A momentary pause from Marathon (though the next chappy is finished) to bring you this bit of Christmas fluff. Many thanks to returning readers, as your kindness has been a brightly wrapped present under my tree.

Views are alternating, beginning with Tony...


The History of Sucrose

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Candy from a baby…

It's the first idiom that the foreign officer hasn't butchered. Still, she looks to him for verification as though he's been designated her tutor for the pop-culture version of the English language. The instinctual correction, which should prove that he does, in fact, read gives him a roundabout purpose in their early interactions. In truth, the woman is an unsuitable substitute for a lost sister, but perhaps he can engage in friendly communication without betraying another's slowly dimming memory. Though he doesn't put it past the tiny militant to snatch something a baby would consider vital. In time the verbal mistakes become occasionally intentional, testing his attention level with softening features that create a momentary shift from stern to exotic.

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Break me off a piece of that…

Five minutes into the undercover mission, he christens her Candy and makes sure to summon her with the trashy name at every opportunity. The word tumbles off his tongue like cavity-inducing innuendo and she finds that by the end of the evening what she'd originally viewed as an insult to womankind has, through subtle maneuvering, twisted itself against her will. It sounds like desire when dripped from a voice as lush as caramel. But this mission lacks the physical game of their last, which elevates her to a state of bother that could prove dangerous to the entire male population and one is particular. Endearments are for spineless women but for once, she understands the appeal.

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A sticky situation…

She's a little like melting taffy, formerly firm and bending only with the utmost care to avoid snapping. But as he kneads his way into the pumping organ she denies possessing, he discovers a chewy center and the means to exploit it. With carefully applied heat she becomes malleable, something a good technician can work with. The effort leaves traces on his hands, makes them itch for a return to the source. But she tends to invite the chill back in after every gain, solidifying the while and locking him out. Still, hope is rather addictive and the more he wants, the more persistently he pulls.

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I want candy…

Eye candy, as defined by a younger counterpart, is a man whose beauty is more tempting than chocolate. There must be, she's been informed, a certain 'yum' reaction to the sight. No stranger to handsome men, she cannot refute that there is something insidiously enticing about this one. The eyes alone rate at the mythical yum level. The package keeps her mouth operating at a perpetual parch so she fills it with the bitter wetness of denial. But the defense grows thin until temptation has her seeking out a different sort of moisture altogether. And the eye candy is at her service.

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Tastes like a sweets factory…

The holidays have shown her proclivity for old-fashioned ribbon candy and the sucking action is painfully hard to ignore. His favorite gift isn't under the tree this year, or at least she didn't start out there. Eventually they end up celebrating yuletide cheer on the hardwood floor, sheltered by the rainbow-glow of low hanging boughs as her sticky lips convey the essence of the season to his. There will be a healthy measure of transference before sunrise but what he'll remember most is the flavor of savored candy in her mouth before it travels to the Pole to seek his Christmas spirit.