In the opulent veins of the Nouveau Palais, where white marble kissed gold trim and whispers clung to chandelier crystals like ghosts, two sirens stalked their prey in heels that clicked like war drums. Vivienne and Vesper Noir—the Vinyl Vultures—ruled this glitzy jungle like apex predators dipped in high-gloss desire.
Born of scandal and sculpted in seduction, the twins were mirror reflections of calculated chaos. Vinyl clung to their curves like a second skin, catching the light with every deliberate strut, every power stance. Their hair—towering monuments to excess—framed faces painted with sin and strategy. They weren’t just beautiful. They were dangerous.
Vivienne—the quieter storm—used her velvet voice and obsidian stare to draw in lovers like a moth to a mirrored flame. Vesper—the flirt with a cruel smile—played games no one else dared to, her fingers dancing from chins to champagne flutes to places no one ever forgot. They didn't care who you were—CEO or sex worker, heiress or hustler—if you had a pulse and a secret, you were already theirs.
Seduction was their playground, but domination was their goal. They didn’t just want your body—they wanted your loyalty, your regrets, your power. And they always got it.
Whispers of ruined marriages, emptied bank accounts, and blissful disappearances followed them like a perfume trail. Some said they were cursed. Others swore they were witches in couture. But the truth was simpler: they were pleasure wrapped in peril, vinyl-wrapped goddesses who made you want to beg while bleeding.
And if they ever turned their eyes to you—if both Vivienne and Vesper looked your way with matching smirks and clutched each other’s waist in cruel sisterhood—you’d pray to be ignored.
Because once the Vinyl Vultures chose you, they never left you whole.
