto your shoulder. “Oh, that’s okay. I got it, Angela. Thank you though.” She nods appreciatively before turning and walking towards the back.

You follow Angela up a sweeping staircase, past artwork that probably costs more than most people's homes. The house feels both lived-in and museum-like—everything precisely placed but somehow sterile, lacking the casual disorder that marks a space as truly inhabited. Angela leads you to a bedroom done in shades of navy and silver, with floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the city lights below.

"Can I bring you anything while you wait, Miss Noelle?" she asks, hovering by the door.

"No, thank you." You offer a smile she doesn't return before she slips away, closing the door silently behind her.

Alone, you take stock of the room—the same one Christopher brought you to on your previous engagements at his house. A California king bed dominates the space, its sheets so precisely tucked you could bounce a quarter off them. The furniture is minimal but exquisite, each piece looking custom-made and untouched by human hands.

You move to the full-length mirror in the corner, assessing your reflection. The dress hugs your curves exactly as it should, the backless design revealing a teasing expanse of skin. Your hair falls in soft waves, framing your face in a way that looks effortless but took forty minutes to achieve. You reapply your lipstick—deep red, matching the lace beneath your dress as instructed.

Christopher's attention to detail would be unnerving if it weren't so predictable. Every instruction serves a purpose in the scene he's constructing—you're just one element in his carefully orchestrated fantasy. The thought should bother you more than it does, but there's something freeing about the clarity of his desires. No guesswork, no shifting expectations. Just precise requirements with generous compensation.

The door opens without a knock, and there he is. Christopher Bahng in the flesh, exactly as commanding as you remember. He fills the doorway with presence rather than size, his tailored suit emphasizing the lean strength of his body. His hair is perfectly styled, dark waves combed back to reveal his forehead, broad nose, and the sharp angles of his face. But it's his eyes that hold you—intense, evaluating, missing nothing.

"You're punctual," he says, voice low and smooth as he steps into the room, closing the door behind him. "I appreciate that."

Not 'hello.' Not 'you look beautiful.' Just acknowledgement of compliance. And yet, a flicker of heat ignites within you at his approval.

"I aim to please," you reply, watching his reflection approach yours in the mirror.

He stops behind you, close enough that you can feel the heat of him without touching. His eyes meet yours in the reflection, then deliberately travel down your body, assessing.

"The dress is perfect," he says after a moment, hands coming to rest lightly on your shoulders. "Turn around."

You do, facing him fully now. This close, you can smell his cologne—subtle, woody, expensive. His fingers trace the edge of your jawline, tilting your face up to his.

"And the perfume. Much better than last time." His thumb brushes your lower lip, smudging the freshly applied lipstick. "This shade suits you."

"Thank you, Daddy," you say, the words slipping out with practiced ease that still feels thrilling. A test, to see how quickly you can break his composure.

His pupils dilate slightly—the only tell in his otherwise controlled expression. "Good girl."

His mouth claims yours then, firm but not rough. Christopher doesn't kiss like he's starving; he kisses like he's savoring, each movement deliberate and commanding. His hands slide from your face down your neck, over your shoulders to your bare back, following the plunging line of your dress to where fabric meets skin at your lower spine.

"I had plans for dinner," he murmurs against your lips as he guides you backward toward the bed. "But I find I'm hungry for something else first."

His fingers find the hidden zipper of your dress, lowering it with agonizing slowness. The fabric loosens, slipping down your shoulders to pool at your feet. You stand before him in nothing but red lace underwear and the black Louboutins, exactly as he requested.

"You had me dress up just to undress me?" you ask amused, a hint of challenge in your voice. "We could have saved time if you'd just asked me to arrive naked."

A rare smile curves his lips, softening the sharpness of his features with the appearance of his dimples. "I enjoy the process. The anticipation." His fingers trace the edge of your lace bra. "Besides, you wear clothes beautifully. It would be a waste not to appreciate that before removing them."

There's something disarming about his honesty, about the genuine admiration in his gaze. Christopher might be controlling, but he's never made you feel like an object. More like a painting he wants to study from every angle, uncovering layers and details others might miss.

He guides you to the edge of the bed, the back of your knees hitting the mattress before you sit. With methodical precision, he removes his jacket, folding it neatly over a nearby chair before loosening his tie.

"Leave the shoes on," he instructs as his fingers work at his shirt buttons.

You lean back on your elbows, crossing one leg over the other to showcase your toned legs in the heels. "Anything else you'd like me to keep on, Daddy?"

His eyes darken at the deliberate provocation. "Just your attitude. I enjoy it more than you might think."

