You’re out with her. Nothing fancy, just a stroll in the park, little breather for her between final exams and for you an opportunity to spend an afternoon with somebody who knows when to keep her mouth shut.

You stop when you realize that you can’t hear the echo of her footsteps from behind you anymore. Turn around and for a moment dread grips your stomach. There really is no secure enough prison to hold Magneto for eternity.

You scan the crowd, every nerve flaring to life, your upper lip curling to bare your blunt teeth to instinctual threat. That snarl turns to a rather crooked smile when you spot her, little further down the path, stopped in front of an ice cream stand. She’s standing there, waiting patiently, and you realize you must have been more zoned out than usually when you didn’t hear her call your name when she stopped.

You walk to her, dig out your wallet and pay her ice cream, large cone of vanilla.

You start walking again. This time she doesn’t follow, but walks right beside you. Usually indicating that she’s about to say something. She doesn’t. Her mouth opens only to let her pink tongue peek out and she takes a lick from her ice cream, letting out a small sigh. You see it from the corner of your eye, and suddenly that ice cream, and that delicate sweep of her tongue becomes your world.

Lick.

Lick.

Pink, slick and wet muscle twirling, battling with the sun over small lump of iced cream and sugar.

You’re jealous. Jealous for that cone of Italian Vanilla.

Lick.

Lick.

Jealous enough to light a cigar when she isn’t finished yet, and she’ll probably complain about cigar-flavored ice cream on your way home, but if you don’t stick something in your mouth something might stumble out.

Lick.

Lick.

And you have been thinking it’s the worst part, when you can see the play of her tongue over the cool surface. It’s nothing compared to when the ice cream is almost gone, and she has to actually suck the last bits out from the cone. Small nibble to crack the sharp bottom, then her lips curl around the waffle, puckering slightly, and you can hear the wet, slurping noise when half melted Italian Vanilla gets sucked in to the cavern of her mouth. Hot and wet cavern, that pink tongue coated with white vanilla, probably tasting sweet and salty, and suddenly you realize you’re staring at her, and she’s staring back at you, questioning look etched on her face.

You turn your gaze and start walking again, because you don’t come to park with her just to stand and stare at her eating ice cream.

Next time you buy her a lollypop. Big, round, bright red orb that coats her lips with shiny, sweet surface that glistens in the sun.

”Too much sugar will rot your teeth,” you hear Scott lecturing and peek your head in to the kitchen. She’s sitting there, sucking a lollypop and reading a glossy magazine. Scott’s standing by the stove, his hands braced on his hips, condemning look on his face.

“And too much whacking off will rot your spine…” You whisper loud enough for her to hear when you step in to the kitchen. Scott’s cheeks start to redden. Clear sign that he heard your whisper as well as the girl who’s biting her lower lip in a desperate attempt to stifle fit of giggles.

It was you who introduced her to the sinful world of candied sugar, so it’s only fair to come to her defense when Scott sees the need to reprimand her reckless ways.

“Not everybody heals like you, Logan,” Scott reminds you. Marie’s scooting up and collecting her candy and magazine, preparing for a hasty retreat.
“And not everybody’s as anal as you, Scott. It’s only a fucking lollypop,” you grunt, trying not to notice how the treat in question keeps bobbing in and out from her mouth and how she finally sucks it completely in, only the stick sticking out from the corner of her mouth as she walks out to the patio, leaving you alone with Scott.

Scott you all thought was as good as dead. You’re still not completely convinced that the man standing in front of you is really Scott Summers. Professor Xavier on the other hand is certain of his identity. Professor Xavier, returned from dead as well, now residing in a body that prior his invasion belonged to a brain-dead 35 years old man.

Even the sight of the reformed professor is enough to give you a severe case of headache, and Scott… He’s creepy enough to make your knuckles itch. So you leave him in to the kitchen and follow Marie to the patio where she sits in a rickety wicker chair, her feet propped up to one armrest and her head resting on the other. Magazine lies on the ground underneath the chair. Her eyes are closed, but her lips curl to a smile around the stick of the lollypop when she hears your footsteps.

“Can you give me a lift?” She asks. You don’t have anything better to do. You both know that. You haven’t had anything to do ever since Scott came back and reclaimed his position as the leader of the X-Men and as the only man capable of teaching the kids still living in Xavier’s academy self-defense. But it’s only polite to ask. You dig out the keys to your truck and jiggle them. She pulls out the small, white plastic stick from her mouth, sticking out her now cherry red tongue.
“I’m all out of lollies.”

