[ Letting himself fall back against the bed now that he's not being worked with the other man's mouth, he huffs a laugh as he cards his fingers through his own hair then. ]
Well aren't you a giving person.
[ Grin there on his lips, lazy as it is, he lets his hand drop away from his head and back to the bed. ]
[He laughs] Well good. And now you know where to find me.
[He doesn't plan on telling his friends about this room. He needs a space that's just his, where he can stash things. But John knows about it, so John is automatically welcome there. In part because he knows John won't abuse that.]
[ Reaching out with a hand, he walks his fingers along the other man's arm, just because he can. He's not about to tell anyone (why would he?) about Jesus' little spot here. He knows what it's like to want a place for himself. To just get away from every one and every thing. Even just for a little bit. ]
Think this right here more than makes up for me getting it for you, by the way.
[ Brow raised, total sarcasm, he laughs a bit then, turning his hand over, palm up, and letting a sliver of fire slip down from the magic little ring he wears that allows him to "borrow" fire. He lets it grow into a ball, no bigger than a golf ball and holds it between his fingers, leaning it towards Jesus. ]
Wanna hold it?
[ If Jesus does, he'll find it's warm. Not hot. Because John is the one who controls it. John's the one making it warm. ]
[he takes it fully expecting it will burn if he holds on too long, and that it will fizzle out before it can cause damage. Instead it's the temperature of a mug of coffee and he cups his hands around it, his eyes lit up with the delight of something magical]
[ It's like asking how a telepath can read minds, or how someone can fly, how Scott can shoot beams from his eyes. It's just... a part of them. Like a sixth sense.
He watches the way Jesus holds it and it always makes him feel... something, when someone isn't freaked out by what he can do — by what he is. ]
I can feel it. I can sense it nearby. I can change its temperature and make it be whatever my imagination lets me. I just can't create it. I need an external source of it.
[ His magical little ring since his flamethrower had been damaged a long time ago here. ]
[Jesus has seen exactly how terrible the human race can get. He knows how badly people must have reacted to other people being able to do things like this.
But he's not one of them. He, for his part, is awed.]
It's incredible.
[he rolls the ball of flame over his palms, over the backs of his knuckles, like a coin trick]
[ Despite the nearly two years that he's been here and how much more accepting others have been of him (and his kind) here, it still gives him pause — still has him feel a certain way whenever someone says something like that about what he can do. ]
If only everyone thought that.
[ Words said softly, he looks to the ball Jesus plays with and, suddenly it changes — takes the shape of a small bird that perches itself there on the other man's knuckles. While there's no chirping to be heard, it does flap its wings, ducks its head down, even hops a little there on the man's knuckles. Still warm and capable of being touched like a real bird. ]
[ He sure would have been handy against hordes of zombies with his fire manipulation. Shame it doesn't do much against giant machines programmed to hunt and kill his kind. ]
It has its perks. [ A pause, he rolls to lay on his back, looking up to the ceiling, the little fire bird still hopping about and nuzzling at Jesus' fingers. ] Not always enough though.
[ He still doesn't think he can talk about what happened — that he was killed here last month by one of the very things made to do just that to his kind. It's just easier to deny it. Pretend it never happened. Not healthy, but. You know. ]
Nothing.
[ Looking to the bird, it changes then into a fiery cat that nuzzles at Jesus' beard, standing there on his lap and arms for attention. ]
Never have to worry about burning myself at least.
[ He looks back up to the ceiling then, an arm tucked behind his head as he does. ]
Humans don't like us. Mutants. [ He clarifies. ] Because you know how people are. If it's different to whatever their idea of normal is, it's a threat. It's dangerous. It's wrong.
[He hums softly, regretful. He does know. John wouldn't have been any safer in the old world, but he would have been a hero in the one Jesus left. Partly because most humans are dead.]
Not since I was born. Well— [ He shrugs. ] the x-gene, as they call it, has always been there, I guess. But it's usually around puberty when a mutant discovers they have their powers, whatever that is. I'm not exactly an expert in genetics or anything, so.
[ Another shrug, he looks over to Jesus and the cat pawing at the man's beard. ]
I've killed people though. [ That comes out a little softer than he means it to, gaze drifting off for just a moment. ] I don't regret it. I can't regret killing people who wanted me dead. Who hurt others like me.
[He nods--just a little, because he's enjoying letting the firecat play with his beard]
I don't regret killing any of the people I have. There's always been a reason--my life, or someone I'm protecting. Something that had to be done.
I don't believe in it as a first response, but I don't think you should regret killing if it means saving yourself, saving people you care about. People who depend on you.
[ Shifting, he sits up then, a glance down to his lap where he covers himself a bit before he leans back on his hands, looking off across the room. ]
I don't really fit in anywhere. Here, back home. I just drift a lot. I don't know where I belong. I feel like I try to, but then some part of me doesn't like it. I feel the need to constantly run. Maybe it's just cause it's what I've always done. Or it's easier to be on your own. I don't know.
[He frowns, and sits up as well, still holding the fire.]
I ran away a lot as a kid. I grew up in a group home... every time someone would foster me I'd have a good week, good two weeks, and then I'd bolt.