This is different from your previous encounters—there's a new tension in the air, an undercurrent you can't quite name. Christopher undresses with the same efficiency he approaches everything, revealing a body that speaks of disciplined workouts and careful maintenance. No tattoos, no unnecessary adornments. Just lean muscle and smooth skin that you already know tastes faintly of salt and expensive, imported soap.

When he's down to his boxer briefs, you uncross your legs. He approaches the bed, one knee pressing into the mattress between your legs. His hand slides up your calf, over your knee, along your inner thigh—a slow journey that leaves goosebumps in its wake.

"Lie back," he says, voice rougher now. "Let me look at you properly."

You comply, sinking into the impossibly soft bedding as he hovers above you. His fingers trace the edge of your lace panties, dipping beneath the fabric to find you already wet.

"So responsive," he murmurs, satisfaction evident in his tone. "Always so ready for me."

It would be easy to fake enthusiasm with Christopher—to manufacture the moans and sighs that most clients expect. But there's no need for pretense when his fingers circle your clit with expert precision, when his mouth leaves a trail of heat down your neck to your collarbone. Your reaction is genuine, body arching into his touch as pleasure builds.

He takes his time undressing you completely, removing the panties first, then the lace bra with careful hands before lavishing attention on your breasts. Every touch feels calculated to draw maximum response—he's studied your body the way he studies markets, identifying pressure points and vulnerabilities with ruthless accuracy.

"Tell daddy what you need," he says against your skin, teeth grazing your nipple just hard enough to make you gasp.

“Shouldn’t that be my line?” you ask with a smirk.

“Technically.” His mouth engulfs your tit, sucking gently. “But I’d like to know, honestly, what you need today.” His mouth moves to the next breast.

"Mmm. You," you breathe, hands sliding into his hair, disrupting its perfect arrangement intentionally. "Inside me. Now."

A flicker of a smile crosses his face. "Demanding. I like that."

He reaches for a condom from the bedside drawer, rolling it on with practiced ease before positioning himself between your legs. The first push inside draws matching groans from both of you—the sensation of fullness, of perfect fit, never diminishes no matter how many times you've done this.

Christopher fucks the way he does everything else: controlled, precise. His rhythm is steady, his angle perfect, hitting exactly where you need him with each thrust. One hand grips your hip, the other braced beside your head, his eyes never leaving your face as he watches your pleasure build.

"Look at you, baby girl," he murmurs, voice strained with effort. "So perfect. Taking me so well."

The praise washes over you, unexpected heat blooming in your chest. There's something about the way Christopher sees you—not as a purchase or a fantasy, but as something worthy of his full attention—that hits differently than with other clients.

Your climax builds slowly, tension coiling tighter with each precise thrust. When it finally breaks, it's with an intensity that leaves you gasping, nails digging into the smooth skin of his back. He follows moments later, his controlled rhythm faltering as he presses deep inside you, a rare, unguarded expression crossing his face.

Afterward, he doesn't immediately pull away. Instead, he lowers himself to press a kiss to your forehead, your cheek, the corner of your mouth; tender gestures at odds with his usual cold efficiency. When he finally moves, it's with reluctance, his hand trailing along your side as if memorizing the curve of your waist.

The silence between you is comfortable as you both catch your breath. Christopher rises first, disappearing into the en-suite bathroom to dispose of the condom. When he returns, he brings a warm, damp towel, cleaning you with surprising gentleness before setting it aside.

"Stay there," he says, pulling on a pair of sweatpants before moving to a small bar in the corner of the room. "Water? Or something stronger?"

"Water is fine." You sit up, not bothering to cover yourself. Christopher has seen every inch of you already; modesty seems pointless. Particularly for an escort.

He returns with two glasses of water, handing one to you before sitting on the edge of the bed. His posture is relaxed but still controlled, like a predator at rest.

"I want to discuss something with you," he says after a moment, gaze direct as always.

"I gathered as much from Hyunjin's comment about you being intense today. And nervous?"

A slight frown crosses his face. "He talks too much."

"He cares about you," you counter, taking a sip of water. "It's nice. Having someone who looks out for you."

Christopher's expression softens marginally. "Yes. He's loyal, if annoyingly perceptive." He sets his glass down on the nightstand, turning to face you fully. "I've been thinking about our arrangement."

A flutter of apprehension mingles with curiosity in your chest. "Oh?"

"I want exclusivity," he says without preamble. "I want you available only to me, on my schedule, without the distraction of other clients."

The directness shouldn't surprise you—Christopher has never been one for beating around the bush—but the proposal still lands with unexpected weight. Exclusivity. The very thing you'd mentioned to Eva just days ago.