You’d like to grab her and suckle that tongue like she’s suckling those lollies. You’re quite sure that it wouldn’t be a good idea, for several reasons. First of all, you’re kind of attached to certain sensitive parts of your body, and Bobby has been eyeing you quite maliciously ever since you started your daily routine of taking Marie out for a walk. Your second reason is every bit as important, maybe even more important than the first one. It’s the look on Marie’s face when she catches you staring at her. She’s shy and inexperienced. You love the way she blushes and starts to stutter. It’s simply adorable, and makes you all warm and fuzzy from inside. She’ll soon stop blushing and stuttering if you start sucking her tongue.

So you keep her well stocked with lollypops and take her out for ice cream every Sunday.

You learn soon that lollypops and beer don’t mix. Sweet cherry turns to sticky bitterness at the back of your throat and you need whiskey to get rid of it. Whiskey on the other hand seems to work just fine with cherry, and you discard your beer and order a whole bottle of Jack Daniels. Take it, and suffer curious glances directed at you when you dig yet another lollypop from your pocket and clunk it to a glass of booze to soak up. They can go screw themselves for all you care. It has been over a month since you’re last seen her, and you’re living on candies and ice cream, sugar rush overriding even the slight buzz you get from slugging back Jack and Molsons.

A woman sits next to you, reaching for the lolly, Picks it and sucks it in her mouth, dark red lipstick smearing the crisp white plastic of the stick. She pops the lolly out of her mouth, tongue swirling over the glistening treat and lets her eyes roam over your features, batting her lashes suggestively. You turn your back at her and throw back the now cherry-flavored whiskey. When she puts her hand on your shoulder you shrug it off. It’s time to go. Time to go home.

On your way back to Xavier’s you stop to replenish your stock of lollypops. The man behind the counter of a small corner store takes your money and hands you your change, small smile on his tired face.
“Sweet-tooth itching?” He asks. You don’t answer; just grab the small paper bag filled with candy and walk out.

At home you put the bag on the small table beside your bed, spot usually reserved for ashtray and cigars. Take a quick shower. Lie down, peel off the plastic wrapper from one red orb and inhale the scent of sugar and cherry. Close your eyes and try not to think about how you walked with her down that isle. Try not to think about the look on Bobby’s face when you reluctantly offered her hand to him. Try not to think about what she’s doing right now with her husband. And keep hoping that she’s still able to blush when she gets back from her honeymoon. Pop the lolly in your mouth and nearly choke on it when the door of your room opens.

“When did you get back?” You ask from the girl standing at your doorstep. She shrugs her shoulders, walks to you, sits on the edge of the bed and grabs the white plastic stick of the lollypop, pulling it out from your mouth and sucking it between her lips. There’s a sullen look on her face.
“Bobby said that he hates cherry. Wouldn’t let me buy any candy during the whole fucking month.”
“Asshole.”
“Yeah. Well, just came to say hi. See you tomorrow?” She asks and you nod. She pulls the lolly from her mouth and pushes it back between your lips.

After the door closes behind her you lay there, tasting the cherry and her, floating in blissful slumber from the sight of the rosy hue on her cheeks when she turned to bid you good night before she left.

She’s eating her ice cream, sugary concoction of chocolate and caramel, licking it from the spoon. Your eyes follow the dance of her tongue. You’d like to lick off the sticky dollop of taffy sauce from the corner of her mouth. Instead you reach with your hand over the table separating you and wipe it off with your finger, sucking it clean.

“We have to stop meeting like this. My ass is big enough as it is, without all the added sugar,” she huffs, then scoops the rest of the ice cream from the bowl, sucking the spoon in to her mouth and lets her gaze wander over the establishment, stopping to scan the row of colorful packages under the cashier.
“Is that you talking, or…” You don’t follow through the sentence. You don’t have to. She knows what you were about to say. Instead you glance around to make sure you’re alone in this small parlor, then dig out a lollypop and slide it over the table for her. She grabs it and tears in to the plastic wrapper, sucking the sugary treat greedily in to her mouth, glossy lips puckering around the stick.

Addicted. You’re both hard-core addicts, finding it increasingly difficult to hide what you’re doing from your friends. You steal an hour from here and there, precious moments when you sit and watch her consuming candy. It never fails. She takes the lolly and licks it, your eyes glued to her tongue and lips as they wrap around the white plastic, your whole body burning, that fire shining in your eyes and scorching that pink hue over her cheeks. She doesn’t blush like that when Bobby sits next to her or holds her hand. That warm coloring is reserved for you alone, as are her lowered eyes that keep stealing glances from you when she thinks you’re not watching.

