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neopetting · 28 days

Note

Maybe five or six for the ship prompts!

5 - write about a casual kiss between your ship

The kitchen floods with light—his body with panic. Bob winces. Briefly, stupidly, he considers trying to shove the bread behind the toaster oven and making up a lie about the butter. I was… just… taking it out so it would be soft for breakfast. No, Lin, I do this all the time. Well, you’ve never woken up while I was doing it before!

He has a good five or six inches on his wife, but the steely look in her eye makes her shape fill the doorway. Arms crossed, she pads angrily over to him on her tiny, pointy, kicky, bare feet. Some merciful facet of his brain that isn’t currently terrified registers the way her hips move under her nightgown. He tries to swallow, but all his spit has disappeared. And his mouth is full of evidence.

Bob lowers the piece of bread in his hand and attempts to form words around the chunk still in his mouth. “I’m—”

“What? Sorry?” Linda reaches him, instantly all up in his face, her voice uncharacteristically hushed to account for their sleeping kids, yet somehow still deafening. “You’re sorry I caught’cha, Bobby?” She narrows her eyes, hissing out the next part so it sounds extra venomous. “With your mistress?”

He squints back at her, finally choking down his glorious, yeasty, perfectly-buttered bite of bread. Focusing on the taste puts some fight in him.

“…You know what? I’m not sorry.” Bob tenses his whole body to keep from chuckling as he watches her mouth fall open in exaggerated shock. “Yeah, that’s right. You kicked me awake, and then I couldn’t go back to sleep thinking about the bread all alone out here. It probably thought we didn’t love it enough to eat it right away.”

Linda is leaning on him now, squashing her torso against his arm with considerable force. Is she… trying to physically intimidate him? Or maybe she thinks she can seduce him into defeat by pressing her chest against his side, drumming up some cleavage. It wouldn’t be the first time. Plenty of Lin’s wiles begin with her just kind of… putting her boobs on him.

Bob surveys her coolly. “Also,” he says, tapping a finger against the loaf on the counter, “it’s not my mistress. It’s like… my child.” His voice rasps with sudden emotion. “This bread is our fourth child.”

One corner of Linda’s mouth lifts into a lopsided smile, but she stays incredulous. “Oh, so you were on daddy duty, huh? Came to check on our little bun-fresh-out-the-oven?” Delighting herself, her smile is the real deal now. “Didja hear it rye-ing over the baby monitor?”

He rolls his eyes so hard it almost hurts, but can’t hide his amusement. “You know it’s not rye. It’s—”

“Garlic sourdough woven with rosemary-thyme whole wheat sourdough,” she chimes in, doing her best Dedicated Chef Bob impression—a deep, goofy voice that sounds nothing like him. She wraps an arm around her husband, breaching the waistband of his boxers to slide her palm against his soft, warm hip. Planting her chin on his shoulder, she stifles a yawn. “See? I listen. I’m a good flour mama.”

Bob hums, a floaty sensation ballooning in his chest as she parrots back to him the recipe he’d been mentioning all week. It’s not surprising, anymore, how Linda pays attention to the things that excite him. But it’s never stopped feeling good.

“You are,” he confirms. From the corner of his eye, he takes a second to study her. Lin’s glasses are sitting a bit crooked, probably from hastily throwing them on to catch him in the act. Her thick, wavy hair is mussed from sleep. She notices him sneaking a stare and trains her ridiculously dark brown eyes on his. Definitely not for the first time, Bob thinks about how her eye color perfectly matches just-ground espresso after it’s been tamped down tight, waiting to be brewed. Sometimes he struggles to maintain eye contact, even with someone he��s loved for fifteen years, but he holds her gaze. Waits a beat. “You’re one in glu-ten million.”

She blinks once. Twice. Then she’s snort-laughing much too loudly and giving his love handle an affectionate squeeze, making him yelp and twist toward her. “Look at youuu, bein’ all cutesy-wootsey!” Her free hand skitters up his chest and brushes over his mustache as she beams at him. “Must be the Thanksgiving Eve magic. You gonna kiss me under the wishbone tomorrow before you go full crazy-pants kitchen troll, or what?”

“Mmmaybe.” Bob smiles gently against her fingertips. “Tina will fight you for the wishbone, though. I guess I could… kiss you under some giblets? Uh, before I start the gravy.”

“Ooh, giblet kisses. Romantic,” Linda coos. Her hand slips out of his shorts and he feels her fingers patter against the underside of his butt cheek. She points her chin toward the bread, eyes bright. “Now gimme a piece!”

