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alfirin_kirinki
Beta:![[info]](https://l-stat.livejournal.com/img/user_ontd.gif?v=88.3)
ashe_frost
Fandom: X-Men
Pairing: Bobby/John
Rating: Um... probably just lower than an R for swearing and a reference to naughty teenage things.
Summary: For![[info]](https://l-stat.livejournal.com/img/community.gif?v=88.3)
dry_ice's June Blood Fic Challenge. Bobby makes John bleed, obviously, and the First Rule of John is Never Touch the Goddamn Lighter, Moron.
Disclaimer: all characters property of Marvel; title from Queens of the Stone Age's song of the same name and quote by Funeral for a Friend, as stated.
Author Notes: This was not meant to be funny. It was not meant to be an amalgamation of The Three Bobbys - Movie!Bobby, Original!Comic!Bobby and Ultimate!Bobby. But apparently, it is. Go me!
Special thanks, not just to Ashe for always being there to beta my stuff, but also tolittledarkvoice for being my eternal X-fic sounding post and introducing me to the greatness of Blue!Shades!Bobby... ~loffs both~
Feel Good Hit of the Summer
"The red poison of your lips
The red poison of your eyes
Is where I kissed the blood from,
That corner of your mouth where I can see the
white of your smile…"
Funeral for a Friend – Escape Artists Never Die
It had been a fight just like any other they'd had. And there had been many. Bobby wasn't spending enough time with him, Rogue was 'nothing more than a prick-teasing bitch' and why wouldn't he just get over it and start hanging around with the people who really mattered – yadda yadda – her with her 'lame-ass powers' – blah blah blah… Bobby was actually starting to think John had some kind of misogyny complex, because he didn't like any of the girls at school – in fact, he kind of bitched about them behind their backs the way most girls did to each other – but mainly, he just hated Rogue. Kind of seriously. Kind of to the point where Bobby felt stuck in the middle, pulled between best friend and girlfriend, because the feeling was hardly one-sided and he was no Multiple Man.
And it had been a fight just like any other they'd had. Only not. Because for once, Bobby really had lost his temper. He didn't understand defeatism. Not at all. And when it came from the mouth of someone who was usually three steps ahead of him in a battle of wits and could kick his ass in to the middle of next week when it came to wars of words, it particularly pissed him off.
He couldn't even remember what had been said, now, but the expression on John's face as Bobby had snatched that damn lighter out of his hand and hurled it as hard as he could away from them in the hope that just for once – just this one time – they could have a conversation (who was he kidding?) without the incessant clickclickclick and the risk of his entire side of their dorm being reduced to ashes by that stupid chunk of metal that took up so much of John's attention – had caused Bobby to cringe. In fact, he cringed again at the memory. Partly the memory of John's baby-faced balk of disbelief, mouth open, bottom lip jutting out, wide green eyes narrowing as he turned his former gape into a glare in the space of time it took to turn from the small chip in the paint work to Bobby's guilty blue ones; partly from the sound the Zippo had made as it had collided – lid still open – and plinked to the floor woundedly.
There was that sort of horrifying silence when words start forming at the back of people's throats, deep, shuddering, scandalised breaths are taken and the affronter stares at the affronted with abject terror at the thought of ever attempting to make up for their actions. Like a small fluffy animal eyeing an approaching steam roller.
He expected John to say something. Punch him. Possibly pick up the lighter by its twisted lid and scorch off both his eyebrows. But he did nothing. Just gave him one last disbelieving glare, accompanied by a slight shake of the head for added guilt, and snatched up the lighter quickly but delicately, cupping it in his hand for a second, shooting Bobby one last scowl and slamming the door behind him.
Relieved of immediate danger, Bobby emitted a feeble, "Oops?"
When he had first arrived, people – mainly Bobby – had made the mistake of thinking that what John needed, when one of his foul moods took over, was companionship. In fact, what John actually needed when one of his foul moods took over was a straight jacket, one of those masks from Silence of the Lambs, and a ten-mile exclusion zone.
Still, Bobby gave him an hour before the guilt reached Earth-shattering levels. At which point he rolled off of his bed gracelessly and reluctantly made his way downstairs to find him. The way people shifted to one side of the corridor and fell silent as he passed was ample illustration of his new status as a Condemned Mutie.