Sometimes you try to imagine what she would look like, sprawled over your bed, covered in dark red cherry syrup from head to toe. That pink tongue of hers sliding over the fragrant sweetness, spreading it and making her skin glisten. You try to imagine that when you’re in your bed or in shower, but it isn’t working. That’s not the way to do it.

You grab the lolly and pull it from her mouth, letting it slide over her lips, smearing crystalline red over them before licking the red orb and taste of her and chocolate caramel. Chocolate. You’re slowly moving from innocence to carnal sin you realize, when you decide that it would be a good idea to stop by this small boutique you know before you go home. The sanctuary for chocolate addicts of N.Y.

You do it anyway. To hell with Bobby. To hell with Scott. To hell with everybody. If you can’t buy a box of dark cherry chocolate to your friend without getting condemned the whole world is already screwed anyway.

Instead of sugar you’re craving for cherries. Freshly picked, still warm from the sun, with stalks still attached so you can feed them to her. See that dark red juice spilling over her lips when she bites in to the sweet flesh, smell the mixed scent of her and the berries without the sickening, cold cloud of ice and snow she’s dragging everywhere with her nowadays. Not a morning goes by that you wouldn’t be able to smell the essence of Bobby in her.

You grit your teeth and keep taking her out, drive in to the city a nauseating experience, stench rolling off from her almost strong enough to make you think that Drake’s with you in the car, but it’s worth it. The longer you hang out with her the harder it gets for you to smell the foul stench. You don’t know if it is because you’re growing accustomed to it, or does her own scent grow stronger when she’s away from her husband. That really doesn’t matter. The place you usually take her to clogs your sinuses completely.

You take a sip from your coffee and watch her lips puckering as she blows to her steaming mug to cool the liquid before tasting it. She closes her eyes and leans backwards, and you can practically taste the piece of chocolate now melting on her tongue in your mouth.

Scent of herbs, spices, coffee and chocolate combines with her, all fragrances complimenting each other deliciously. She picks up yet another confection; one filled with creamy dough, and bites a small nibble out of it, then starts suckling the sweet filling, digging it out with her tongue.

It’s the most obscene, and at the same time perhaps the most innocent sight of your life. She’s sated and giggly from the sugar, eyes blazing from insane amount of caffeine in her system, cheeks flushed, and that pink tongue covered with sticky white substance.

You wonder how she would react if you were to lean closer and kiss her. Suckle that creamy filling from her tongue, taste the chocolate and coffee from her lips. Would she pull back? Would she stop seeing you because of that? Would it be wrong towards her? Or would she melt on your arms and moan in to you like you have pictured on countless nights when you’re laying on your bed and she’s sleeping with Bobby?

Suddenly you feel her hand on your face, fingers brushing over your lips, and it’s almost impossible not to nibble them.
“You got some chocolate on you…” She whispers, sucking the tip of her index finger, blushing furiously, but meeting your gaze over still steaming mugs of coffee.

You sit sulking at the back of the Blackbird. Professor is sitting in the cockpit with Scott, and you can smell the scent of freshly brewed coffee. Both of them have consumed vast amounts of that liquid ambrosia during three days, denying you the pleasure, telling you’re wired enough as it is, drinking three liters a day can’t be healthy.

You can already feel it, steaming hot, thick liquid flowing down your throat, with added aroma of chocolate and her in the mix. You’re nervous, but you have gotten quite skilled at hiding your trembling hands and occasional twitches. You’ll be landing in ten minutes. It’ll take you half an hour to take a shower and find fresh clothes, and since this wasn’t a real mission, merely a lifeguard duty, there’s no need for briefing. You can grab her and take her away as soon as you find her.

You find her from the back garden, sitting with Bobby in the sun. Iceman throws you an icy stare when his wife jumps up squealing and rushes to you, throwing her arms around you and giving you a warm welcoming hug. You close your eyes and press your cheek briefly against the crown of her head and smirk when you feel her hand snake in to the breast pocket of your jacket.

For a moment you considered hiding her present in to the front pocket of your jeans, actually tried it, but realized that the first step you’d have taken would have crushed the package. And that really would have been taking it too far, anyway.

She’s staring at it, small white orb, carved hollow and filled with miniature scenery with trees, snow and everything, made from sugar and skewered to a wooden stick.

