He needn't have worried. John wasn't fire in the way Bobby was ice - and he'd learned to live with that. It even had its advantages, at times like these. John controlled flame with his mind; without concentration, the flame went back to doing whatever it was supposed to be doing, a puppet with the strings cut. In this case, the gas stove simply returned to a more gentle heat. While he'd managed to get out a "Hey, what are you-" before that tongue made it very clear what Bobby was doing, afterwards John was in a sort of haze: a soft groan fell from his lips, body almost unwinding in relaxation as he rolled his hips back, trying to get more. "Holy fuck..." he groaned out, voice low and husky with arousal. It took him a few moments to blink at the stove and understand what he was seeing, before he reached with a languid arm to turn the gas off, and when that was done, he braced himself against the kitchen counter, bending just enough to stick his ass out a little more.