Disclaimer: I do not own the Twilight Saga; no copyright infringement is intended.
It started with that stupid bell. Loud and startling, the bell that lets bakery peons—like myself—know a delivery is in, rang. It's an old school bell, sounding more like a fire alarm than something in an upscale grocery store. I may or may not have dropped some cheese sticks.
And then Felix had to go and get Edward to help him unload the skids of flour. And then, I had to work instead of watch his arm muscles work and imagine what his back muscles look like.
I'm dealing with customers when my mind is filled with Edward and his buns. Because, apparently, ginormous bags of flour are incapable of staying sealed and then flour spills out. And, flour sticks to sweaty hands. Do I know how boys unflour their slippery hands? I didn't before, but I do now.
They wipe their hands on their ass. I mean, seriously. I can see perfect fingers and palms, white, ghostly imprints on Edward's buns.
I want those to be my hands.
But, since it's my job, and I guess I'm supposed to be working, I do. I deal with ickle people, give (sometimes literally) snotty children free cookies. I deal with deli people looking for Edward, and tell them he's busy.
He is. He and Felix each heft a sack of flour over their shoulders, place them on their designated shelf, and stand around for five minutes discussing whatever Cubs (White Sox?) game. They're bros. Edward looks over at me, I can feel it. But he doesn't move, doesn't come say hi, doesn't do anything.
Except, he does wipe his hands on his ass some more.
I yank on my collar, lift my apron off. It's too damn hot.
I'm nearing my breaking point when a couple of women come by. They're looking at cakes, salivating over the newly cleaned glass, and complaining about sugar, calories, and - I don't know-their pool boys or something. But I also see them glance up, past me and at the two young men bending and lifting and, God help me, wiping.
And then it's not the glass they're drooling over. It's Edward; probably Felix too, but seriously. Edward. My Deliboy. I don't try to practice my snarl-cum-smile, but let my twisted face do its job—or try to. I think my smile is unbroken.
"Can I help you with anything?" These new lights make me squint, but I try to make it look menacing and ferocious.
"Can I see the ingredients list for this cake?" she asks, pointing to the Belgian chocolate cake. Are you fucking kidding me?
"Sure thing, ma'am." I pivot as soon as I see her scowl. I knew she's the type of hooker who doesn't like being called, "ma'am."
"Fuck you, ma'am," I mutter as I yank our copy of The Giant Book of Ingredients Conveniently Out Of Order, Always from above the microwave. Meanwhile, the cougars are checking Edward out some more.
The force of my pulling has me thrown back and into the steel table, which digs itself happily into my hips.
It takes me a while to find the cake she needs, but I hand her the page, biting my tongue and both my lips, to prevent myself from saying, "it's fucking Belgian chocolate. You know, the good shit, ma'am."
They end up not getting the cake. Cool.
As I move the book back to its resting place, I hear Edward grunt every so often. Felix left to do whatever he does when he's not working—probably smoke up. With no distractions, Edward's toiling away, bending and moving and wiping and I just can't help it.
I stick my hands in the convenient pile of flour, not yet brushed to the ground to be swept up later. I rub it in a bit, making sure there's plenty of flour to go around—and on.
I slip in front of Edward and the skid. "Hi."
"Hey." His hands move around my waist and settle on my bottom, and I know, just know, that his handprints will be left there. He bends for a quick kiss.
And that's when my own hands move to his ass.
They land and they squeeze and they rub, so that I leave some handprints of my own.
Howdy. Another random. This time, the inspiration came from the (good looking) new guy. Thanks, new guy. No handprints of my own were left. Sigh.
One million thanks to Pagly for editing this hookah and making it presentable. Thanks, P.
SELF PIMPAGE OF THE WORST KIND (or is there only one kind?): I'm working on a multi-chapter fic called, Push the Sun. Summary: Love and loss are inexorable. To prevent them is as futile and hopeless as pushing the sun. It's a mystery and romance with some supernatural stuff. I tease (for "motivation") every once in a while over on The Fictionators.
Thanks for reading, guys. See you 'round.