"Ah, man…" he grumbled, increasingly afraid of what level of damage control rescuing their friendship would entail. Because the very first Rule Of John was Never Touch the Goddamn Lighter, Moron. By the time Piotr sympathetically patted him on the shoulder hard enough to buckle his knees, and wandered off with the forlorn sigh of a soldier sending his comrade in to battle, Bobby was actually bordering on hysterical. He'd developed a nervous twitch somewhere near his right eye and found himself ambling into the grounds looking somewhat like Popeye with Tourettes.
Well, at least when John grilled him he'd do so with a smile.
His legs felt heavier with every step, his natural sense of self-preservation kicking in with aplomb. He didn't want to die. He was far toovirginal young to die. Never mind the fact that if he died before Grandma's 80th birthday party his mother would reanimate him purely for the pleasure of killing him again… No. He had to make things better
It wasn't hard to find John. He conveniently left a trail of scorch marks behind him, meandering across what had once been flowerbeds, but were now great swathes of headless stalks and charred remains and across to the thicket over to the side of the lake.
Fantastic - tinder, too. That'd be one hell of a pyre.
Hesitantly, treading as cautiously and quietly as he could, the hairs on the back of his neck prickling, Bobby made his way nearer to the other boy, clinging to the last few moments of life without serious maiming. Finally, he stopped, barely two feet behind him as he sat hunched on an up-turned rowing boat.
"John?"
There was a sharp "Wuh!" of alarm, immediately followed by a pained "Fuck!" and rounded off nicely with a bellowed, "DRAKE!"
Bobby recoiled; considered running or at least surrounding himself with a protective wall of ice, just in case. Possibly even dropping to his knees to beg for mercy. He gave a tiny whimper and tried to look too adorable to kill. Well, it worked with girls. Sometimes…
It took him a moment to realise John hadn't stood up, had still not managed to singe his eyebrows and was actually hunched over again, his back to him and his hand raised to his mouth.
Bobby regained some nerve and edged forward, "Johnny?" he said worriedly.
"What the fuck are you trying to do, man? Fucking creeping up on people!"
"You okay?"
"First you bust my lighter just cause I say your girl ain't good enough and then you try to make me cut my own hand off – what do you think?"
"Huh?" For a moment all sense of danger as forgotten as he processed the words 'cut', 'hand' and 'moron' – the latter of which seemed to be on express. He sat straddling the boat and pulled the hand nearer, "Lemme see."
John pulled it back, "Fuck off!"
Bobby pulled it back again, "Let me see!"
John yanked his hand back so hard he smacked himself in the face, biting his own lip and nearly falling off the boat on to the floor.
Bobby wanted to laugh, but he wasn't much one for suicide, so he didn't. He did, however, manage and only slightly teasing, "Okay, don't then."
Half laying on the ground, half dangling backwards over the boat, John scowled up at him and dabbed at his lip with the back of his bleeding fist, smearing red across his mouth and reminding Bobby of both the most terrifying clown he'd ever seen and the recent recipient of an intensely vampy kiss. Taking a deep breath, he held out his hand. He tried not to shake, but his fingers had other ideas, twitching so much they almost seemed to be beckoning; which was oddly fitting as remnants of the fleeting crush he'd had on John when he first arrived were giggling over his shoulder and pointing large and intrusive arrows at the scarlet-daubed pout.
John continued to glower.
"C'mon, dude… I'm sorry. I didn't mean to hurt you…"
John looked away, his arm still barely supporting him from falling down entirely and he muttered, "Too damn late, pal."
"Well if you'd just let me check you – er – it out – "
"This ain't about my fucking hand, you dick!"
"So… is it broken?"
"No, but you damn near made me cut it off!"
"I meant the lighter, John," Bobby sighed, still holding out his hand. "Is your lighter broke?"
John dabbed at his mouth again, glaring at the blood pointedly and casting Bobby a surly look. He reached out the still-bleeding hand and presented the prized lighter. The prized and now somewhat mangled lighter. Bobby's stomach dropped and a small demon lounging on his shoulder began processing his perpetually increasing tally of guilt.
"Oh."
"Deader than Rasputin in a recycling plant."
Like the amps on Spinal Tap, the guilt level cranked up that extra notch.
"Can you fix her?"
"Cap's bent, wheel's broke… You killed her dead, Drake." John jerked his hand and muttered, "Get me up, man," then seemed to give a snort of laughter. Tentatively, Bobby pulled the lighter out of John's fingers, then tugged the gashed hand gently until John could finally sit up beside him, where he pulled up the front of his t-shirt – Bobby's t-shirt, as he soon realised – and wrapped his bleeding hand in it. He cast Bobby a side-long look and sniggered again while Bobby was too busy concentrating on not looking at John's exposed stomach.
