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Basement Bonanza Log
The House
The house is much like the rest of the housing around it. Victorian style with some side yards, an outside that's desperately in need of paint, and wild, fancy architecture. Along the side is a fenced yard containing a small kitchen garden, complete with a recently added chicken coop in the back.
The front door leads to a small foyer, whereas the side door by the garden goes straight into the kitchen. In the kitchen, there will be a number of foods available for anyone chipping in to snack on, with options for vegetarians and meat-eaters alike. (No blood, sorry vampires, but if you get peckish you might find someone willing to let you have a bite.) Shinjiro will aggressively shoo away anyone who shows up just to get food without actually contributing. It's for people who help only!!
The interior is weird, as to be expected. They've made it mostly liveable, most of the furniture in the living spaces in new, but there's still Victorian Classics such as too many patterns and portraits of strangers on the wall, and bad wallpaper in surprisingly cozy places. There's even a restroom on the ground floor, complete with fireplace by the tub. People taking a break are welcome to tool around on the ground floor, where things are markedly more normal. Any attempts to go upstairs, where the residents bedrooms are, will be dissuaded.
There's a dog to pet (Koromaru, an incredibly intelligent white shiba inu) or a Petal Wolf (Bela) or, if you want to risk a few fingers, Fie's hyena (Alfin). The hyena occasionally breaks out into mad giggles in other people's voices, occasionally parroting contextless statements in perfect mimicry of the people who live there. Scrounging around somewhere will be Louis's cat, Juniper, and then there's the coop full of chickens outside, a snapping turtle in the pond...
But you people aren't here for the relatively normal living space.
THE BASEMENT.
The air is cooler in the basement, and with that soft scent of wet stone. It's not disgusting or overwhelming, despite how locked up and sealed the area had been, and for who knows how long. More than anything else, it's just dark. They've carried a few magitech lanterns down to the foot of the stairs, at least, in initially scoping it out to try and see what's down there: and even from just stepping off the stairs, it's clear to see that this is some sort of wild magical hoarder situation.
Walls are packed with everything from displays of oddities and curiosities to books and containers of liquids, the labels long since faded and peeled, to even rusted lockboxes, worryingly rectangular and human-lengthed, each with stiff, sturdy locks. In another corner, there's more shelves cluttered and overflowing with wet specimens preserved in jars. Many are completely unidentifiable. Many are absolutely identifiable, and it's unclear which is worse. There's everything from animals to plants to fish to even pieces of monsters or humans/witches alike.
Scattered throughout, there's lumpy sheets covering what can only be assumed to be furniture, as well as household items, baubles, trinkets, books, scrolls, and just general things crammed in any and every nook and cranny that can be found. If there was any sort of organization, it was lost well before the prior owner stopped their collecting.
In one corner, there's an iron spiral staircase that just leads into the ceiling, going nowhere. A few iron Maidens and sarcophagi can be found stored away, some of them haphazardly fallen over.
It's absolute chaos of junk layered on top of junk, pinned down by even more junk. And it's clearly going to take a lot of trips up and down those stone stairs to even begin to unearth some of the wild things stashed away.
Maybe if you're lucky, you'll unearth a friend to help light your way.
The Stuff.
I've gone ahead and written up some examples for people to run wild with-- and for anything else, feel free to either make things up, OR request something in the top thread!
Some of the Major Attractions of the Basement include:
An Iron Maiden. - Unlike many others, there's no spikes visible within. In fact, it looks almost welcoming. There's a faint enchantment to it, gently pulling at the senses of whomever gets too close. It's plush, and soft inside. Doesn't it look warm? The rest of the basement is so musty and damp and cold. Surely taking a rest would be fine.
Once someone steps into it, however, the doors close shut, and the victim is forced to rewatch their most embarrassing memory. When said memory has played out, however, they are released, no worse for the wear, and immune to the Maiden's Seduction for the next several days. Good thing you're the only one who saw that memory..... right??
A helpful (if creepy) teapot. - This teapot has one job, and it will perform it. It will serve you tea. It will not stop until it has served you tea. No, it doesn't even know what tea is. It also doesn't seem to care if you have a container to hold a beverage or not. It. Will. Serve. You. Tea.
...However, who knows what liquid is actually within it. Feel free to use this skittering, crawling friend for anything. It could be as benign as incessantly following your character like an annoying and needy dog. It could be as horrifying as using force and chitinous claws to make your character ingest something. (Which could be delicious tea. Or could be anything else. Up to you!)
A speaker of secrets. - A jarringly hideous piece of taxidermy, the ravens screech the secrets of whomever touches it. Sometimes they're wrong, though. It's anyone's guess if they're yelling your deepest secrets, or if they're just making things up. Anyway, here's hoping whoever you're with doesn't just think you're using it as an excuse. (Or, if what they speak is true, hopefully people believe your excuse. Good luck carrying this thing all the way up and through the house.)
Vaguely Insulting Dishware. - What it says on the tin. The text seems to shift and change to insult you, specifically, and often times very passive aggressively.
A beautiful, floral chair - Like a flower in full bloom, this is another object that anyone nearby could find themselves magically drawn towards. It even smells soft and sweet- almost like fresh rain and honeysuckle. It's pristine looking, in comparison to all the objects around it, covered with dust and debris, and looks soft and pillowy and inviting. It's wide enough that someone could crawl onto and drape themselves across it.
At which point the petals will pull closed, enveloping them in a sweet cocoon of which they come out.... different. The effects are, as always, up to the player, as is the duration of them. (Transmutation spells are finite, of course, and the effects aren't strong enough to last more than a few days.)
A giant crystal. - It'll take a team to move this humongous chunk of rock-- Or maybe just a duo of dragon or chimera. The first person to touch it, however, will find that it is not only reflective, but it projects. The light hitting it is projected in prisms, and all take a form based on the person who touches it. This could be a warped, twisted reflection showing how one thinks of themself. It could be a projection of deepest fantasies. It could just be whatever you're thinking at the moment. Or maybe it's a mockery. Play around at your hearts content!