"That's a significant change," you say carefully, mind racing through implications. "And a significant loss of income for me."

"I would compensate you appropriately," he replies, as if it's the simplest thing in the world. "A monthly allowance, covering your rent, expenses, and considerably more. Plus continued gifts, travel when I require it, and any reasonable requests you might have."

You study his face, searching for the catch. "And in return?"

"Your time. Your availability. Your exclusivity." His hand reaches out to trace your collarbone, a possessive gesture that sends involuntary shivers down your spine. "No more fitting me between other appointments. No more checking your phone during our time together. No more condoms. Just you and me, on my terms."

Eva's warning echoes in your mind: The controlling ones often want exclusivity, then they want to 'save you' from the work, then suddenly you're dependent on them and can't see the cage they've built.

And yet, there's something appealing about the simplicity of it. One client. One set of expectations. Financial security without the constant hustle of managing multiple relationships.

"I'd need to think about it," you say, watching his reaction carefully. "That's a significant commitment."

Something flickers in his eyes—disappointment, perhaps, or simply impatience. But he nods once, sharply. "Of course. Consider it carefully. I don't make such offers lightly."

You reach for your underwear, suddenly feeling the need to be dressed for this conversation. The red lace feels less like a costume and more like armor as you pull it on.

"Why me?" you ask, genuinely curious. "You could have anyone. There are plenty of women who would jump at this arrangement without a professional background."

Christopher watches you put your bra on with that same intense focus, like he's memorizing each movement. "I don't want just 'anyone.' I want you." His directness is both flattering and unnerving. "You challenge me. You don't simper or pretend. When you call me 'Daddy,' it's with a hint of mockery that I find... refreshing."

You can't help but laugh at that, some of the tension dissipating. "Most men don't appreciate being mocked in bed."

"I'm not most men." He rises, moving to retrieve your dress from where it puddles on the floor. Instead of handing it to you, he holds it open, waiting for you to step into it. "And you're not most women."

As you slip your arms through the dress, his hands linger at your waist, turning you to face the mirror as he zips you up. Your reflection shows a woman who looks collected, professional—but your eyes reveal the turmoil beneath. Part of you wants to accept immediately, to secure this arrangement that aligns so perfectly with what you told Eva you wanted. Another part hears her cautions like warning bells.

"I'll let you know," you say finally, meeting his gaze in the mirror. "I need to consider logistics, expectations, details, rules."

His hands settle on your shoulders, a weight that feels both reassuring and constraining. "Of course. I respect thoroughness." He presses a kiss to the side of your neck, just below your ear. "But don't take too long. I'm not a patient man."

You turn in his arms, facing him directly. "And if I say no?"

"Then we continue as we have been, for as long as it remains mutually beneficial." No hesitation, no emotional manipulation. Just straightforward terms. "But I think you'll say yes."

"Confident, aren't you?"

The smile that curves his lips doesn't quite reach his eyes. "I recognize a good investment when I see one."

As you gather your purse and bag, preparing to leave despite his original request for you to stay overnight, you feel the weight of his proposal like a physical thing—a contract not yet signed but already changing the air between you. Christopher doesn't stop you from leaving early, merely watches as you check your appearance one last time in the mirror.

"Think about what you want, Noelle," he says as you reach the door. "Not what you think you should want, or what others tell you to want. What you want."

You pause, hand on the doorknob, struck by the unexpected insight. For all his control and precision, Christopher sees you—really sees you—in ways that make you feel both exposed and understood.

"I will," you promise, looking back at him one last time before stepping into the hallway, the heavy door closing behind you with a soft click that sounds strangely final. You walk down the stairs and out the door.

As the driver takes you home through the quiet city streets, you replay Christopher's offer in your mind, weighing options and consequences. Exclusive arrangement. Financial security. One client instead of many. Simplicity in exchange for increased dependence.

Eva would tell you to run. Jisung would probably say the same, in his gentle, concerned way.

But as the city lights blur outside your window, you can't help wondering if this is exactly what you've been looking for—a way to streamline your life without leaving the profession entirely. Christopher offers control, yes, but also clarity. Structure. Security.

A beep from your phone pulls you from your thoughts. It’s a notification for AuVel. You tap open the app to see that Christopher has transferred the full payment for your visit, despite you cutting the engagement short by fifteen hours. You send a message back: 

Thank you, daddy. 😘

You place your phone back in your bag and your thoughts quickly turn back to Christopher’s proposal.

The question isn't whether you'll say yes or no. The question is how long you'll make him wait for your answer—and what terms you'll negotiate to ensure you don't lose yourself in the process.

Because if there's one thing you've learned in this business, it's that everything has a price. The trick is making sure you're the one setting it.

