Fic: Cock Cruncher
Title: Cock Cruncher
Characters: Naomi/Chris (Yes, really)
Rating: MA (for language & sexual content)
Words: 2679
Summary: Naomi's a cock cruncher, not muff muncher, k?
Disclaimer: Not my characters
A/N: Guys, look, I don't even know. I honestly have no idea. Ask crackfoxx because I DON'T KNOW. Set in the summer before S2, and I think fits roughly with canon.
Anyway, shall we get our cross-gen on in preparation for the movie? Lovely.
Her so-called friends are shit, Naomi thinks as she stomps her way back. Friend singular, really. Fucking Laura. “Hope you don’t mind, but Damien said he’d walk me home.” Hope you don’t mind if I just abandon you in a room of arseholes that you don’t know more like. Fucking Damien. What the fuck sort of name is that anyway? Anyway, he’s only interested because Laura has big tits and a rumour went round school last week that she let Michael wank over them down the park (she said she never, but blushed bright red in the process, so Naomi rolled her eyes with a "whatever" because, quite clearly, she did). Prat.
Still he wasn’t as bad as his mate, who’d been shoved in her direction with a wink from Laura, as if that’d make up for her treacherous behaviour. Ken, he’d said, thrusting his hand out for a formal shake. She’d made a searingly witty comment about her not being Barbie (or ok, it might have been shit, but she’d had a fair bit to drink, and she thinks it was good) and instead of giving a come back (Jesus, surely he’d heard something similar before, he must have had some time to think about it) he looked completely dumbfounded that she’d not played her expected role in this stupid ritual, and instead she should have been ever so flattered that a guy with the worst acne she’d ever seen in her entire life had deemed her worthy enough to have the opportunity to touch his dick.
She’s just thinking that she could have done with another can or two of cider to see her through the walk home when she sees this bloke sitting on the wall, swinging his legs, two cans remaining from what must have been a four pack sitting next to him and a roll up hanging from his lips.
He looks up, and she immediately ducks her head back down and curses herself for getting caught staring. “Alright?” He calls at her.
Shit, she thinks, she really doesn’t want to be landed talking to some strange guy at…half fucking nine. Fucking Laura. “Fuck it,” she mutters under her breath, but the guy hears her, and grins.
“My kinda girl,” he says, tossing her a can.
She lifts herself up to sit next to him, while he flicks the end of his fag away and cracks open his own can. “Chris,” he says, by ways of introduction, chinking his can against hers.
“Naomi,” she replies, taking a bigger gulp than she intended to and tries to stifle the resultant cough behind her hand. It’s mortifying then, when Chris thumps her on the back.
“Better?”
Naomi nods, still clutching her can tightly.
"So what you doing out by yourself in the big bad world then, Naomi?"
"Going home. From a party," she replies, but doesn't expand any further.
"Must have been a shit party," Chris remarks.
"Yeah. It was."
It’s a bit strange, this. Sitting next to a stranger. Sitting next to a guy she doesn’t know. And Naomi’s sure that any other parent would be terrified if their precious little fifteen year old darling were to just plonk themselves down to some random and share a can, but her mother would be positively delighted, she’s sure. A new friend, Naomi, how lovely! A boy, eh? Does he need a spare room? I’m sure we could fit him in somewhere. Wink wink, nudge nudge. Fuck’s sake.
There’s something about Chris being a stranger that makes her feel a little more at ease though. It’s not as difficult as if he knew her. He doesn’t know all the things they say about her. All of the lies that follow after her. He doesn’t know that her mother’s a complete tit. And he doesn’t know that she’s young enough for it to only take three cans of anything for her to be reasonably drunk and Naomi’s had a few more than that so far tonight.
She knows what everyone thinks, that she’s a fucking weirdo. But it’s not that. She just doesn’t like people. And, in general, people don’t like her. Especially not those at school. (And even more especially not those with newly acquired red hair who think Naomi molested their sister.) So it’s fine. Works out quite well really.
Just…sometimes she wishes she could show them. Show them that she could make friends, if she wanted to. She could have a boyfriend, if she wanted to. She’s just never wanted to.
But she could show them, she thinks, sneaking a quick glance at Chris. She could show Chantelle that just because you've got blonde hair, you don't need to flounce around like an airhead and it's actually a good thing to have an IQ over fifty. She could show Katie that she could pull an older guy too; she could show her that it’s not that sodding difficult, not a badge of honour to parade down the corridors. And she could show Emily that she can stop fucking staring at her now (that stupid stare that makes Naomi think she must be really sorry about all the lies and the whispers, just not sorry enough to actually do anything about it), well she can stop doing that because Naomi will have a boyfriend and she can just piss off again.