You found the shop selling those by accident, on your search of coffee house when you had the rare opportunity to escape from Xavier and Scott for half an hour. You would have killed for a cup of any kind of coffee, but you sat obediently in the corner when the old man who made and sold the edible pieces of art carved out the scenery you described to him. The look on her face is speaking volumes, telling you it was worth to wait. Old man did a good job capturing the image. You can almost read the sign hanging over ramshackle bar, and the motorcycle hitched on to the trailer at the back of your truck looks like it could roar to life at any minute now.

You see Bobby closing in long before she realizes. Get ready and catch the fragile lollypop as it falls from her fingers when Bobby’s hand lands on her shoulder and hand it back to her. Your world, and she accepts it, bright blush creeping over her cheeks and making Bobby snort and steer her away from you.

You came in to the store with one thing on your mind. To find something to take your mind off from her. You found something that spun your mind right back to those luscious lips and that delicious tongue instead, and now you’re standing in a porn shop, in front of a stand of lollypops. Not just any kind of average lollies. This candy is anatomically correct.

You can already see it in our mind’s eye. Her lips wrapping around the thick head, cheeks hollowing just lightly and her eyes closing as she savors the taste of strawberry. Pink tongue, same shade of pink as the candy, licking over the surface, leaving glistening wet trails. Just the slightest scrape of her teeth because it’s so thick that it’s hard to fit inside, tight fit, but she likes the taste of it and wants to fill her mouth and flood her throat with it…

You shook your head and leave the shop empty-handed. The burn you’re feeling in your veins a clear sign that you’re all too ready and willing to take the game to the next level.

That night you dream of her and candy. She’s laying on your bed, completely naked, and you’re trailing the lines and curves of her body with a lollypop, painting dark red lines over her skin, sucking the orb in to your mouth every once and a while, and when you wake up you can actually taste cherry and salty tang of her skin on your tongue.

You clear your drawers and closets from candy, throwing everything in to a cardboard box, which you carry in to the living room for kids to find. It has gone too far, and you have to end it before you ruin three lives.

You haven’t taken in to account her coming to get you for your daily coffee and chocolate, and there really is no good way to say no. So you find yourself sitting opposite her in a small coffee shop, gripping your mug in a death grip because you’re afraid to let your hands loose. You have no idea where they might wander given the opportunity.

“Is everything okay?” She asks. You don’t dare to open your mouth, because ‘no, I’m so fucking horny and want to fuck you to the carpet, preferably with the aid of a lollypop’ doesn’t sound like an appropriate answer to her question, so you nod.

She’s not eating. She’s not drinking. She’s not laughing, giggling or blushing. She’s sitting completely still and lets you hold her. So small. So fragile. So used and discarded.

Bobby’s gone from her life, for good. Gone with another man, and it’s up to you to pick up the pieces. It’s up to you to push aside your urge to taste her tears and just hold her as she cries in to the night, grasping your arms like a lifeline and pulling them tighter around her.

You knew it long before her. Knew it from the way the scent of ice and snow were diminishing day after day, until you couldn’t smell them in her anymore. You were slightly worried, feeling guilty over your trips with her, but unable to stop whisking her away from her husband. And this morning you found out that Bobby couldn’t have cared less if you’d fucked her to the carpet right in front of his icy stare. He was having his own thing going on with a man with fire in his eyes, and you’re actually quite relieved that you didn’t go by your first instinct and kiss the tears from her face when she stood by your door. They would have been bitter. Born from anger and frustration rather than grief.

You let her rant and rave her aggression. You let her curl against your chest, and sit there, watching the night sky outside of your window, holding her because she’ll fall apart if you let her. You’re sucking a lollypop you found from the drawer of your nightstand when you were cleaning up. Slightly stale, taste still reminding you about the day you bought her one. How her face lit up from the sight of it, followed closely by a quick frown.

She surprises you in middle-thought, turning around on your lap and grabbing the lollypop, pulling it out from your mouth, her eyes locked to your lips. She leans closer and when you feel her tongue sweeping over the sugar coating of your lower lip you close your eyes and bring your hands to cup her face, granting her tongue an entry, parting your lips just slightly.

You can feel that slick muscle sliding over your lips, dipping in and greeting yours with the softest of touches before she pulls back from you, her whole body trembling, skin flushed and her eyes glowing.
“I… I’ll see you tomorrow…” She whispers, climbing off from your lap and hurrying out from your room, leaving you sitting in front of the window, your mind still reeling and your head drooping against the backrest of the chair.