Grabbing the serrated knife, Bob can’t suppress a wobbly giggle. “It’s so good, Lin. Better than I thought I could get it. I think the test loaves really helped.”

Earlier in the week, he had baked each dough recipe into two smaller, individual loaves to get their proofs right. Then, cautiously happy with the results, he’d launched the main event—meticulously braiding the batches together, then reshaping them into a single round, bubbly, perfectly-marbled mass. He’d been consumed by bread stuff for days. At one point, Linda had resorted to wrestling the laptop away from him when he’d stayed up until 2 AM researching techniques to keep sourdough properly inflated. But it was worth it. The final loaf is crusty and deeply golden all along its surface, the lighter and darker dough shades contrasting beautifully. Specks of the chopped herbs mixed into its whole wheat portions are visible in the scores, which look like stalks of wheat. The bread is downright gorgeous. Every time Bob lays eyes on it, he wants to burst into tears.

“Aww, my little Bobby baker,” Linda says. She stares hungrily as the knife glides through the loaf with several satisfying crunches. “I feel kinda dirty, though.” Her nails tap against the countertop in anticipation. “You made a whole big show about nobody eating it ‘til tomorrow.”

Bob snorts. “That was just so Gene wouldn’t eat literally all of it. He’s as excited about it as I am.” He slathers Linda’s slice in the fancy farmer’s market butter he’d safeguarded to use exclusively with his bread, then presents it to her.

She reaches for it, eyes shining, but furrows her brow when he pulls it back slightly. Shifting closer, she goes for it again. Bob holds the piece out of range, eyebrows raised and wearing the faintest of smirks. Linda scrunches her nose at him, about to complain, before she tracks him looking at her lips and realization dawns. She laughs tenderly and balls a fist in his shirt, leaning up and in. He meets her halfway. The kiss is quick, but so sweet that both their eyelids flutter shut.

“Ooh, mm,” Linda exclaims. “You taste like butter.” She yanks firmly on his collar. “Give me the friggin’ bread.”

Bob offers it in earnest. Suddenly, he’s plagued with nerves.

She gingerly takes it from him, her bottom lip jutting out. “No toasting?”

He gives his head a curt shake. “Doesn’t even need it.” Why does he feel like he’s just asked her out and is desperately hanging on a response? Dumb, he thinks.

Linda sinks her teeth into the bread. Bob’s eyes feel way too big for his face as he watches her chew. Slowly, she brings a hand up to cover her mouth, then locks gazes with him. He worries he might accidentally pee a little.

Swallowing, Linda flashes him a megawatt grin. “Oh. Bob. Hon.” She touches his chest. “It’s really good.”

“Right?” Blinding triumph ricochets through him. “Thanks. I kind of can’t believe it came from me.” He picks up his own piece, raising it to his mouth, then pauses. “Is this what giving birth feels like?”

“Yeah, sure,” Linda says around her second bite. “Little more sweat and blood with a human baby, maybe. And you don’t eat it after. It’s been a while.”

Just as Bob’s lips reconnect with his slice, the unmistakable creak of a door opening slams into him. Linda freezes mid-chew.

Gene’s voice, cushioned by a heavy yawn, sidles out from down the hall. “Is that butter I smell…?”

Bob’s eyes bore into Linda’s. “How is he smelling the butter?” he asks frantically, barely above a whisper.

“He’s very talented!” she hisses back, jabbing a finger into his upper arm. “You made him! Get down, get on the floor. I’m going.”

Bob has only seconds to hide the bread and butter before Linda’s pushing him to his knees. “Oh, God. Lin—OW,” he grunts, belly hitting the linoleum. It’s not lost on him that none of this is necessary.

Linda spins on her heel and trots through the doorway, her tone sing-songy as she rushes to intercept their son. “Genie weenie beanie baby,” she calls, “you’re… dreamin’. Oooooohh, I’m the, uh… ghost of Thanksgiving future. You gotta go back to bed. Or the turkey’s gonna be dry.”

“Nooo,” Gene drawls after a sleepy moment. “You’re a mom-poster. Dad’s turkey would never be dry.”

Bob snickers to himself, huffing as he uses the counter to regain his footing. He pulls out his masterpiece and cuts a slice for Gene.

A/N: their love language is shitty puns <3

#fanfic #writing prompts #boblin #bob/linda #bob x linda #bob’s burgers #bobs burgers #bob belcher #linda belcher #otp #1500 words…. ok. alright. guess man CAN live on bread and boblin alone

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