Butterfly Wings

Emet-Selch is not a man who is very overt with his thoughts. Instead, he often hides them behind wit, riddle and rhyme. It is hard to pin him down physically as much as emotionally, so it is often he who approaches you on his own terms and time. Even then, if you are careful, if you are gentle, you may yet see deep into this being’s eons-old soul, into thoughts and emotions so ancient that they transcend the length of civilizations. 

He much prefers to be asked than to be told, so there is much to gain in even the silliest or the stupidest of questions. Especially if questions deal with him and his people. If there is but one topic that Emet-Selch seems most genuinely happy to talk about, it is surely that of the world many eons lost and forgotten, living on in but fragments and memories of a few survivors. It is in these stories that he tells you that you see a deeper part of him, a part beyond the mask of wit and drama and half-veiled jabs. Though you’d come to expect that the Ascian might tell you grandiose stories of how lofty and perfect his people were…he more often told you of seemingly small things in comparison. 

He’d tell stories of friends and family, of technology and culture and history. So often would it simply be a description of a place he still remembered, details yet distinct in his immortal memory. Of a pathway he likened to walk in the city he was born in. Of a forest that smelled of flowers in the right season. Of the joy in his being when he was seen at last as an adult in his society and afforded the rights and respects of one. Memories of young children playing amongst their friends.

Even after everything, Emet-Selch doesn’t try to act as if he suddenly understands why the Scions fight–why you fight. He doesn’t understand how there is so much worth in a life that is, to him, little more than a blink of existence. To born, grow, and wither away…no, he is often honest with you in that he doesn’t understand it at all–and the gesture of his honesty means a lot. The point in the interaction is not making him understand. Can you expect an immortal being to comprehend the true breadth of meaning within a fragile, mortal life in comparison? No, you do not want him to suddenly find clarity on a subject he has obviously tried to understand through thousands of lifetimes. Instead, you simply treasure the Ascian’s genuine honesty.

And, from that honesty, there is a connection.

Though Emet-Selch at last lays away his efforts, he does not suddenly pose himself as an ally to any force; his existence serves instead to carry with him the memories of his people, if only to ensure that their history never dies away. Despite this true rejection of bias or care in the matters of the Source or its fragments, the Ascian always seems to be close enough for you to summon by the sound of his title. He will not take part in the conflict of mortals or show any care to their feeble wars and sacrifices–but if you are the one to ask of his help, then suddenly do the Scions find themselves with the endless wrath of an ancient soul at their aid. 

But only by your words alone.

He spends a rather lot of time with you, if anyone were to keep track. Sometimes he appears to share but a dancing of wit, and sometimes still he holds his tongue so that you can speak of your thoughts to him–if he thinks himself too high or you too worthless, then never once has he said so. There is but a handful of times still that you woke up from a nightmare, half-drawn yet by the haze of sleep, to feel warm arms and a familiar voice reciting familiar stories of forests that smell like flowers and a pathway always so peaceful in an ancient city of eons past.

If there is but one person that Emet-Selch bonds with, that person is truthfully, undeniably you.

Emet-Selch is nothing if not a rather cryptic lover. He’ll dance around words until your head spins, never quite getting to the point until he simply wants to, and you can never be quite sure what sort of mood he’s in until you’re neck-deep in the pool. His wants and needs are, simply put, a mystery, and the only time that they aren’t is when he deigns to tell you such–there have been plenty of times you assumed you could read him only to find him upon you without warning, hands skimming over your body and lips to the shell of your ear whispering dirty things in a half-forgotten language you’ve barely picked up as ancient Asian.

Even if he keeps his desires behind a thick veil, the man is incredibly perceptive of your own. You’re not quite sure if this is due to his many lifetimes of experience or simply due to the fact that he follows you around near-constantly in one form or another, but it doesn’t change the simple fact that the man is strangely attuned to your emotional state. Joy, anger, sadness and yes, especially arousal. With that emotion in particular, you’re hardly to find yourself alone in dealing with it–well, unless you’d prefer to deal with it alone; in which case, Emet-Selch has made it clear that he’s perfectly content with watching you if you don’t want him to touch you.

Very rarely does the Asian allow his emotional mask to falter. Though you’ve seen it in moments of rage and frustration, you’ve also seen it in moments of intense passion. The moments where the two of you are together, when his hands are on your hips and his lips on your throat, caught between sultry words and nipping lovemarks on your skin. It’s in those moments of orgasm that he loses himself a little, brought to the earth and barely able to think, able to speak beyond the sweet sound of your name upon his lips. It’s hard to focus on it when you’re often too cresting over the edge, but even a glimpse of it, his golden eyes soft and his expression unhidden, is a sweetness in itself.

Despite his sometimes flippant attitude, Emet-Selch enjoys a certain amount of control, particularly in matters of intimacy. It’s certainly not to say he doesn’t enjoy a lover who is willing to play with him in terms of such control, but he will certainly default delightfully to bending his lover as he likes–physically and metaphorically speaking. When the man can conjure up the likeness of an entire city, after all, one must expect that he enjoys the concept of playing god every now and again–particularly if his lover is into that.

Bound