Telling himself that the blood loss must be making him delirious, despite the cut clearly not being serious, Bobby reached out and pulled the hand back again. This time, there was no slap-stick-inducing tussle and he fumbled in his pocket to find the bandana Kitty and Jubes had given him because they said his slowly developing iceform "looked too naked". What the hell they thought tying a big handkerchief around his head was going to achieve, Bobby wasn't sure, but it served a purpose as he carefully checked over John's hand where the Swiss Army knife had gashed him. John let him do so without any fuss, and after a minute Bobby plucked up the nerve to speak again.
"So what's so funny, dude?" he asked, tying the last knot at John's wrist and carefully smoothing the material across his palm.
"Nothing…" John smirked, and Bobby knew he was lying because… well, because this was John and there was no such thing as 'Nothing' in John's World.
"That right?" he asked protractedly, and wondered if Professor X was interfering here, because he wasn't even sure he knew what 'protracted' really meant.
John shrugged, still smirking, "Just kinda funny, is all."
"What? That you got your own back by bleeding on my Abercrombie?"
"No, that a fight about the Soul Sucker ends up with you holding my hand."
Bobby had already nodded vaguely and offered a tolerant, "Ohhh…" before the comment registered, but then found himself blinking several times and asking, "Why? Wh-why – why would that…? Um… why?"
John benefited him with a look that was either meant to be endearing or condescending, it was hard to tell which, and leaned slightly towards him. Bobby stopped blinking and widened his eyes.
"Because I hate to tell you this, man, but your chick and I had a little bet," the other boys admitted, and Bobby really wasn't sure he liked the idea of that, but he nodded blankly, urging him to continue. "See, your chick's real competitive, but she's also a little naïve. And I figured the best way to keep her thieving hands off of you was to play a little game. I bet Mississippi's brightest that she couldn't hold off from doing her little soul-snatching party trick on you any more than I could get you to kiss me. Dumb bitch accepted…" John grinned smugly.
Bobby didn't quite get it. "Huh?"
John rolled his eyes and snatched back the twisted Zippo to fidget with. "Deal is: if your girl kisses you before I do, she loses. If I kiss you before she does, I win."
Bobby stared at him, mouth hanging open, neon letters dancing through his head spelling out "SUCKED IN!"
"So you're telling me the only way Rogue will ever let me kiss her is if I kiss you first?" he asked in disbelief.
"Uh-huh," John nodded, wryly, the tip of a pink tongue playing at the corner of his mouth. "You know, she's really kind of lacking in the common sense department, man… I think you oughta trade her in."
"Gee, thanks," Bobby replied flatly, mulling his prospects over while studying the red-smeared mouth and the wickedly sparkling green eyes. Hm. Option of never getting to touch the cutesy girlfriend he'd been trying to lure into a kiss for weeks, or making out with his best friend, who he used to kind of have a crush on that maybe – slightly – might still have a few remaining flutters to it. John; with his pretty eyes and his full, blood-smeared –
This time John didn't catch himself from falling. And neither did Bobby. They met with the ground at almost the same velocity as their teeth collided with each other. And in the ensuing mess of teeth, lips, tongues and drool, there may even have been a wandering hand and a subtle grind, just to be sure the rules applied. In fact, Bobby may even have instigated a second or third just to be absolutely certain. He was actually debating whether John's clothes still being on may constitute a negating technicality when an alarming thought occurred to him.
"Hey, John?" he began, pulling away enough to look into sparkling eyes that were now filled with an almost hypnotic stupor, "What were the stakes for this bet?"
Beneath him, John gave a mildly frightening grin and shrugged, "Well the deal was, if I win, I get to keep you, and if she loses…" he trailed off into a knowing smirk.
"If she loses...?"
Bobby's eyes widened as a hand slipped down the back of his pants and gave a hearty squeeze; "If Rogue loses," John told him, chewing cheekily on his bloodied lip, "if she loses, I guess that means…"
Bobby took a breath and finished for him, "You win?"
"I win."
Thinking about it for a minute, Bobby nodded and muttered, "Oh." But as John gave a wriggle that sent sparks into a hyper-speed conga down his veins like ignited fuses coursing towards a large and dangerous pile of dynamite, Bobby thought maybe, just maybe, it was time to start playing by The Rules of John, and said, "Hey, John, I bet I can get you off quicker that you can get me off…"
"Wanna bet?"