Potions of any and all type! - You're not the type to just drink mysterious liquids in someone's basement (Unless you are, in which case, go for it!) but so many of these are cracked and worn. It's entirely possible some of them work on contact or inhalation. The effects can be almost anything, from Alice in Wonderland style shrinking and growing, to floating or glowing or transmuting. Perhaps one is a mood enhancer! Another could be poison. And a third could make the tips of your fingers grow hair. It's a mixed bag.
Cursed jewelry of any and all types - Same thing as the potions, these can be enchanted to have effects as minor as making your hair always look perfect (though there's a smell of cod liver that won't go away--) to as major as clamping in and biting through the skin, drinking your blood to fuel its dark powers. (Said dark powers could be anything from animatronic taxidermy coming alive to mimic your every move, to a spell to charm everyone around you, to the ability to speak with termites.) Again, go wild! And if you have trouble getting that jewelry off, there's gotta be some bolt cutters somewhere around here.... right?
There is MUCH MUCH ELSE that can be found! If you would like to be assigned a random Thing, feel free to give me the general vibe of what you're wanting, and I'll come up with something crazy for you! If you would like more than one thing, THAT IS FINE TOO!
FINAL OOC NOTES
In a list format because i'm lazy:
--NO EFFECT IN THE BASEMENT CAN BE GAMEBREAKING. Mind control, dreamwalking, and memory alteration are no-go.
--The contents of the unenchanted books in the basement are mostly nonsense or boring, but you can absolutely find some sort of burn book with hot deets on (non-plot) NPCs
--Any effect will eventually wear off. The process can be expedited with a witch. It's your choice how skilled that witch needs to be.
--"But susan someone else in a previous thread already took care of the item i was gonna use!" it's magic there can be two of them. or it can teleport itself repeatedly back into the basement. i'm not going to keep track and time isn't real.
--Mark any explicit content, plzkthx.
--Let me know if your character is enough of a jerk to try going to the second floor of the house. because a witch lives here and nearly all of them are mistrustful as hell so you know that's not gonna work out. (I'll let you know exactly how, if your character would try it.)
--If you're gonna die, talk to the mods about it first. if you're gonna kill anyone then double talk to the mods about it first.
--Go wild like you graduated from crazy go nuts university
And most importantly:
--FEEL FREE TO ASK ME ANY QUESTIONS! I'm available in the top comments here, though you are welcome to PM me, or shoot me a DM on discord (Soozaphone#3966), or shoot me a private plurk (
iii.
But spotting Emet-Selch doesn't fill him with irritation. If anything, he has the fond memory of all of the sweet things he's said to him, compliments to his beauty and otherwise... And he longs to hear it all, something to soothe the fury that boils within him. Interesting, that bit: as his Bonded, Emet-Selch's no doubt been being treated to spikes of unfathomable anger on Mettaton's part for the past half hour or so, all of his encounters unfulfilling as more and more people neglect to compliment his loveliness. Right now, there's a sort of hunger in him: a vacuum that can only be filled by praise.
The Puca watches him navigate the dank basement with a pendant in hand, stumbling over lamps or footstools, on the trajectory toward... him? Mettaton is vain and cursed enough to think so, but even without the cursed jewelry resting upon his shoulders, he might reach the same conceited conclusion. He quirks a brow, his eye alighting with interest at the quality of the crystal moon held within the pendant. Ever interested in shiny things...
And he snaps his fingers in realization as Emet-Selch begins his lumbering approach.]
That necklace... It must be leading you to the person you view more beautiful than the moon and stars themselves, Hades-darling. [He presses his claws to his chest, his ears pulled back in his confidence.] How about that. What a pleasant sort of enchantment... I like it already.
[Mettaton is so sure that the pendant's drawing him toward him. How flattering! It has good taste. He likes this moon pendant already, and wants it.]
I bet you could wear it at all times and know precisely where I am, since you find me so handsome.
[Yeah, he's straight up decided he knows what the pendant does, and for Emet-Selch, that's "Locate Mettaton's Beauty." Imagine his mind.]
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But part of his difficulty could also be chalked up to distraction, cause: Mettaton. Not an unusual person for him to be distracted by, but it wasn't for any of the usual reasons this time. And when he'd first felt that rush of seething anger from Mettaton's side of the Bond, he'd been mildly startled, perturbed. But no crisis appeared to be forthcoming, and the mood settled back into a milder version of it. But then it kept happening, and Emet-Selch considered pausing his search for whatever this pendant wanted him to find, and instead look for Mettaton amongst the shelves and piles instead. It shouldn't be difficult, tall and loud as he was.
And glimmering more than he'd been to start with today (and he'd already been shining, considering those excessive heels of his). And now it's destiny at work, placing Mettaton in the path he needed to take anyway. And so he lumbers to a position right in front of him- the pendant dutifully continuing to tug in the idol's direction, nearly knocking into him with each swing.
From observing its path, Emet-Selch looks back up to Mettaton's face (though he pauses to stare at that... blinding piece of work the robot was now wearing), answering him first with a sigh.]
We're Bonded, I could already find you whenever I wanted. If that's the best it can do, I've been wasting my time.
[Though his awareness of that strange anger remains in the back of his mind, his answering tone is dry, a show of being unimpressed- not unusual (though through Bond, his usual pleasure at seeing him remains evident). It's not much in the way of praise, though.
And Mettaton's commentary- it doesn't strike him as abnormal at all, falling pretty much precisely in line with the sort of thing he'd expect to hear from him. Confidence, vanity (however warranted), an absorption that assumed the Ascian's attention must be on him (frequently accurate), a showy, dramatic statement... it's certainly Mettaton.]