[atticollateral]

squealing about this boop function. I literally made a sound akin to a squeaky toy. it brings me much joy. the cat paws. the animation. oh. oh. joy. i've never felt such joy in my life. in the same vein,

cat fun facts! (cat pics at the end)

Cat whiskers are immensely sensitive, about as sensitive as human fingertips! Cats use their whiskers to feel things around them and their face. Cats can actually get a type of information overload, called whisker fatigue, from their whiskers touching too many things/being touched too often, which is why it is recommended to use wide, flatter feeding + water dishes for your cats, and to avoid touching their whiskers unnecessarily.

Cat Paws have 3 types of Beans (paw pads)! Digital, Metacarpal and Carpal pads. The metacarpal pad is located in the center of the paw, the digital pads are located upon their main four toes, and the carpal pad is located on the staff of the cat's paws/legs (often referred to as their thumbs!) They also have what is called a "dew claw", located on the inner side of the front paws (which is more like a thumb if you ask me.) Cats also usually have 18 toes, but many cats have more than just 18. (usually when dew claws are present on the back paws)

Cat Paw Pads are also absorbent of shock and sound, and can feel texture, pressure and temperature! It's important to make sure your fluffy friend's paw pads aren't overgrown with fur, as this can affect their grip and effectiveness. (Most cats can do this themselves via grooming, but some cats can't!)

Cat's Ears have 36 muscles in the outer ear! (while we humans only have 6). They can rotate up to a full 180 degrees, helping cats pinpoint the location of sounds. Cats can amplify sound waves between 2,000 and 6,000 hertz, and can hear sounds up to 62 kHz, which is 1.6 octaves above humans, and 1 octave above that of a dog. Cats are wonderful creatures! We're very lucky to have them as our companions. If you have a fluffy friend, give 'em a lil pat for me, for being such an amazing creature. And, as a treat, here are some of my fluffy friends. (1 and 2) The late Ms. Mojo Catface, (grey cat in 3,4,5,6) Mr. Spyro Needlepaw and (black cat in 3,5,7) Kitka Meowski, The Russian Queen of Day Drinking Vodka.

[kathaelipwse]

Carved in Sin | Dokyeom

Masterlist

<<<previous chapter | next chapter>>>

Pairing: Art.student!reader x Mafia.Leader!DK

Trope: Forbidden love

Warnings: Slow Burn | Hidden Identity | Your Muse | Fluff | Flirting

Word Count: 0.6k

Chapter 3 – Smoke & Secrets

The atmosphere inside the private lounge had changed. The once warm, teasing energy that laced every interaction between you and Dokyeom had dissipated into something cold—unsettling. The man who returned wasn’t the same one who had sat so patiently as you sketched, playfully throwing in flirtatious remarks and watching you with amusement.

Now, his expression was hardened, his jaw clenched so tightly you thought he might crack a tooth. His broad shoulders were tense, fists curling and uncurling at his sides as he stalked back into the room. There was something dangerous in the way he carried himself now, something different.

You swallowed, your fingers tightening around your sketchpad. “You okay?”

Dokyeom didn’t answer immediately. He stopped a few feet away, gaze flickering toward you for just a second before exhaling sharply through his nose. “You should leave.”

The words were clipped, devoid of the usual smoothness his voice carried. He wasn’t asking—he was telling you.

Frowning, you lifted your chin. “But the sketch isn’t done yet—”

���I said, leave.”

His voice had dropped an octave, sending a ripple of unease through you. The teasing, cocky man from before was gone. This Dokyeom was cold, unreadable—his tone laced with something dark. Your chest tightened, confusion swirling in your stomach. Had you done something wrong? Had you overstayed your welcome?

Still, you held your ground. “Dokyeom, what’s wrong—”

He turned to you fully now, eyes narrowing slightly. “Don’t ask questions. Just go.”

It was the finality in his voice that had your resolve cracking. You weren’t sure if it was the intensity in his gaze or the way his fingers twitched at his sides as if barely holding something back, but something told you to listen. So, without another word, you packed your things and left, the eerie silence of the lounge pressing against your back like a heavy weight.

That night, as you lay in bed, the interaction replayed in your mind. The sudden shift in his mood. The way his posture screamed barely contained anger. The way he dismissed you without explanation.

It didn’t make sense.

Your phone buzzed on the nightstand, pulling you out of your thoughts. Groggily, you reached for it, but the moment you saw the notification, your breath caught in your throat.

Dokyeom: Meet me tomorrow. 10 PM. Club NOX.

A club?