"Um hm," Bobby nodded, and resolved to get the lighter fixed because next time he might accidentally get Piotr to stand on it…
alfirin_kirinkiBeta:
ashe_frostFandom: X-Men
Pairing: Bobby/John
Rating: Um... probably just lower than an R for swearing and a reference to naughty teenage things.
Summary: For
dry_ice's June Blood Fic Challenge. Bobby makes John bleed, obviously, and the First Rule of John is Never Touch the Goddamn Lighter, Moron.Disclaimer: all characters property of Marvel; title from Queens of the Stone Age's song of the same name and quote by Funeral for a Friend, as stated.
Author Notes: This was not meant to be funny. It was not meant to be an amalgamation of The Three Bobbys - Movie!Bobby, Original!Comic!Bobby and Ultimate!Bobby. But apparently, it is. Go me!
Special thanks, not just to Ashe for always being there to beta my stuff, but also to
littledarkvoice for being my eternal X-fic sounding post and introducing me to the greatness of Blue!Shades!Bobby... ~loffs both~"The red poison of your lips
The red poison of your eyes
Is where I kissed the blood from,
That corner of your mouth where I can see the
white of your smile…"
Funeral for a Friend – Escape Artists Never Die
It had been a fight just like any other they'd had. And there had been many. Bobby wasn't spending enough time with him, Rogue was 'nothing more than a prick-teasing bitch' and why wouldn't he just get over it and start hanging around with the people who really mattered – yadda yadda – her with her 'lame-ass powers' – blah blah blah… Bobby was actually starting to think John had some kind of misogyny complex, because he didn't like any of the girls at school – in fact, he kind of bitched about them behind their backs the way most girls did to each other – but mainly, he just hated Rogue. Kind of seriously. Kind of to the point where Bobby felt stuck in the middle, pulled between best friend and girlfriend, because the feeling was hardly one-sided and he was no Multiple Man.
And it had been a fight just like any other they'd had. Only not. Because for once, Bobby really had lost his temper. He didn't understand defeatism. Not at all. And when it came from the mouth of someone who was usually three steps ahead of him in a battle of wits and could kick his ass in to the middle of next week when it came to wars of words, it particularly pissed him off.
He couldn't even remember what had been said, now, but the expression on John's face as Bobby had snatched that damn lighter out of his hand and hurled it as hard as he could away from them in the hope that just for once – just this one time – they could have a conversation (who was he kidding?) without the incessant clickclickclick and the risk of his entire side of their dorm being reduced to ashes by that stupid chunk of metal that took up so much of John's attention – had caused Bobby to cringe. In fact, he cringed again at the memory. Partly the memory of John's baby-faced balk of disbelief, mouth open, bottom lip jutting out, wide green eyes narrowing as he turned his former gape into a glare in the space of time it took to turn from the small chip in the paint work to Bobby's guilty blue ones; partly from the sound the Zippo had made as it had collided – lid still open – and plinked to the floor woundedly.
There was that sort of horrifying silence when words start forming at the back of people's throats, deep, shuddering, scandalised breaths are taken and the affronter stares at the affronted with abject terror at the thought of ever attempting to make up for their actions. Like a small fluffy animal eyeing an approaching steam roller.
He expected John to say something. Punch him. Possibly pick up the lighter by its twisted lid and scorch off both his eyebrows. But he did nothing. Just gave him one last disbelieving glare, accompanied by a slight shake of the head for added guilt, and snatched up the lighter quickly but delicately, cupping it in his hand for a second, shooting Bobby one last scowl and slamming the door behind him.
Relieved of immediate danger, Bobby emitted a feeble, "Oops?"
When he had first arrived, people – mainly Bobby – had made the mistake of thinking that what John needed, when one of his foul moods took over, was companionship. In fact, what John actually needed when one of his foul moods took over was a straight jacket, one of those masks from Silence of the Lambs, and a ten-mile exclusion zone.
Still, Bobby gave him an hour before the guilt reached Earth-shattering levels. At which point he rolled off of his bed gracelessly and reluctantly made his way downstairs to find him. The way people shifted to one side of the corridor and fell silent as he passed was ample illustration of his new status as a Condemned Mutie.