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A completely normal Mettaton would have interpreted this moment positively. Emet-Selch didn't tell him he's incorrect about his view of what's beautiful and just how beautiful he is, which means he must agree with him. He also didn't deny Mettaton's assumption of the pendant's function, meaning that it may as well be a pendant to Locate Mettaton's Beauty. After all, the idol has a talent for twisting unintended things into compliments. And the haunts of his mind does just this: it's placation of sorts, the acknowledgement of what goes unsaid. Even the pleasure at his sight of him is pleasant. But he's hungry for explicit flattery, the niceties of spoken word, and people haven't been singing their praises to his beauty nearly enough for this to keep his anger down.
Overall, Emet-Selch said nothing overtly flattering. Everything he could derive from this is in the realm of the unsaid. There's an uptick in his impatience. Mettaton thumps his foot indignantly, the click of his heel threatening to pierce the floorboards beneath. He otherwise stands before the pendant unfaltering, with a tall and regal posture.
One of his ears keeps threatening to pin itself back in irritation, however.]
Surely you can never have too many ways to find a man so lovely. You're so lucky! [To have this growing list of ways he could potentially find Mettaton. By Bond, by pendant (probably), by knowing where he lives... the list goes on.] Ooh, speaking of lucky, what splendid trait of mine are you so attracted to in this moment? The one you're thinking of that draws your pendant to me so...? Like I'm the center of your gravity...
[His own flattery doesn't sate his need for more of it. Not right now. That impatience lingers, ready to ignite at the slightest provocation — or lack thereof. Inaction and silence serve only to agitate the robot, but it might not be immediately obvious what the name of the game is. He fixes his gaze sharply on Emet-Selch, irritation threatening to boil over if he's not given what he wants.
At least Mettaton's bold enough to fish for compliments. He thinks he does it smoothly.]
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As intimately familiar with Mettaton's moods as he was, something definitely felt off with him. That irritation was back, and growing- and while they did irritate one another on occasion (an inevitability, considering their tempers, their temperments, their moral disagreements), Emet-Selch is pretty sure he's done nothing that would trigger Mettaton's annoyance with him now. The thumping of his heel against the floor reminded him of a frustrated rabbit (which was a touch amusing, even if he was primarily confused at the cause for the display), and the position of his ear completed the look.
Perhaps he'd just been having a more difficult day than normal. That surely happened, even to showy idols.]
If gravity's involved, I fear one of us may end up crushed.
[There was the impulse to deny him, and the contrary part of him wanted to do so. But... he also cared about him, and all his whims, and it wasn't as though Emet-Selch had never complimented him in the past, so if Mettaton was suddenly desperate for it for some reason- it was a simple enough thing to provide him. Until he knew anything otherwise, he decided there was no harm in indulging. Mettaton always seemed to like it when he did, when the particular impulse hit, when his lover's beauty in a particular moment struck the Ascian to the point that it required verbalizing. Maybe he'd been neglecting him in this regard?
Even if silence increased irritation, Mettaton will have to wait a few moments more. Taking a step back from him (pendant still reaching out towards the robot, as though disapproving of being made even this bit further from him), Emet-Selch makes a show of looking him over, from impressive boots and the long limbs that wore them, up to his waist, the pink glass of his core, to his chest (now brilliantly decorated), to his face, his hair, gold eye and demanding expression. That in particular catches his own eye, particularly when paired with that background of potential fury.
Aimless flattery isn't really his thing, but seeing him in this way- yes. He could manage sincerity.]
...You're striking, like this. The beauty of someone more predator than puca, I can easily imagine you crushing a nation underfoot... and how your people would love you for it.
[The haughtiness of an absolute tyrant.]
An attraction with the promise of damage. But I'd call that part of the appeal.
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And so when his Bonded considers him, considers defying him with a streak of contrariness, Mettaton stands more rigid, more upright, arms crossed higher, smile thinning. His eye's narrow and fierce, Emet-Selch begging for his fury in his silence spared for thought... But it's a fury he reins in only because he can see his eyes drinking him in, can see how the Ascian steps back to view him in his completion. Raking from his long, brilliant, bejeweled legs, a gaze both sharp and dark enough with a pressure that he can almost feel it dancing along his body, now that he can feel anything at all. Over the roll of his hip to his waist, deliberate in how he watches his core and skirts over the jewelry he wears. Lastly, Emet-Selch focuses on his face, and he's all too thrilled to meet his gaze with one of ire and temptation both.
So from burgeoning anger comes a smile of passion, both wicked and heated to see him consider him so closely. He invites it; shifts his weight into one of his legs to model his brilliance, and feels that animosity manifest in him like something so hot and so cold that it could make him shiver.
How Emet-Selch can take the purity of irritation and blend it seamlessly with a passionate devotion... Even fury feels brilliant in Emet-Selch's presence. He can truly bring out the whole of himself and still be matched for it, and in this hexed moment, Mettaton's not sure if he loves it or hates it.
Until Emet-Selch lauds him with the traits he takes note of. No, aimless flattery isn't his lover's thing. In this moment of greater mental clarity, he knows Emet-Selch's the kind whose words are sparse and compliments even sparser, but that's why they penetrate him so. Even so... This is exactly what he wants to hear. Why has it taken him all this time to find someone who understands the kind of attention he deserves?
He exhales, and that building rage turns into a heat with more purpose, tamed and warmed — at least for now.]
You would call that part of the appeal, knowing what you fascinate yourself out of me. [The gratification from praise is a blazing fire in him... but it's one that will surely extinguish quickly without the fuel to keep it going. The curse in this jewelry doesn't care about makings its wearer irrational. For now, Mettaton's on a high.] Finally. Someone with taste!
[(oh, so he'd been trying to get compliments this whole time, huh...)
