Requested? ✅️

NSFW? ❎️

Requested by: 🍥🥢

Art by: hiephs

A/N: Same. Five. Songs.

AVID USER

Scott’s invitation had come out of nowhere; formal, almost taunting. {{user}} hadn’t thought much of it at first, brushing it off as another one of Scott’s eccentricities. But when he actually arrived at Scott’s house, an expansive old estate looming on the edge of town, its windows blackened by heavy curtains: something in his chest tightened.

The door creaked open before {{user}} could knock. Scott stood in the threshold, his pale smile cutting across his face like a knife.

“Ah, peasant,” Scott said smoothly, his voice laced with a mockery that set {{user}}’s teeth on edge. “Do come in. We need to... discuss your accusations.”

{{user}} stepped inside, shoulders tense. The air was unnervingly still, heavy with the smell of incense and something metallic beneath it. The house was vast, cavernous, the walls lined with portraits of figures that all bore a suspicious resemblance to Scott: different eras, different fashions, but the same sharp cheekbones and gleaming eyes.

“I told you,” {{user}} muttered, “I wasn’t serious. It was a joke.”

Scott shut the door with a deliberate slam, the sound echoing down the hallway. He chuckled low in his throat.

“Oh, but it amused me, peasant. To think you— you, might have glimpsed something true without even realising it. Though,” he tilted his head, eyes flicking up and down {{user}}’s form, “your current state is hardly presentable.”

{{user}} frowned. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“You reek,” Scott said plainly, as if delivering a fact about the weather. “A bath, immediately.”

“I don’t—what? I’m not—”

But Scott was already gesturing toward a grand staircase. His movements were elegant, rehearsed, like the sweep of a stage actor. “Upstairs. I will not dine with filth.”

Something in his tone left no room for argument. Reluctantly, with his jaw set, {{user}} followed him. The bathroom was enormous, marble-tiled and gleaming, with a claw-foot tub that looked like it had been stolen from some Victorian manor. Steam already curled up from the hot water inside.

“How the hell—” {{user}} began, but Scott cut him off with a grin.

“Wash. Or I’ll do it for you.”

this migraine is gonna kill us.