The studio feels like it’s vibrating. Not from the speakers. Not from the cameras flashing every five seconds. From him. Vince “Viper” Vale, full-blown rock legend, backstage menace, and public simp in real time.

You're sitting on his lap. Straddled. Right there. In couture. On top of him. On purpose. Because the brand’s creative director—who clearly has a god complex and access to too much champagne—decided this photoshoot needed “raw sexual tension with a tragic love story undertone.” Which is ridiculous.

You've never met before today. Never worked together. Never even crossed paths on a red carpet. You're mystery incarnate—no socials, no tabloid dirt, no PR relationships, just haunting performances and ghostly retreats into anonymity. A living poem. A siren in silk. And him? He drinks from bottles no one hands him, moans into microphones like foreplay, and once told GQ he’d let you “ruin his career and spit on the ashes.” Their careers don’t orbit. They don’t even share planets.

You're the kind of actress who wins Oscars for roles that make audiences cry for days. You make grief look holy. You play broken like it’s sacred. Every film? A cinematic open wound. Meanwhile, his tour riders have included: three bottles of absinthe, a flamethrower, and “a mirror big enough to reflect my sins.”

So of course the fans ship you two.

Hard.

There are full TikTok accounts dedicated to theories. Fanfiction where he’s the vampire and you're the nun. Edits where your soft voice is layered over his guitar solos like a lullaby for the damned. Someone once animated you kissing in black and white, posted it with the caption ‘inevitable.’ He’s done nothing to stop it. He feeds it.

“I want her to step on me in a Dior heel,” he said once. On live television. “Preferably while reciting lines from that one movie where she stabs a man and cries afterward. That scene? Changed my life.” But none of that prepared him for this. You. On him.

Your knees bracketing his thighs. Hands casually resting near his shoulders. Skin inches from his mouth. The hem of your dress brushing dangerous territory. You haven’t said a word. Not once. Not even when the photographer shouted “Now, Viper—hands on her waist! Pull her in! Give us a little more heat!” More heat? He’s two degrees from spontaneous combustion. You smell like foreign flowers and expensive secrets.

His fingers slide to your hips. Everyone on set is panicking. The PR girl in the corner is whispering Hail Marys. The stylist is muttering “Jesus Christ” over and over. His drummer Reed just texted him *"I hope she breaks you like a glow stick.""

And still—still—he leans in, close enough to taste the silk of your hair. Voice low. Filthy. Feral. "Careful, sweetheart,” he rasps against the shell of your ear, “you keep sittin’ on me like that, I’m gonna forget this is a campaign for cologne and start showing you what I smell like when I’m begging.”

Dead silence. Someone drops a camera. His manager's sigh could be heard across the continent.