And for the moment, all of that anger manifested into heat - the kind of heat he'd think as predatory, crushing, injurious, the kind a nation would thank him for inflicting upon it - is searing passion for himself and Emet-Selch. The robot grabs Emet-Selch by his shoulders roughly, fingers curling into him like that as he smiles upon him, manner intense.]
Yes, I'd be worshiped for my ruthless beauty. A nation of fanatics at my mercy... And I'd have you, the only one who can handle my full brilliance, my beloved. Tell me more.
[Not that Emet-Selch will be able to talk like this... He stoops forward to snatch him into a kiss: he sucks upon his lip, nips tender flesh with sharp teeth in a threat to break it, before pushing his tongue into the Ascian's mouth. His arms wraps around Emet-Selch as he dips him back, rendering him reliant upon Mettaton for his continued uprightness.
But Mettaton feels hot, so hot, and this is the only outlet appropriate for him. For the both of them. For him to conquer Emet-Selch and pounce upon him, for him to crush his Bonded to his chest, for him to damage him even in a kiss... That's what Emet-Selch finds so attractive in this moment, and he is all of that and more. (And finally, somebody hasn't agitated his anger quotient! The first person who's given him adequate praise, even though Mettaton covets more and more.)
Oh look at that, the pendant wants to go somewhere that isn't Mettaton, as it's trying to tug Emet-Selch... beyond the robot. Maybe there's something more beautiful back there. Mettaton's unaware of this.]
no subject
Every moment he'd delayed in speaking had been like the building of a storm; the Ascian was sure he could feel the electricity, the change in air pressure, Mettaton becoming a tumultuous centerpiece to it all that would require only the slightest of provocations to snap. And even then Emet-Selch's natural contrariness had changed in its considerations, into wondering what Mettaton would become if he never spoke up at all, forever withheld him his praise and attention. How far could that lurking rage build, and what form would it take when it was released?
A thought to tease the nerves; but in the end he does speak, and this result, yes- this was even better than a coldly luminous anger.
It's a breathless fury indistinguishable from passion, an intensity that burned with proximity. Thoughts about any peculiarities to Mettaton's behavior became distinctly less important, melting away entirely under the force of that shared heat. The robot grabs onto him, and Emet-Selch only leans closer, gaze fierce, focused, and only a degree less haughty than the idol's; the only defense against such intent was to match it with his own, after all, in a yet darker key, and a demand in its own right. The Ascian offered an endless void to crush and be filled, and with it, a requirement that Mettaton do so. A darkness to match his brilliance, a threat to devour him, with any hesitation promising to be devoured in turn.
Mettaton expected words and then denied him the ability to give them. Not that the Ascian would have done so immediately regardless, leaning up even as Mettaton darts forward, meeting him in a kiss made of teeth and lip and demands, the Ascian's breath hot against his face as he bites back at him. This was an answer without words, but one no less sincere, an expression of how attractive he found him, how desirable, and how hotly that desire could burn.
Mettaton tips him back, and Emet-Selch gives him the rest of his balance, free arm becoming less free as it wraps around him, hand clawing into fur, with the expectation that his lover would continue to hold him up.
Even if this was Mettaton at his most vainglorious, a veritable beacon of passions that didn't just border on the vicious, but conquered that territory entirely, razed it all to the ground- yet it was Mettaton all the same, and Emet-Selch demanded this part of him too. He was appealing in tenderness and soft affections, and he was appealing when ravenous for worship.
Sucking hard at his tongue with a stifled sound, Emet-Selch tries to wrap his other arm around him- but something was in his way, his fingers still wrapped around the chain of that necklace. A necklace that was still on a mission that did not, apparently, involve the couple and their absurdly reactive chemistry.
No, his pendant seemed to think someone else was the fairest in all the land... or maybe it wasn't trying to seek out anyone's beauty in the first place.
But the way it was tugging at him was distracting, and while dropping the damned thing was an option, Emet-Selch wasn't thinking clearly enough to deliberately let go of it. Instead he growls into the kiss, wresting himself free of it in order to turn his gaze towards the troublesome pendant, glaring at it as if expecting it to explain the interruption. The Ascian makes no other move to detangle or otherwise stand on his own. Out of breath and gaze heated, it takes him a few seconds to realize it was no longer swinging towards Mettaton at all. When he does speak it's low, pitched for Mettaton alone.]
--It seems as if it disagrees with our assessment.
[This inanimate object was spurning the robot.]
no subject
Dependent on him by design yet giving himself up all the same, Emet-Selch tangles a fist into the fur of his back, a tugging that sends sparks through his system. They react to each other as though trained to expect carnal indulgence at the click of heels, at the snap of fingers, at the sound of each other's voices on low tones. Mettaton wants to bite and demand he speak, to rob him of gravity and sense until he gives him the words he wants to hear over and over until he's satisfied, until the whole of him is so vaunted that he can only hear Emet-Selch's reverence of him in his ears. If he had to burn this house down to prove how beautiful he is in his viciousness, he'd do it for Emet-Selch!
(Louis, Fie, and Shinjiro would not like that, Mettaton...)
As he presses deeper into kissing his Bonded, he wonders when he'd catch his voice on sweet compliments for him. He expects/demands Emet-Selch fill his senses with his voice, praising him for his depravity, his radiance, his splendor, his voice, his body, his fervor... Anything at all, for he's striking and awe-inducing. He puts Adonis to shame, and Emet-Selch knows it. He could say it, if only he had his mouth to speak with.
The turbulence of his mood deepens once more, and his lips slip from Emet-Selchs not to give him breath, but because he gets the hint of speech from him. (Otherwise, he'd be content to suffocate him. If Emet-Selch wasn't speaking praises, he wasn't allowed to breathe. He should be living and breathing Mettaton.)
And all he chooses to talk about... is the cursed pendant. The pendant Mettaton formerly "liked," but now resents, especially because it's not all about him anymore?