"Ah, man…" he grumbled, increasingly afraid of what level of damage control rescuing their friendship would entail. Because the very first Rule Of John was Never Touch the Goddamn Lighter, Moron. By the time Piotr sympathetically patted him on the shoulder hard enough to buckle his knees, and wandered off with the forlorn sigh of a soldier sending his comrade in to battle, Bobby was actually bordering on hysterical. He'd developed a nervous twitch somewhere near his right eye and found himself ambling into the grounds looking somewhat like Popeye with Tourettes.
Well, at least when John grilled him he'd do so with a smile.
His legs felt heavier with every step, his natural sense of self-preservation kicking in with aplomb. He didn't want to die. He was far too
It wasn't hard to find John. He conveniently left a trail of scorch marks behind him, meandering across what had once been flowerbeds, but were now great swathes of headless stalks and charred remains and across to the thicket over to the side of the lake.
Fantastic - tinder, too. That'd be one hell of a pyre.
Hesitantly, treading as cautiously and quietly as he could, the hairs on the back of his neck prickling, Bobby made his way nearer to the other boy, clinging to the last few moments of life without serious maiming. Finally, he stopped, barely two feet behind him as he sat hunched on an up-turned rowing boat.
"John?"
There was a sharp "Wuh!" of alarm, immediately followed by a pained "Fuck!" and rounded off nicely with a bellowed, "DRAKE!"
Bobby recoiled; considered running or at least surrounding himself with a protective wall of ice, just in case. Possibly even dropping to his knees to beg for mercy. He gave a tiny whimper and tried to look too adorable to kill. Well, it worked with girls. Sometimes…
It took him a moment to realise John hadn't stood up, had still not managed to singe his eyebrows and was actually hunched over again, his back to him and his hand raised to his mouth.
Bobby regained some nerve and edged forward, "Johnny?" he said worriedly.
"What the fuck are you trying to do, man? Fucking creeping up on people!"
"You okay?"
"First you bust my lighter just cause I say your girl ain't good enough and then you try to make me cut my own hand off – what do you think?"
"Huh?" For a moment all sense of danger as forgotten as he processed the words 'cut', 'hand' and 'moron' – the latter of which seemed to be on express. He sat straddling the boat and pulled the hand nearer, "Lemme see."
John pulled it back, "Fuck off!"
Bobby pulled it back again, "Let me see!"
John yanked his hand back so hard he smacked himself in the face, biting his own lip and nearly falling off the boat on to the floor.
Bobby wanted to laugh, but he wasn't much one for suicide, so he didn't. He did, however, manage and only slightly teasing, "Okay, don't then."
Half laying on the ground, half dangling backwards over the boat, John scowled up at him and dabbed at his lip with the back of his bleeding fist, smearing red across his mouth and reminding Bobby of both the most terrifying clown he'd ever seen and the recent recipient of an intensely vampy kiss. Taking a deep breath, he held out his hand. He tried not to shake, but his fingers had other ideas, twitching so much they almost seemed to be beckoning; which was oddly fitting as remnants of the fleeting crush he'd had on John when he first arrived were giggling over his shoulder and pointing large and intrusive arrows at the scarlet-daubed pout.
John continued to glower.
"C'mon, dude… I'm sorry. I didn't mean to hurt you…"
John looked away, his arm still barely supporting him from falling down entirely and he muttered, "Too damn late, pal."
"Well if you'd just let me check you – er – it out – "
"This ain't about my fucking hand, you dick!"
"So… is it broken?"
"No, but you damn near made me cut it off!"
"I meant the lighter, John," Bobby sighed, still holding out his hand. "Is your lighter broke?"
John dabbed at his mouth again, glaring at the blood pointedly and casting Bobby a surly look. He reached out the still-bleeding hand and presented the prized lighter. The prized and now somewhat mangled lighter. Bobby's stomach dropped and a small demon lounging on his shoulder began processing his perpetually increasing tally of guilt.
"Oh."
"Deader than Rasputin in a recycling plant."
Like the amps on Spinal Tap, the guilt level cranked up that extra notch.
"Can you fix her?"
"Cap's bent, wheel's broke… You killed her dead, Drake." John jerked his hand and muttered, "Get me up, man," then seemed to give a snort of laughter. Tentatively, Bobby pulled the lighter out of John's fingers, then tugged the gashed hand gently until John could finally sit up beside him, where he pulled up the front of his t-shirt – Bobby's t-shirt, as he soon realised – and wrapped his bleeding hand in it. He cast Bobby a side-long look and sniggered again while Bobby was too busy concentrating on not looking at John's exposed stomach.