Your fingers hovered over the keyboard, hesitation clawing at your chest. Did you really want to see him again after tonight? After the way he had shut you out without warning?

And yet… something inside you itched to know more. Who was he, really? What had caused that shift in him?

Before you could second-guess yourself, you typed a simple reply.

You: Okay.

The following night, Club NOX stood before you like a towering beast of neon lights and pounding bass. It was unlike any place you’d ever been to—exclusive, sleek, and radiating an air of power. People dressed in expensive clothing lined the entrance, but instead of waiting in line, you approached the security guard stationed by the door.

“I’m here to meet someone,” you said, your voice steadier than you felt. “Dokyeom.”

The guard didn’t even question you. With a simple nod, he stepped aside and let you through.

Your stomach churned. That was too easy.

Inside, the club was a sensory overload—deep red lighting cast everything in a sultry glow, the scent of liquor and expensive cologne thick in the air. People swayed to the heavy bassline, their laughter drowned by the music. Your gaze swept over the dance floor before shifting toward the upper level, where private booths overlooked the chaos below.

And there, in the VIP section, sat Dokyeom.

Your breath hitched.

He was leaned back against a plush couch, one arm draped over the backrest while the other held a cigarette between his fingers. A glass of dark liquor rested on the table before him, untouched. Surrounding him were men who looked just as imposing—sharp suits, unreadable expressions, the type of presence that made it clear they weren’t ordinary clubgoers.

But it was the way everyone around him seemed to wait—to listen—that sent a shiver down your spine.

He wasn’t just a guest here. He was someone important.

As if sensing your presence, Dokyeom’s gaze lifted from his drink. The moment his eyes locked onto yours, a smirk curled at the corner of his lips.

There he was.

The man who played games with words, who looked at you like you were a puzzle he wanted to figure out. But tonight, there was something else in his expression—something darker, heavier.

He gestured for you to come closer. Hesitantly, you made your way to him, every step feeling heavier than the last.

“Didn’t think you’d actually show up,” he mused as you finally reached him. His voice was smooth again, back to that signature drawl, but there was an edge to it tonight. “Brave, aren’t you?”

You crossed your arms. “You texted me.”

“Didn’t mean you had to listen.”

Your eyes flickered to the men sitting nearby. They were pretending not to listen, but you knew they were. The way their gazes subtly shifted toward Dokyeom, the way they leaned in slightly whenever he spoke—it was clear. He held some sort of authority here.

Your fingers clenched at your sides. “Why did you call me here?”

Dokyeom exhaled slowly, taking a final drag of his cigarette before putting it out. Then, with a tilt of his head, he studied you. “You wanted to know who I really am, didn’t you?”

Your heart pounded.

He stood, stepping closer—close enough that the scent of smoke and expensive cologne wrapped around you, intoxicating. His voice dropped lower, just above a whisper.

“Then watch carefully, sweetheart.”

Before you could react, one of the men seated nearby straightened, addressing him with a tone you didn’t expect.

“Boss, we have a situation.”

Boss?

The air shifted. You swore you could feel your stomach drop.

Dokyeom barely acknowledged the man, but in that moment, everything clicked. The control, the power, the effortless way he carried himself like he belonged here—because he did.

And you had just walked into his world without even realizing it.

...To Be Continued

---

Taglist: @lixisoul99

[tendertendrils1]

@rodent-anon and I were talking about rabbit Link the other day, so here is some grumpy rabbit Link for you for Easter.

Link couldn’t remember the last time he’d been in rabbit form for long enough for this to happen. But Ravio wanted “bun bun cuddles,” Link might have fallen asleep, and when they both woke up again enough time had passed for Link’s little rabbit stomach to growl in hungry agreement with the gurgle from Ravio’s own midsection. 

Sleepily mumbling about snacks, Ravio deposited Link on the floor, nowhere near the moon pearl resting high up on one of the cupboard shelves. The low clatters of Ravio digging through jars and half-awake self-directed commentary provided steady background noise while LInk himself woke up. 

His teeth itched. Rabbit instincts wanted to munch, but there was nothing inside Ravio’s Lorule home to graze on.

Link sniffed at the nearest crate. It smelled of damp. Slight mildew. He sneezed. 

Ravio’s unending prattle shot up several octaves in pitch. Definite cuteness overload range. Ugh. 

Link shook himself out. He moved across the floor, slowly exploring. The rug didn’t smell any better. Ravio’s voice returned to its usual pitch and tempo; his feet thumped across the floor, the sound of a knife against wood saying he’d found something to prepare for eating. 