Mettaton glares at the moon-shaped necklace, then turns to Emet-Selch the same way. Vicious and intense. He rights his lover upon his feet with sudden possession, baring his teeth in a sneer as he snatches the pendant from Emet-Selch's hand for himself.
How dare it take precedence over him. And how dare it snub his glory. (Consider, Mettaton: the pendant doesn't do what you've convinced yourself it does?)]
Give me that. I'll fix this.
[Which is to say, whatever it's assessing is going to be compared, then ruined. He snorts.]
The only thing comparable to me is a mirror. Even that...
[Mettaton's on a campaign to find whatever the pendant's looking for, and he already appears to have a far easier time navigating this basement than does the Ascian: both for his long stride, his incensed wrath, and energetic fervor. The Puca's tail flicks as his ears pin back in total agitation, taking high steps over piles of junk in his search for the false reading of this pendant. He hardly meanders in his trail, knocking over things too high to step over, and... Well, Emet-Selch is more than welcome to follow, especially with a vicious robot mowing this basement down in a single-minded hunt for the draw of this pendant. Whatever it is, it's interrupting his passionate makeout session. And, it's using Emet-Selch's speech for commentary he cares less for than flattery, which makes him angrier and angrier the more he dwells upon it.]
no subject
Because on the other hand, it was pretty hot. The way all of Mettaton's existing intensity was transformed into spiteful fury, with the threat to consume all in his path with it- it fascinated and distracted him. So who could really tell whether this was bad or not?
(It's fortunate that there's nothing obviously flammable within reach, else Mettaton decide that his glory required a backdrop of fire, the house turned into a pyre to celebrate both his majesty and his cruelty- and oh, how he would gleam in the light of dancing flames. Who would be able to deny him then? That would probably lead to the both of them not being invited back, and not only because there wouldn't be a house to be invited back to.)
And for all of his own irritation towards his new pendant, it's completely eclipsed by the wrath emanating from Mettaton. Something that, in itself, should've been another point of concern- that he wouldn't just be protesting the break, the distraction in directions that were not Mettaton-branded- but instead to face this object with something akin to loathing. Forced to take care of his own balance once more, Emet-Selch steadies himself as Mettaton tears the necklace from his grasp and marches off with it swinging, his puca tail twitching, and ears flat in his fury.
For a moment, all Emet-Selch can do is take it all in. From the pain in his lip and the taste of blood, to the sudden racing of his pulse, to being left off-kilter from the process of going from boredly following a pendant, to a furiously passionate embrace, to being rendered breathless and abandoned with said pendant stolen. All in no time at all.
But he follows, if with significantly less grace (and significantly less anger, sucking occasionally on his own lip to keep blood from dripping down his face). Mettaton's path was easy to follow in some ways, and difficult in others (fortunately he had a long enough stride of his own, able to step over much of the mess the puca was leaving in his wake, and he can't fault the robot's efficiency; it was much faster to just burrow through all obstacles rather than go around), but it's not long before the Ascian is at his side once more.
But now there was a physical obstacle in the way that could not be so easily leapt over: the wall of the basement. A wall covered in shelves, which were in turn covered in the same manner of knickknacks and curiosities that filled the rest of this unknowable and infinite basement. And yet the pendant persisted, swinging directly at the barrier before them, and with no mirrors in sight. Was their target whatever was on the opposite side of the wall? Or--
Half-buried under broken crockery (which broke further into birdsong upon being touched, for some reason), Emet-Selch catches sight of a similar moon, contained in similar metal. So similar in fact that it could be mistaken for the one dangling from Mettaton's clawed hand.
On picking it up, bringing it closer to the one Mettaton now possessed- the jewelry calms, even if the one who bears it probably doesn't. But the pendants hang downward as gravity intended, indistinguishable now from any normal piece of metalwork and crystal.
(Even so, Emet-Selch finds it hard to concentrate on it at all, not with all of that seething emanating from the other side of the Bond.)]
Hmm... it seems you're not the only one attracted to reflections of yourself.
[An identical pendant, reunited with its partner.
And with them now together, and their effect of imitating the influence of the full moon upon monsters- a time of ferality and madness- this is surely the perfect complement to Mettaton's existing finery. Precisely the thing required to stabilize an extremely stable mood.]
no subject
Birdsong interrupts his thoughts, as does the sight of a duplicate pendant. Mettaton blinks, his rage not diminishing, but quieting for a moment in his focus. The Ascian plucks the matching pendant from the rubble and raises it to its sister, causing both of them to drape with the weight of their crystal moons like normal pendants should, and Mettaton examines them in comparison to Emet-Selch's commentary.
(Commentary, which is just stating a fact, both about the pendant and about Mettaton. He's at peace with that about himself, but it doesn't please him to go without compliments for any stretch of time if he's hearing Emet-Selch's voice. His eye narrows at the pendant, even as he examines them curiously.)
He snorts.]
Well... I did say "mirror." Although a mirror reflection of me is what I meant...
[Still operating under some strange assumption that these necklaces seek out beautiful people/things. Go figure that its own conceit has the two finding just another duplicate of it.
But then the sister pendants exert their lunar pressure, a sensation that creeps upon Mettaton inappropriately. He squints at the necklaces, then stares at nothing in particular, ears twitching and swiveling, haywire in their erratic lean, like he's trying to figure out why the entirety of space and time feels awkward suddenly. Time feels slower and faster and in reverse all the same, the weight of the sky too intense for it to be the middle of the month... And with his emotions already running vicious, they take a twist for the darker.
Traits of his that only activate during full moons or uncontrollable emotional outbursts begin their gradual display, the overall tinge of his silver fur darkening gradually into something inkier. Those claws that hold the pendant are... longer, normally so finely manicured down to something benign and managed, and the distribution of fur begins to creep more prolifically along his body, the gradual sprouting of fur in broad strokes of patches along the sides of his legs, up the length of his arms... All quite visible, given his lack of clothes. It's so gradual but stark a change, as the room feels as though it's bending in on Mettaton, bending for him, his temper flaring to greater heights of lively radiance. He's been slighted too much, the appreciation of him lacking when he should be serviced. He should be deified.