She has another quick look at Chris, who’s leaning back dangerously far, almost as if he’s trying to see how far he can go without falling. Chris as a boyfriend would be a good idea. He’s quite good looking, she supposes. Older, definitely, though probably not more mature judging by how amused he is by simply teetering on the edge of the wall. And she gets to wondering what this older, reasonably good looking but quite immature guy is doing at half past nine at night, sitting on a wall outside a block of flats and having a drink.
And maybe it’s the alcohol talking, but the question sort of slips out anyway. “Why’re you here?”
Chris shrugs. “Dunno. I was waiting suppose. But she’s not coming back.” He slurps away at his lager for a bit. “I don’t understand woman,” he says, reaching into his jacket pocket. “Like, at all. Ever,” he continues, pulling out a fresh roach and sticking it between his lips. “You’re all fucking…like, another species. Not monkeys. Monkeys, right, are straight down the line, cool guys. Women are like…I dunno, cows or something.”
Naomi snorts a laugh. “Cows?”
“Yeah, cows. Like, four stomachs. That’s mad man, and not the good pill sort of mad, you know? Four stomachs? Who the fuck needs that many?”
Naomi shakes her head in amusement and drains the remainder of her drink. “Yeah, well I don’t really get boys either.”
Chris chuckles. “My mate Maxxie, he’s a smart guy Maxxie. He’s got the right idea being gay, and just avoiding all women, and he’s sorted. Nil problemo.”
“But I’m not gay,” Naomi just about splutters, because that’s what they whisper at her, all thanks to bloody Katie Fitch and her big fucking lies and her big fucking mouth, but it’s not true.
Chris tilts his head toward her. “Yeah, right, no, course. Just saying that it’d be easier innit, cause then you’d understand each other.”
No, Naomi thinks. No, it really would not be. “Maybe,” is what she says.
He shrugs, and then holds his hand out. "Spliff?"
Naomi takes it, just for something to do other than think, which is completely overrated. She's careful when she takes a drag, she's only done it a few times before - one day after Christmas her and Laura nicked some of the hippies' stash that'd been left lying around and via a process of elimination worked out exactly how much they could take without feeling like shit after - and she doesn't want to embarrass herself again, so it's only a small inhale she takes before passing it back.
Chris, on the other hand takes a huge drag of it, and it makes him look like a bit of a poser, but she'll grudgingly admit that it's quite cool. Until he coughs so violently that he falls backwards off the wall and lets out a strangled "fuck" when he lands, and then it's just funny.
---
Boys, Naomi's quickly realising, are all the same. Lots of talk, and not much action.
He's been telling her about how life is her oyster, and she's been listening to him in her hazy state, but nothing else has happened, and she’s sure that’s not how it’s meant to go when they’re sitting alone and there’s drink involved.
So if she wants to pull him in order to prove to all that lot that she's not a freak then, obviously, this is going to be up to her.
"Chris?"
"That's me babe," he responds.
She briefly remembers that she's never been kissed properly, not really. Boys, from her two previous, very brief encounters, are all tongue, sloppy and practically attempting to inhale her face, and Emily. Well, Emily was a mistake that wasn't even made by her. So it'll be interesting, she thinks, as she closes her eyes and remembers Emily's face - how she looked so in awe of the whole thing - and Naomi tries her best to imitate it as she leans forward, to see what Chris is like.
He's a little bit stubbly, not like the boys her age, and it scratches a bit. And it’s the bitter taste of lager that she's left with, not sickly sweet cherry alcopop. And he presses against her lips with a little more force than she’s used to, maybe because he knows she won't break apart at something stupid like a kiss.
It's better, she's sure. Because this was how it was meant to be.
Chris grins when they separate. "Yeah, nice one," and he says, looking a bit dazed.
Naomi smiles back, unsure of how to ask for what she wants, but she knows now. She knows what she wants, she’s sure of it. "Do...can we go back to yours?"
“Sweet,” Chris says, his grin widening, and he jumps down off the wall. “Wait - you’re legal, right? Just age, man, like, it fucking blows my mind sometimes.”
“Yeah,” Naomi says, the lie coming easily. She is almost, anyway. And besides, going off some of the things she’s heard, fifteen is completely past it to be getting rid of her virginity.
“Safe,” he says, and holds his hand out so she can jump down as well.
It was different then, she learns. When kissing was just for the sake of kissing, and when kissing was only the beginning of something.
