![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png){kind=small}
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 (
no subject
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.
no subject
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.]
no subject
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.]
no subject
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.]
no subject