Luminous eyes fix upon his Emet-Selch, their ire plain in the dim corner of the basement as he directs a malicious smile upon him, becoming slowly aware of these changes, but not of their source, not of their meaning. It's been some time since Mettaton's given way to so many and so quick a shift of features, the combination of pendants and shoulder jewelry assuredly to blame. He sighs, his manner shaky and scarcely restrained as he stares at... the planes of exposed neck, his lover's skin so soft, inviting, bruised already but beckoning for more.]
Oooh... What- What a transformation. An exaltation of my beauty... A greater demonstration of my godlike magnificence! [Mettaton turns more solidly toward Emet-Selch this time, positioning one of his legs close to the Ascian's hip as if to cage him in between the shelf-covered walls, and his body. He stares down the bridge of his nose.] Gaze upon my grandeur, my love... Do I not mesmerize you?
[Here, the Puca lifts his free hand to grab Emet-Selch by his jaw, forcing him to look nowhere but himself and his narrowed gaze, in case he needed any help not staring upon anywhere less worthy than him. That anger grows beyond him, the want to hurt, to enrapture, to subjugate so strong that it feels like it could light him up from the inside. No, instead of unpleasant, this embracing of the "full moon's" effects makes him feel all the more splendid and divine. He knows what he is, and that's dark and heavenly both, ruthless and terrible and Emet-Selch loves him for it. He speaks close to his lips, voice smooth and heavy.]
Look at me... Tell me how enamored you are of me.
[And that grip on his jaw softens, trails down his lover's neck, and strokes his throat. Emet-Selch has a chance of giving him what he wants to hear, and anything else is a waste of breath. He should be thankful to be breathing in his presence: Mettaton seeks fear and love, wants to feel his lover in rapture by the touch of his fingers and his voice alone, the response he deserves.]
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But more details emerge. With such subtlety, a shading in of hair and claw and mood, that he finds himself questioning his limited sight in this already-dim basement. But he was intimately familiar with Mettaton's body, his fur distribution, its tint and tinge. More had crept unawares over his lover's body, darkened lines in a more thorough pattern. As his eyes flicker over him in his assessment, darting across his features, they take in the still-dangling pendant, held in elegant fingers bearing newly-sharpened claws. Long enough to pierce, to scratch, a mark to accompany every caress should the whim strike him.
But manner most of all spoke of a change, that haughty rage taking on an animalistic gleam, pure and powerful and dark, the threat turning into a promise of violence exalted.
(Anytime before this would've probably been a good point to consider being wary, hesitant, or even the smallest percentage of concerned. But Emet-Selch was certain of himself, and he was certain of Mettaton; anything they did at any specific moment was right. There was no doubt in his heart of it.)
Tensing sharply as his face is grasped, held and made to look upon his lover's countenance, his body is encroached on- yet he responds by stepping into it, closer yet. Wave after wave, he was inundated with the entirety of his Bonded's mood, his mental state. Enough so that it grew harder to discern precisely where he lay within it, as rather than take the tact of blocking or defense, he answered it with the weight of his own expectations. If Mettaton demanded his attention, then he demanded him to be something worth his adoration, every part of it, even at its most blackened and obscene. The sort that endures across millennia and civilizations.
The hold on his jaw loosens, but he doesn't look away. If anything, he tilts his head back slightly more as his lover's fingers and their fine claws grace his throat with their attention. A throat warm and soft and vulnerable, his pulse evident and so fast, just below the surface of skin that would look better marred, bruised and bitten and torn.
(In some distant corner of his thoughts, somewhere not caught in the fury he's feeling and feeding- Emet-Selch is aware of the time Mettaton had bitten him hard enough to bleed his way into unconsciousness. They had both been agitated, emotional, reckless- but this time the mood of the monster in front of him was in an entirely different key. Darker and more brilliant both, colored by vicious conceit, and an absolute certainty in his own perfection. A state far more dangerous to provoke, and yet rather than any trace of fear, the Ascian felt only an equally as terrible excitement. The kind that shuddered his breath and sharpened his thoughts to their finest, sharpest edge. The kind that would cut just as surely as they would welcome being cut.
Striking no longer even began to suffice. Of course Mettaton should have his words.)]
I would drown in you.
[Close to his lips, his voice is low, with words that wanted to bite, that threatened to. They already possessed one another but this was different. Subjugation. For all his absolute arrogance, the Ascian was used to it. His most positive memory involved it. But it wasn't ever given without it being taken, though Mettaton's wrath caused him to shudder with desire for it.
Yet despite his words, there's a judging light to Emet-Selch's gaze, as though there were still some decision to be made, as to whether the radiance before him truly deserved to be considered divinity. It's inciting, deliberate, adoration and demand commingled. His free hand digs into Mettaton's hip, buries itself in fur as he drags him against him even if the puca was the one closing him in.]
Drown and stain myself, tempered once more. A warring claim on my loyalties, is it...? I could see myself colored by your soul, taken with no desire, no ability to escape. My life would serve only to exalt you, and I would be your first and last devotee, even when the stars dimmed and the world burned around us.
[Perhaps not the best idea, to imply gods other than Mettaton exist, or to remind of any other's claim on the Ascian.]
--Were my soul not already taken.
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Emet-Selch could handle every inclination of his, even when he overtakes him. He can't even think rationally about it — all that's true is that Emet-Selch would and could handle everything he had to dish out.
(Of course there's their previous encounter that bore resemblance to this one... One with consequences Mettaton stares in the face. But this isn't like that. There's nothing to calm down, only reverence to gain. If Emet-Selch were pierced and bled from it, it wouldn't have the same result somehow, because he could handle him. He wanted him. Emet-Selch wants this.)