---
They kiss some more, back at his, and it’s ok. She can do that. Kissing’s fine.
His hand, snaking up her top, pulling it over her head, is fine.
Grabbing at her tits through her bra is fine.
She hesitates only slightly when her hands reach his belt, and then she reminds herself that she's not a freak, and tugs it undone, his boxers following unceremoniously not soon after.
Naomi looks down briefly and tries to pretend it's not the first real cock she's seen close up. Its a bit...weird looking she thinks, just dangling there. And not very useful, probably, in its current state. Naomi’s not really got much of a benchmark to go against, but she did pay minimal attention in biology, and is fairly certain that something should have happened by now. “Um…Chris…you’re not…”
"Oh," he says in surprise, looking down himself. "Yeah. Well, you see, that was a test. And you passed. So, you've excellent observation skills. Well done."
"Oh," says Naomi, taking a step back. She’s sort of just realised what she’s doing. She was about to sleep with some random guy she’s only just met, to what? Prove something to people who she didn’t even care about in the first place. This was really stupid.
“Whoa whoa whoa, no! Don’t go!” Chris says, and he looks totally ridiculous, she thinks, pleading with her to stay, stark bollock naked. “Right, normally, I have an excellent dick. This has never happened before. Normally, I swear, yeah, normally, if anything, it’s a struggle to keep the fucking thing down.”
She raises her eyebrows skeptically.
“No, honestly. It’s just since Angie’s gone, and then that fucking Viagra," he says, slumping down on his bed.
Naomi sits next to him. "Isn't that meant to, you know, help with...that sort of thing?"
"Yeah. Never been the same since I OD'd though. I mean the first time, I thought it helped, and Tony reckoned it might have stretched it out or something, I dunno, but it was definitely bigger, so thought I’d try it again. That was a mistake. Had to piss up the way for four days straight. Think I've used up all my stiffies for life," he laughs, but then stops abruptly and frowns. "That can't happen, can it? That better not have happened. Oh God, mate, you better not have let that happen," he says, lifting his eyes to the ceiling.
Naomi shrugs. "Dunno. You should probably see someone though."
"What, like Kathy Barry? Yeah... Yeah, she was a woman. Oh man, those tits. Fuck, she'd sort me right out."
"I meant, like, a doctor?"
"Nah. Don't really like doctors.” Chris peers down again. “He's probably just depressed since Angie's gone. He'll perk himself up again. You could always kiss him better?" He asks, but it looks like it's more in hope than expectation.
Naomi grimaces in response.
"Ok. Well, what about a hand, then? You could give it a hand up, eh?" He nudges her in the side and he's laughing again, as if he's not really all that bothered by anything at all.
She sighs, looking at the thing, limply sitting there between his legs. He’s got red bed sheets and all she can think is hair, and fuck the lot of them, because she could if she wanted to.
"Yeah," he says, grinning widely when he sees she's considering it. "Yeah, go on, come to -"
"Just," Naomi interrupts. "Just, don't talk, ok?"
"Deal," he says cheerily, as she closes her eyes, sees a flash of red and sets to work getting rid of it.
---
It doesn't work.
His cock, that is.
"Nothing's happening," she huffs, after a torturously long five minutes, and maybe she should switch hands or something, because her arm is fucking killing her now.
"Maybe if you -"
"Look," she cuts him off, and indicates his still very lifeless cock. "I can hardly toss you off like this, can I?"
Chris thinks on it for a little while. "Yeah, good point."
And maybe the alcohol's working its way through her system, but Naomi's gone right off the idea of this whole thing and feels a bit stupid actually. "Maybe we should just forget it?"
"Yeah, you're right. I could always finger you, if you want?” He offers. “I've got magic hands," he says, wiggling his fingers.
She considers it briefly, but the moment’s passed. "Um. No. It's alright."
"Fair enough," he replies, pulling his jeans back on and passing her top over. "Biscuit then?"
"Yeah, ok," she replies. The sex side of things apart - which was admittedly a total failure - the evening has been quite nice and she doesn’t mind staying a little longer.
"Garibaldis," he says, chucking the packet at her.
“Thanks.”
“Good, right? What you wanna do is chase it with one of these," picking up a pint of milk sitting at the bottom of his bed.
Naomi wrinkles her nose. "No thanks. Won't it be off, sitting out?"
"Nah," Chris replies, taking a gulp. "Yeah," he corrects, "yeah, definitely off.” But it doesn’t stop him from having another swig.