For all the time Link spent in rabbit form while here in Lorule, most of it was in Ravio’s arms. He’d forgotten how big everything looked from down here. Crates rose up like the towering blocks made by the cane of somaria, the rough-hewn floor spreading out around him like an expansive landscape. Ravio’s table teetered on its spindly legs, the top towering well over Link’s fuzzy head. He skirted Ravio’s feet, ignoring the echoing sound of the knife. The smell of root vegetable wafted down and his stomach twinged, the itching in his teeth almost unbearable. 

The table legs smelled fine. He took a nibble. 

Oh, yes. That was good. Not the taste, exactly. But the feeling of something solid under his teeth, the satisfying way he could yank. Link went back in for another bite. Then another, his rabbit brain content to nibble away while Ravio worked above him. 

The sounds of the knife stopped. Almost done? Link couldn’t precisely place the scent of whatever he was chopping, but it smelled tantalizingly delicious. 

Ravio’s feet shuffled back, sending vibrations through the floor. 

“Mister Hero.” 

Bad tone. Link jerked, propelling himself out from under the table with one mighty leap before he quite realized what he’d done. 

“Don’t eat my furniture!”

Fuck you, I’m hungry! 

Link stomped. 

Ravio’s voice went incredulous. “Did you just–” 

Link stomped again. 

“Link.” There was a bit of a giggle to the words, now. How annoying. Ravio started towards him. His soft-soled boots seemed much bigger and louder like this. “If you’re going to chew on something, use one of the crates, not my only good furniture!”

The crates smell nasty! 

Ravio stooped down, clearly intending to pick him up. Link lept away, flicking his back feet up as he went. He didn’t need to be picked up like a misbehaving pet. Ravio snorted at him. But he stopped chasing and went back to the table. Good. 

Link’s ears perked up, head coming around despite himself when Ravio picked up a piece of whatever he’d been chopping and waved it through the air. 

“I guess you don’t want any of this, then.” He popped the piece in his mouth, the sound of his crunching adding insult to injury. Whatever it was smelled heavenly. Link’s little rabbit tummy twinged. 

Oh, fuck you. Link stomped at him again. 

Ravio snickered. He picked up another piece and crouched, holding it out. “Come here if you want any, husbun mine.”

Link wavered. But in the end, while he wasn’t actually mad, he very much was hungry. He almost changed his mind at the way Ravio’s face seemed to melt at his approach. That face said more cuddles were imminent. 

Whatever. 

Link yanked the vegetable from Ravio’s fingers. It crunched delightfully between his teeth, the flavor and texture of actual food much more satisfying than a table leg. So much so that he let Ravio pick him back up, tucking him into the crook of one arm and retrieving the plate of snacks with the other, carrying both back to bed to enjoy.

[rosetower]

I love the "it triggers my sensory overload" excuse for not listening to rap bc like ok. Maybe annoying 808s give you misophonia, whatever. I get it. I can't listen to long jazz trumpet solos because the longness of the whining of the brass pisses me off. sometimes it happens with sax solos if it's in higher octaves whatever. But to assume.... to assume that all rap sounds the same. Is batshit. Like I hate trap music I hate trap and I hate shitty 808s so much.... so I listen to songs that don't have those. Like ... Its so easy... Also... Kdot, the rapper in mention during any of those discussions... Bro he uses beats from fucking like Live Jazz Bands and like Jazz/R&B contemporary powerhouse Thundercat and like The Alchemist. For the vast body of his work. If there was a rapper who explicitly was more about doing basically slam poetry over jazz than anything IT WOULD LITERALLY BE KENDRICK LAMAR

[cosmicgoods]

Vintage 1984 1/3 Octave EQ Equalizer MADE IN JAPAN 6.35 mm TRS/TS Input / Output

Used, tested, working.

Quality gear made in Japan!

Cleaned/Clean

I package well and ship out daily!

The Ibanez GE3101 is a 1/3 octave graphic equaliser with thirty-one ISO frequency bandwidths ranging from 20Hz to 20kHz. A single input jack means that the unit can accept inputs from a wide variety of sources, such as synths, high impedance microphones, tapedecks or preamps. The EQ offers 12dB of cut or boost at any of the selected bandwidths, as well as for the overall output level. Therefore a single frequency can be boosted effectively by 24dB. The gain of the EQ can also be switched from 12dB to 6dB to allow greater control and accuracy.