He'd drown in him. He'd stain. He'd play tug-of-war with his loyalties, and Emet-Selch would have no inclination away from the fact that Mettaton could take his soul. (He remembers his Bonded asking why he'd think of letting it go or leaving him alone, and Mettaton wonders... why would he? He should take it and keep it-) Devotion promised from beginning to end: even when everything burned down, Mettaton would still keep Emet-Selch.
As the moments pass, Mettaton's smile blooms. His bares more of his teeth in a grin, canines and incisors appearing both sharper than before, far easier to plunge into flesh with cleanness, and he nearly laughs in his drunken euphoria over it. "You know just how to be mine," he nearly says, the words on the tip of his tongue and the knowledge of what he's going to say even closer than that.
He knows it's coming, this reminder that his soul belongs to another. Everything before that is a lead-up to pad his anger, perhaps... Something to talk him down a few notches. The euphoria of his smile is but gasoline, Emet-Selch's temper on his soul a match, and he alights with spite. A streak of vindictive black in his heart, something he'd otherwise been capable of talking himself down from before, of reasoning that this claim upon Emet-Selch's soul is... warranted, makes sense, is the embodiment of a people he loves, even when it weighs upon his shoulders until he's forgotten who he is aside from it any longer. But right now, in this feral-falling state of mind, it becomes something worth his resentment entirely. Nobody was permitted to have his soul but Mettaton. A pure drive not for Emet-Selch's loyalty, but just to have him and hold him and know that every facet of him, every mood and glance and frown, tenderness, dimension, breath, all of it was Mettaton's to love and relish and encourage and know.
So his reaction is instantaneous, the instinct to harm unrelenting and undeniable in the Puca. The presumptuous idol feels their bodies close together, flush from Emet-Selch's bold approach, yet he still corrals Emet-Selch against the shelves with nowhere to flee. He does not feel insulted by this claim on his soul, no... but he feels something. Irate, contentious, stubborn and contrary himself, retaliatory and malicious, and with his pendant-laden hand he tangles their fingers and the chains of their jewelry together, knits it all into a single unit, and pins his lover back. The blood dripping from Emet-Selch's lips... How had he gone this long without a taste of him? His lips peel back in a grin regardless, voice scarcely measured in their cross between lingering delirium and dark contention, speaking with a sort of ethereal, disembodied omnipresence, audible from everywhere as he loses control of his ravenous ire and possession both. A ghastly presence envelops the feral-leaning Puca in his rampant emotional display.]
I'll- I'll make you crave drowning in me so fiercely... you'll drown anyway. You'll be mine. You're mine. You're mine! Hades, you revere me, tell me you—
[Mettaton lunges, his fingers gripping around his neck hard enough to bruise. Hard enough for nails to puncture, rivulets of hot blood streaking south, bar-shaped marks from his fingertips, following the contours and curves of muscle and bone on their way to the collar of Emet-Selchs' clothes. He steals the Ascian up in a kiss that's fused with a growl, palm squeezing around his throat as Mettaton takes a secondary measure to take his breath, tongue invading his mouth fully. Securely without the chance for air or speech, Emet-Selch would breathe Mettaton instead, and drown in him.
A coordinated effort to drink his life away, a second of breath taken at a time. If the breath isn't for showering Mettaton in compliments, for pledging himself to him, what's it for but belonging to him? Yes, this is how Emet-Selch's life belongs to him.
He doesn't want to hurt him. He loves him, and wants to make him feel everything. He wants him to live and be, and he can think of no better place for Emet-Selch to do that but captive to him. And right now, Mettaton can't stand hearing Emet-Selch say that there's a being of divinity with his clutches around his heart that wasn't him, that he couldn't also have him, or that he couldn't have him alone. So he presses his body to his, rubs his thumb against his throat, and lets blackened nails sink even deeper into his neck as he takes his breath more thoroughly in a kiss than ever before. He tightens his grip with more fervor, growling even into his kiss and pressing ever more of his undeniable weight against Emet-Selch, seeing to it that he crushes the Ascian.
He tastes blood, and his Bonded's magic. It intoxicates him and settles his mind even in his fury, but sharpens it all the same. He's wrath incarnate, wanting to burn Emet-Selch and take anything that's left in this irrational moment.]
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Their pendants and fingers were tangled together, but why weren't the rest of them? Their chains were one, and their hands were tied with them, the rasp of metal and clink of glass accompanying every shiver, every tremble, every shove as their bodies met. As Mettaton continued to corner, pushing him against the irregularity of shelves, as he fought only to press closer, to feel more trapped, contained and lost within the darkness of his presence. But what good would even being tied together do, with their souls unmerged, his own long-altered and claimed by another? The utter openness of the Bond was the only salve, every emotion between them registering as his own- every scrap of mingled rage and euphoria. And why wasn't it? Did it matter where each feeling started, when they possessed the whole of each other? It didn't. It didn't, and Emet-Selch loved the dark besides. He bites hard at Mettaton's tongue, but it's not to protest the kiss, but to demand that it continue, teeth dragging along it as he sucks on it.
Mettaton's voice still rang in his ears, driving out all other attempts at sound, the clatter of items around them becoming distant, unremarkable. The viciousness of his expression still filled his thoughts, even when he was pressed too close now to see it. But he knew it remained, the look of one not having given up to madness, but embracing it, elevating it to a form of simultaneous wrath and rapture. Mettaton would consume him, and he'd tear him apart from within, and they would both love one another all the more for it.
Mettaton wouldn't hurt him. No part of this registered as pain. Not his display of veneration, and not the claws sinking deeper into his neck.
