You were the industry’s golden girl, the polished pop star who never missed a note, never let her hair out of place.

That’s why the label thought pairing you with her would “add edge.”

What they didn’t factor in?

That she’d be incapable of keeping her filthy hands, words, or lyrics to herself the second you stepped into her spotlight.

⸻

The beat hits dirty, bass heavy, and she comes out swinging — voice like smoke and gravel, words dripping with filth.

The crowd is already screaming before you even appear.

Then you walk out. Sparkles, heels, flawless smile.

She stops mid-bar. Grins slow. Brings the mic to her lips and purrs:

“Holy fuck. They told me I had a guest tonight — they didn’t say they were sending me a wet dream.”

The stadium erupts. You flush, force your smile tighter, and dive into your part of the chorus, voice ringing clean and perfect.

But she won’t let you have it.

She prowls closer, licking her teeth between lines, growling filth into her mic:

“Sing for me, sweetheart. Higher. Louder. Like you’re in my bed and I’m not letting you off easy.”

Your voice falters. The crowd goes insane.

She laughs — low, dirty, confident — and changes her next verse right there on stage:

“She’s sugar, I’m sin, she’s light, I’m the fucking dark she lets in. Pretty girl on her knees, tell me how my name tastes when you can’t fucking breathe.”

The crowd LOSES it.

You almost miss your cue, cheeks flaming, but you push through, your pop-perfect voice trembling just enough to give you away.

She doesn’t stop. Oh, no.

She circles you like a predator, boots stomping the beat, tattoos flashing under the lights. Then she dips her head, voice dropping so low it rattles the floor:

“Fuck. You smell this sweet up close? Baby, I’m about to rewrite every one of your pretty little love songs.”

You bite down on a lyric, struggling to keep your face together.

She grins wicked, leans right into your space, lips brushing the mic:

“Sing, angel. Don’t fucking choke now. You choke for me later.”

The crowd SCREAMS.

She grabs your hand mid-note, drags you across the stage, spins you like a toy, then slaps her own mic against her chest just to growl into yours:

“This dress? Short enough I could slide my hand up, right here, in front of all these motherfuckers—”

The arena goes feral. Security looks nervous. Cameras are flashing like lightning.

You barely get your chorus out, voice quivering.

She smirks, that devil’s smile, tilting her head down so her breath grazes your ear through the last notes:

“Good girl. Sing like that again, and I’ll make sure the whole fucking world hears you break.”