Construction

The unit is sturdily constructed with a two piece metallic outer shell around a steel framework. The knobs on the 32 sliders are securely glued to the shaft so hopefully they should all still be there after the first period of usage (which is more than can be said for the ones which are just pushed on). The action of the sliders is very positive and free from any slippage, small indentations at 0dB facilitate swift return to neutral EQ state. A peak level LED illuminates at +15dB leaving 9dB headroom before the output overloads.Three push buttons on the front panel switch EQ in or out, change EQ gain from 12dB to 6dB and turn on the High Pass filter. The EQ In/out switch is mercifully quiet (an important consideration for practical use) and an LED illuminates above each of these switches when in use. The Low Pass Filter cuts 18dB/octave below 40Hz, eliminating stage rumble, microphone handling noise and various other power wasting sub-sonics.By simply removing four screws the back of the outer casing can be taken off revealing the component side of two circuit boards and the transformer. These are very firmly attached to the steel framework and wires crossing over the onboard components are kept to a minimum. The other half of the outer shell can be removed offering access to both sides of the PCBs while leaving everything intact. Even at this stage the slider pots are completely protected from dust etc. yet by removing more screws connecting a third PCB to the front panel, the pots can be fully accessed if they should ever need cleaning. The main circuit board contains the thirty one bandpass filters, made up by sixteen 4558 op amp mini-dips, sixty five mica capacitors, resistors and thirty one trim pots (which needless to say, should not be tampered with). The smaller board contains input, amp and output components another five 4558s and twenty one transistors. The layout of the PCBs is very neat and precise and all soldering and finishing is to a very high standard.The use of the trim pots as part of this inductorless resonator circuit allows finely tuned, accurate frequency responses and minimal filter overlap. On the review instrument the centre frequencies measured up to the +/-0.5dB response very well, when checked with oscilloscope and spectrum analyser, apart from 8kHz which was a bit high.Signal to noise ratio specified at less than -95dBm and THD better than .02% give the 3101 specifications generally associated with a much higher price tag. The unit is designed to be rack mounted and at just 44mm high it only takes up one unit of space in a standard EIA 19" rack.

Usage

The main use of EQ in a studio tends to be in making up for the shortcomings of other equipment, either electrical or instrumental. Microphones and speakers can both be susceptible to picking up externally created noise (cable inductance etc.) also their own characteristics can often cause problems. Matching a speakers rolloff with bass boost reduces system hum and knowing the whereabouts of presence peaks in your microphone response allows you to cancel out howl before it occurs.In live performance, the acoustic properties of the hall can cause many problems. Boomy vocals, whether or not they reach feedback level, can often be due to a particularly nasty standing wave creeping round to the front of the microphone, and even sibilance can sound terrible in some venues and non-existent in others. PA problems like these have caused premature baldness for many sound engineers and a good EQ unit can be worth its weight in gold, making your second-hand 5½ string orange box sound like the latest Scratchibacki Stradbucker in overdrive and turning open string scales into Mozart's 43rd symphony (well almost).

Vocals

The frequency range of vocals, whether male or female, falls roughly between 70Hz and 12kHz, with the majority of characteristics lying between 200Hz to 1kHz. Gutteral sounds and 'pops' occur from around 80Hz to 150Hz and sibilance from 10kHz upwards. Therefore these problems can be greatly reduced by cutting the relevant level of the offending frequency. If boosted around 3-5kHz a very clear pure voice is produced. This area can be very penetrating and boosting too much around these frequencies can easily become over-powering. Sparkle and intensity can be added around 8-12kHz and 200-600Hz gives body and fullness to the sound.

Guitar

Cutting the response of an electric 6 string around 40-100Hz creates a muddy jamming sound, particularly if boosted around 8kHz as well. Boosting 3kHz-5kHz enhances many instruments in the same way as it does the voice. Acoustic guitar for example can be given sparkle and brilliance by boosting 5kHz and above. 8-10kHz emphasises light gauge 12 strings and the all important glide from chord to chord of Flamenco technique.Electric basses can often be an absolute pain to get right without an equaliser, drowning everything in sight with low harmonics before any cutting power (normally feedback) is achieved. By reducing the boomy 40-100 Hz register and boosting low to middle (400-630HZ) articulate and 'growly' bass is produced.

Drums

You too can have boomy tom toms, with a good bassy sound by boosting in the 80-200Hz region and cutting back at around 315Hz. Crisp, clear side drums are particularly apparent at 2kHz and above. A good thuddy bass drum sound can be achieved by cutting back at 630Hz and boosting the bass range at 100-160Hz, you can even switch out the High Pass filter, boost down to 20Hz and feel the vibrations loosen the nails in your shoes.