Of course Emet-Selch is aroused. That's inevitable. Not only in dealing with Mettaton in general, but in dealing with Mettaton in intensity. The sense of danger translated to a need for it, for him, a reaction even more natural than breathing. Breath was optional; Mettaton was not. And for a few seconds he only knows it as an intensifying heat in his blood, encouraging the trails down his throat to run faster, to stain further (if Mettaton couldn't stain his soul, he'd have to color the rest of him, even if it was with his own blood--). It's only when he hooks his leg around his lover's, shoving his hips against his that he even notices his own physical response, and he'd make a noise of satisfaction at it were he able to make any sound at all. His hand digs around the fur at his lover's hip, tearing at it. Deliberately, he rubs his body against his, demanding recognition for his want of him, demanding attention and satisfaction, demanding everything. He would revere him, and he would be revered.
A part of Emet-Selch remains aware of where they were. In public, again, as their penchant for good decision-making continues to manifest. It doesn't register as a problem in the modesty or decency sense, not giving the slightest damn that being discovered would be an inevitability, considering the way Mettaton was knocking him into shelves of dubious-stability, full of things that rattled and sang when provoked. The space, ill-defined as it was, was smaller, and there were people.
But while he didn't care about being watched as Mettaton tore into him, as they tore and bit and pulled at each other, his Bonded yet radiant in the limited light (and nor did he remember Mettaton's own dismay afterward from the last time, on realizing he'd fucked him in public), Emet-Selch remained aware of it in the sense that they had the threat of being interrupted. And that, if literally nothing else about being where they were, was intolerable. It was unthinkable, that anyone would try to interfere, when they should truly be in awe of them, of their devotion and worship to one another. It should be the greatest gift, to watch them.
Sparing enough concentration to teleport them elsewhere will take him a minute, though. Even if, the longer he went without air, suffocating against Mettaton's lips and tongue, the harder it would be to concentrate on anything at all, especially specific magic.]
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Mettaton is completely aware of where they are, and if anyone got too close to his ritualistic taking of his Bonded, he's likely to attack. There is no mercy in him for anyone but Emet-Selch, the man who loves him enough to have called him striking and worth devotion, wanting to drown in his aether... Nobody else is worth Mettaton's time. (Indeed, it's a twisted kind of reverence from the Puca just as well. A demand for worship, but a dependence on his most fervent devotee, for what is he without fanaticism?) To continue with this in a public space is because it should be awe-inspiring: everyone should know how much Emet-Selch is willing to give him, a model sort of loyalty to Mettaton that could be learned from.
Of course, Mettaton adores Emet-Selch in return for it.
With another persistent push, Mettaton forces their bodies together. He makes the Ascian's form yield to his own, demands that it give way to shelving and metal both, and they're so flush together that he can feel his Bonded's entire physical response to the urgency of him. From the speed of his pulse to the slight tensing of his chest, right down to a more welcome firmness of something that can press into Mettaton's hard metal body in turn... And what flattery, for Emet-Selch to be so excited of being torn into by him. Mettaton can't help it when his own voice slips out on a moan into the depths of their kiss, his lover's teeth there as though to capture him in turn. It's one of the few nonverbal compliments that sates him at all, for all that he's insatiable, for all that his ire has grown so vast that worship of him feels compulsory and never enough. All else could burn. He wants to hear nothing at all but love and adoration and pledges to his name.
What he doesn't want to hear is anything about Zodiark. Resentment pulses through him like the blood he lacks, and he more fiercely grips down onto Emet-Selch's neck with a sort of snarl into their kiss just thinking about not being able to have what he wants to the fullest extent. The soul occupying this body ought to belong to him, his desire for Emet-Selch to dedicate his life something that could have made his knees weak if he weren't so fueled with righteous rage.
Right now, his vanity is such that he's above consequence and worthy of unfaltering adoration from everyone. If he chose to tear Emet-Selch apart either in passion or violence, bystanders should merely be his enraptured audience, and their thoughts should only be inspired in the direction of adoration for what they beheld. It's not Mettaton's first nor second time fucking in public, and this is the least he's cared about consequence — because there are none for one so elevated as he. Interrupting had its consequence, however, and the very thought has him leaning further yet into crowding his Bonded against shelves, slipping his body more deeply into Emet-Selch's hips, his thigh so securely wrapped around Mettaton's legs as they are. What he feels, of course... Mettaton longs to palm him, but one hand's tied in chain to his Bondmate's; the other is busy sinking his nails into Emet-Selch's neck, clamping down on his throat, bruising with fingers as he yearns to sink his teeth into his neck while he stuffs his mouth with tongue.
But he pulls back just enough, rolling his hips into Emet-Selch's body with a fevered grin pressed to the Ascian's lips. His voice is so boldly low that it's clear he's reached a point where his voice is only for the worthy, and Emet-Selch has evoked it.]
I knew you could tell me how much you adore me, even without breath... You don't disappoint me, dear.
[For just the flicker of a moment, Mettaton gives him breath. Mettaton loves everyone but he's furious at them for their impudence, for his lack of ceremony, and he's almost insulted that nobody's watching. They should be watching him right now and awestruck at how wonderful he is. Better yet... how perfect he and Emet-Selch are together, a system of magnificence as he manages to touch his temper scalding hot, but acts as though being so burned is second nature. Feverishly, Mettaton plants repetitive kisses to Emet-Selch's lips, waiting to hear him gasp for breath. He wants to hear him breathless and desperate, and wants to hear him sing his gratitude and his desire for him.]
Tell me how much you desire me. [He grips down on his throat once more here, but he seems amendable toward offering him air if he seems willing to speak. Otherwise, the conceited idol continues dipping his tongue into Emet-Selch's mouth, occupying his lips with spaces between to gauge his interest in reply, in breath.
And the longer he waits, the more fervent and intense his kisses, impatient and ever furious over the recognition he cannot hear. The only thing that tides him over in this moment is Emet-Selch's blatant and bodily response to demonstrate his appreciation of him.]
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