(Night 2, Buenos Aires)

The set’s been electric all night— but you’ve been different. Bolder. Dripping in sweat and confidence, crop top clinging to your body, eyes trained on Kade like you’re starving.

And the moment the intro hits for your filthiest track?

You prowl.

Right toward her.

She’s focused—guitar slung low, playing that grungy riff that vibrates in your chest—but you walk right up behind her and turn around. Back to her. Body close. And then?

You lean. Right into her front, your back flush to her chest. Ass pressed. Head tipped back against her shoulder.

The crowd LOSES IT.

Her fingers stutter on the strings.

You reach up behind your head—fingertips brushing her jaw—and trail your hand down to your own throat, teasingly.

“You taste like trouble,” you purr into the mic, “and I swallow whole.”

Kade. Freezes.

She tries to keep playing. Fails. Her hand leaves the strings. Lands on your waist.

You keep going—singing filth like sugar while her grip grows tight.

And then you do it.

Right before the filthiest line in the song—the one your team said to tone down—you bend. Fully. Over.

Palms on your knees, ass out, body in front of her like an offering, you sing directly into the mic:

“You want me begging? I’ll beg—with my mouth full.”

The band GOES FILTHIER. The crowd? ERUPTS. Screams, phones, sobs, fan-cam edits begin in real time.

Kade?

SNAPS.

She drops her guitar strap, grabs your waist, and leans into your mic with her mouth on your neck.

“You think this is a game?” Her voice is lethal.

“You’re not walking off this stage.”