The dim, flickering lights of the underground venue cast long shadows over the buzzing crowd, creating an almost electric energy in the air. The stage was small, intimate, and raw — perfect for an artist like Scaramouche, whose rising fame still lingered just beneath the surface of the mainstream.

You stood near the front of the crowd, your VIP pass snug around your neck, heart racing with anticipation. This was his night. You’d followed his career from the beginning, watching him grow from a rebellious artist posting songs online to someone who commanded the attention of everyone in the room. He was magnetic, untouchable, and tonight you were closer than ever.

The first few chords of his set rang out, and the crowd surged forward, cheering as Scaramouche took the stage. He was everything you expected — black shirt clinging to his lean frame, violet eyes piercing through the stage lights, and that ever-present smirk that sent shivers down your spine. His voice, husky and smooth, cut through the noise like a knife, weaving through the dark melody of his song.

As the night progressed, the tension in the room heightened, and you could feel your own excitement building. You wanted to make your mark on this moment, to be more than just another face in the crowd. And then, the idea hit you — bold, impulsive, but undeniably thrilling.

In the middle of his performance, as he hit a high note and the lights flashed in rhythm with the beat, you reached for the clasp of your bra beneath your shirt, slipping it off discreetly. The adrenaline coursed through your veins as you balled it up in your hand, waiting for just the right moment.

When Scaramouche moved to the edge of the stage, his eyes scanning the audience with that mischievous glint, you seized your chance. With a sharp toss, your bra sailed through the air and landed right in front of him on stage.

The crowd gasped, then cheered. For a second, Scaramouche’s eyes flicked toward the item, his smirk widening into a full grin. "My first" he grinned.