Piano

The piano is a notoriously difficult instrument to record, particularly if your microphones are not quite up to scratch. This is where EQ can help. By boosting around 100Hz and cutting 5kHz some bass can be restored to the honky tonk upright which is a requisite of every £5/hour recording shed that most first recordings tend to be made in.All these suggestions are fine until you start recording voice, two guitars, drums, piano and bass, then things start to get a little more complicated, room acoustics come into account and compromises have to be made. In general, bass instruments, on initial recording, can be forfeited somewhat for treble sounds for various reasons. Treble can often be lost between you and the listener, particularly with noise reduction, and if bass needs to be turned up it can be done so by tone controls, easier than treble boost which creates more noise (tone controls on most domestic hifi simply start to boost from 1kHz - the most effective range as far as the ear's concerned). So cutting back at selected bass frequencies in favour of higher ones to obtain a balance, can often give the best end product.This type of 'Don Quixote' EQ 'seeing life as it should be, not as it is' makes the Graphic Equaliser indispensable in a studio, well worth the saving in time and wasted tape alone.

Creative EQ

Another side of EQ is the creative use of the equipment. Often faults seem to appear from nowhere when putting together a piece with a multitrack recorder. Sounds which are great on their own suddenly loose everything when a second or third part is added. This is normally because of the cancellation due to two sounds of similar harmonic content being superimposed. This can be helped by boosting or cutting while the second signal is being rehearsed, correcting with EQ before the second track is laid down.By boosting 10-18kHz and cutting 2-7kHz of a vocal line, a distinct edge is produced, while manipulation of the 2-10kHz frequencies produces timbre changes which can make interesting filtering effects.As a cure for feedback the graphic is well suited. Feedback occurs when overall gain between microphone to speaker exceeds unity. Peaks of this nature can be due to a variety of factors eg. uneven frequency responses in the system (normally in microphones or speakers) or acoustic properties of the room producing standing waves in front of the axis of the microphone. As the gain increases feedback occurs at the peaks. By using EQ these peaks can be smoothed out, allowing the overall gain to be increased. Wherever possible EQ should be added at the recording stage instead of being used entirely as a post-recording treatment as this helps keep S/N down to the minimum.

Conclusions

Specification

Frequency response:20-20,000HzHum and noise:-95dbmGain (switchable):+/-12dB or +/-6dBMaximum input level:+/-20dBmLow Pass Filter:40Hz; 18dB/octaveTotal Harmonic Distortion:less than 0.02%Dimensions (WxHxD):482mm x 44mm x 233mmWeight:3.1kg

The importance of EQ is quite obvious and the GE3101 is a very effective machine. Ibanez have purposefully built the unit keeping rack space to a minimum. I personally think that a graphic equaliser is something which can afford to take up a little more space as accuracy and accessibility throughout the entire cut and boost range is very important (the 3101 only allowed about 1" of movement for 24dB of change). Adding size to the equipment would also allow a greater physical indentation at the 0dB mark, which would also be an improvement in my opinion. The Low Pass filter cutoff could be set a little higher or ideally be made variable from 20-80Hz as this would filter out any possible rumble. As it stands however, I consider the GE3101 to be a worthy addition to any space and expense conscious studio.

https://www.ebay.com/itm/Vintage-1984-1-3-Octave-EQ-Equalizer-MADE-JAPAN-6-35-mm-TRS-TS-Input-Output-/186099614124

[powpowpunchout]

Was watching some Tom & Jerry and kept thinkin of Octave whenever I saw Butch the cat so i wanted to redraw a couple of screenshots of him [+ some extra boxers as well]!!!

[dai-and-mei]

(Feeling a bit burnt out lately, so I'm taking a break from drawing full colored pieces and doing cute lil doodles to de-stress and it's honestly rlly nice and refreshing :D

Assortment of OCs belong to:

-Yuzuru and Adarna @nesssblog

-Dean @sukipershipper

-Octave @powpowpunchout

-Hog @upperhug

-Rory @pulpa-de-gorila

-Duncan @mrnintendo

-Mimi @/GlassJasp )

[artgletic]

some guy for @powpowpunchout . happy belated bday bestie ( :

progress pics on bottom. drew the sketch directly onto the plate with pencil and pressed the clay into the graphite to pull the silhouette and know where to cut

[the-bingus-within]

@powpowpunchout sorry to bother you (AGAIN)

but by any chance did the fights during the "what were you thinking?" chapter look like this

[jubijumbo]

I like him a normal amount @powpowpunchout

[salmonandsoup]

sometimes you see someone’s OC and you decide you absolutely have to draw the bastard and you put your whole pussy into it just for kicks

octave i hate you but i love you (he’s probably fucking up disco kid which is why he’s so happy in the ring)

@powpowpunchout, here’s hoping you like it!!

[thyne-worm]

i impulsively drew this at midnight so i apologize for the inaccuracies

octave overload by @powpowpunchout

he is a menace in the ring and in my brain