Telling himself that the blood loss must be making him delirious, despite the cut clearly not being serious, Bobby reached out and pulled the hand back again. This time, there was no slap-stick-inducing tussle and he fumbled in his pocket to find the bandana Kitty and Jubes had given him because they said his slowly developing iceform "looked too naked". What the hell they thought tying a big handkerchief around his head was going to achieve, Bobby wasn't sure, but it served a purpose as he carefully checked over John's hand where the Swiss Army knife had gashed him. John let him do so without any fuss, and after a minute Bobby plucked up the nerve to speak again.
"So what's so funny, dude?" he asked, tying the last knot at John's wrist and carefully smoothing the material across his palm.
"Nothing…" John smirked, and Bobby knew he was lying because… well, because this was John and there was no such thing as 'Nothing' in John's World.
"That right?" he asked protractedly, and wondered if Professor X was interfering here, because he wasn't even sure he knew what 'protracted' really meant.
John shrugged, still smirking, "Just kinda funny, is all."
"What? That you got your own back by bleeding on my Abercrombie?"
"No, that a fight about the Soul Sucker ends up with you holding my hand."
Bobby had already nodded vaguely and offered a tolerant, "Ohhh…" before the comment registered, but then found himself blinking several times and asking, "Why? Wh-why – why would that…? Um… why?"
John benefited him with a look that was either meant to be endearing or condescending, it was hard to tell which, and leaned slightly towards him. Bobby stopped blinking and widened his eyes.
"Because I hate to tell you this, man, but your chick and I had a little bet," the other boys admitted, and Bobby really wasn't sure he liked the idea of that, but he nodded blankly, urging him to continue. "See, your chick's real competitive, but she's also a little naïve. And I figured the best way to keep her thieving hands off of you was to play a little game. I bet Mississippi's brightest that she couldn't hold off from doing her little soul-snatching party trick on you any more than I could get you to kiss me. Dumb bitch accepted…" John grinned smugly.
Bobby didn't quite get it. "Huh?"
John rolled his eyes and snatched back the twisted Zippo to fidget with. "Deal is: if your girl kisses you before I do, she loses. If I kiss you before she does, I win."
Bobby stared at him, mouth hanging open, neon letters dancing through his head spelling out "SUCKED IN!"
"So you're telling me the only way Rogue will ever let me kiss her is if I kiss you first?" he asked in disbelief.
"Uh-huh," John nodded, wryly, the tip of a pink tongue playing at the corner of his mouth. "You know, she's really kind of lacking in the common sense department, man… I think you oughta trade her in."
"Gee, thanks," Bobby replied flatly, mulling his prospects over while studying the red-smeared mouth and the wickedly sparkling green eyes. Hm. Option of never getting to touch the cutesy girlfriend he'd been trying to lure into a kiss for weeks, or making out with his best friend, who he used to kind of have a crush on that maybe – slightly – might still have a few remaining flutters to it. John; with his pretty eyes and his full, blood-smeared –
This time John didn't catch himself from falling. And neither did Bobby. They met with the ground at almost the same velocity as their teeth collided with each other. And in the ensuing mess of teeth, lips, tongues and drool, there may even have been a wandering hand and a subtle grind, just to be sure the rules applied. In fact, Bobby may even have instigated a second or third just to be absolutely certain. He was actually debating whether John's clothes still being on may constitute a negating technicality when an alarming thought occurred to him.
"Hey, John?" he began, pulling away enough to look into sparkling eyes that were now filled with an almost hypnotic stupor, "What were the stakes for this bet?"
Beneath him, John gave a mildly frightening grin and shrugged, "Well the deal was, if I win, I get to keep you, and if she loses…" he trailed off into a knowing smirk.
"If she loses...?"
Bobby's eyes widened as a hand slipped down the back of his pants and gave a hearty squeeze; "If Rogue loses," John told him, chewing cheekily on his bloodied lip, "if she loses, I guess that means…"
Bobby took a breath and finished for him, "You win?"
"I win."
Thinking about it for a minute, Bobby nodded and muttered, "Oh." But as John gave a wriggle that sent sparks into a hyper-speed conga down his veins like ignited fuses coursing towards a large and dangerous pile of dynamite, Bobby thought maybe, just maybe, it was time to start playing by The Rules of John, and said, "Hey, John, I bet I can get you off quicker that you can get me off…"
"Wanna bet?"
"Um hm," Bobby nodded, and resolved to get the lighter fixed because next time he might accidentally get Piotr to stand on it…