I still do that. It's not easy to be alone, but at least then you know what to expect. You know, I thought I'd found a place to belong. I fought to save it. But by the time I came here? I just felt trapped. [he still feels trapped. He gets it.]
Do you feel like you belong with your Dom at least?
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
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He kisses the head of his cock and climbs up onto the bed besides him]
You deserve to feel as good as you made me feel. Well. As close as I can get you to it, anyway.
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Well aren't you a giving person.
[ Grin there on his lips, lazy as it is, he lets his hand drop away from his head and back to the bed. ]
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I'm serious though. I'd fuck your mouth again. I'd do this again, too. Maybe next time we trade books.
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[ Waggling his eyebrows at him, he laughs a little then. ]
I mean, not like I'm gonna say no to a good mouth and a good fuck.
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[He doesn't plan on telling his friends about this room. He needs a space that's just his, where he can stash things. But John knows about it, so John is automatically welcome there. In part because he knows John won't abuse that.]
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[ Reaching out with a hand, he walks his fingers along the other man's arm, just because he can. He's not about to tell anyone (why would he?) about Jesus' little spot here. He knows what it's like to want a place for himself. To just get away from every one and every thing. Even just for a little bit. ]
Think this right here more than makes up for me getting it for you, by the way.
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[ Brow raised, total sarcasm, he laughs a bit then, turning his hand over, palm up, and letting a sliver of fire slip down from the magic little ring he wears that allows him to "borrow" fire. He lets it grow into a ball, no bigger than a golf ball and holds it between his fingers, leaning it towards Jesus. ]
Wanna hold it?
[ If Jesus does, he'll find it's warm. Not hot. Because John is the one who controls it. John's the one making it warm. ]
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How do you do this?
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[ It's like asking how a telepath can read minds, or how someone can fly, how Scott can shoot beams from his eyes. It's just... a part of them. Like a sixth sense.
He watches the way Jesus holds it and it always makes him feel... something, when someone isn't freaked out by what he can do — by what he is. ]
I can feel it. I can sense it nearby. I can change its temperature and make it be whatever my imagination lets me. I just can't create it. I need an external source of it.
[ His magical little ring since his flamethrower had been damaged a long time ago here. ]
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But he's not one of them. He, for his part, is awed.]
It's incredible.
[he rolls the ball of flame over his palms, over the backs of his knuckles, like a coin trick]
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If only everyone thought that.
[ Words said softly, he looks to the ball Jesus plays with and, suddenly it changes — takes the shape of a small bird that perches itself there on the other man's knuckles. While there's no chirping to be heard, it does flap its wings, ducks its head down, even hops a little there on the man's knuckles. Still warm and capable of being touched like a real bird. ]
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I could do this for a while.
[Just warning him, Jesus might never get tired of playing with fire he can touch.]
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It has its perks. [ A pause, he rolls to lay on his back, looking up to the ceiling, the little fire bird still hopping about and nuzzling at Jesus' fingers. ] Not always enough though.
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What do you mean?
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Nothing.
[ Looking to the bird, it changes then into a fiery cat that nuzzles at Jesus' beard, standing there on his lap and arms for attention. ]
Never have to worry about burning myself at least.
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You had to fight a lot at home?
[It's a guess. A hunch, really, but he's pretty sure the answer is 'yes'.]
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[ He looks back up to the ceiling then, an arm tucked behind his head as he does. ]
Humans don't like us. Mutants. [ He clarifies. ] Because you know how people are. If it's different to whatever their idea of normal is, it's a threat. It's dangerous. It's wrong.
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Have you always been able to do this?
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[ Another shrug, he looks over to Jesus and the cat pawing at the man's beard. ]
I've killed people though. [ That comes out a little softer than he means it to, gaze drifting off for just a moment. ] I don't regret it. I can't regret killing people who wanted me dead. Who hurt others like me.
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I don't regret killing any of the people I have. There's always been a reason--my life, or someone I'm protecting. Something that had to be done.
I don't believe in it as a first response, but I don't think you should regret killing if it means saving yourself, saving people you care about. People who depend on you.
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[ Shifting, he sits up then, a glance down to his lap where he covers himself a bit before he leans back on his hands, looking off across the room. ]
I don't really fit in anywhere. Here, back home. I just drift a lot. I don't know where I belong. I feel like I try to, but then some part of me doesn't like it. I feel the need to constantly run. Maybe it's just cause it's what I've always done. Or it's easier to be on your own. I don't know.
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I ran away a lot as a kid. I grew up in a group home... every time someone would foster me I'd have a good week, good two weeks, and then I'd bolt.
I still do that. It's not easy to be alone, but at least then you know what to expect. You know, I thought I'd found a place to belong. I fought to save it. But by the time I came here? I just felt trapped. [he still feels trapped. He gets it.]
Do you feel like you belong with your Dom at least?
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[ He tries to shrug it off with a soft laugh, but it's also the truth. ]
I just feel like a lot of stuff is pointless. That staying alive is as good as it gets.
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What's a good day look like for you? Not an average day, a good one.
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