She laughs, again. She’s done a lot of that tonight. It makes a change, a good change, and maybe they could do it again. Just, like, properly, next time.
She’ll show them. They’re all wrong about her, and she’ll prove it.
Characters: Naomi/Chris (Yes, really)
Rating: MA (for language & sexual content)
Words: 2679
Summary: Naomi's a cock cruncher, not muff muncher, k?
Disclaimer: Not my characters
A/N: Guys, look, I don't even know. I honestly have no idea. Ask crackfoxx because I DON'T KNOW. Set in the summer before S2, and I think fits roughly with canon.
Anyway, shall we get our cross-gen on in preparation for the movie? Lovely.
Her so-called friends are shit, Naomi thinks as she stomps her way back. Friend singular, really. Fucking Laura. “Hope you don’t mind, but Damien said he’d walk me home.” Hope you don’t mind if I just abandon you in a room of arseholes that you don’t know more like. Fucking Damien. What the fuck sort of name is that anyway? Anyway, he’s only interested because Laura has big tits and a rumour went round school last week that she let Michael wank over them down the park (she said she never, but blushed bright red in the process, so Naomi rolled her eyes with a "whatever" because, quite clearly, she did). Prat.
Still he wasn’t as bad as his mate, who’d been shoved in her direction with a wink from Laura, as if that’d make up for her treacherous behaviour. Ken, he’d said, thrusting his hand out for a formal shake. She’d made a searingly witty comment about her not being Barbie (or ok, it might have been shit, but she’d had a fair bit to drink, and she thinks it was good) and instead of giving a come back (Jesus, surely he’d heard something similar before, he must have had some time to think about it) he looked completely dumbfounded that she’d not played her expected role in this stupid ritual, and instead she should have been ever so flattered that a guy with the worst acne she’d ever seen in her entire life had deemed her worthy enough to have the opportunity to touch his dick.
She’s just thinking that she could have done with another can or two of cider to see her through the walk home when she sees this bloke sitting on the wall, swinging his legs, two cans remaining from what must have been a four pack sitting next to him and a roll up hanging from his lips.
He looks up, and she immediately ducks her head back down and curses herself for getting caught staring. “Alright?” He calls at her.
Shit, she thinks, she really doesn’t want to be landed talking to some strange guy at…half fucking nine. Fucking Laura. “Fuck it,” she mutters under her breath, but the guy hears her, and grins.
“My kinda girl,” he says, tossing her a can.
She lifts herself up to sit next to him, while he flicks the end of his fag away and cracks open his own can. “Chris,” he says, by ways of introduction, chinking his can against hers.
“Naomi,” she replies, taking a bigger gulp than she intended to and tries to stifle the resultant cough behind her hand. It’s mortifying then, when Chris thumps her on the back.
“Better?”
Naomi nods, still clutching her can tightly.
"So what you doing out by yourself in the big bad world then, Naomi?"
"Going home. From a party," she replies, but doesn't expand any further.
"Must have been a shit party," Chris remarks.
"Yeah. It was."
It’s a bit strange, this. Sitting next to a stranger. Sitting next to a guy she doesn’t know. And Naomi’s sure that any other parent would be terrified if their precious little fifteen year old darling were to just plonk themselves down to some random and share a can, but her mother would be positively delighted, she’s sure. A new friend, Naomi, how lovely! A boy, eh? Does he need a spare room? I’m sure we could fit him in somewhere. Wink wink, nudge nudge. Fuck’s sake.
There’s something about Chris being a stranger that makes her feel a little more at ease though. It’s not as difficult as if he knew her. He doesn’t know all the things they say about her. All of the lies that follow after her. He doesn’t know that her mother’s a complete tit. And he doesn’t know that she’s young enough for it to only take three cans of anything for her to be reasonably drunk and Naomi’s had a few more than that so far tonight.
She knows what everyone thinks, that she’s a fucking weirdo. But it’s not that. She just doesn’t like people. And, in general, people don’t like her. Especially not those at school. (And even more especially not those with newly acquired red hair who think Naomi molested their sister.) So it’s fine. Works out quite well really.
Just…sometimes she wishes she could show them. Show them that she could make friends, if she wanted to. She could have a boyfriend, if she wanted to. She’s just never wanted to.
But she could show them, she thinks, sneaking a quick glance at Chris. She could show Chantelle that just because you've got blonde hair, you don't need to flounce around like an airhead and it's actually a good thing to have an IQ over fifty. She could show Katie that she could pull an older guy too; she could show her that it’s not that sodding difficult, not a badge of honour to parade down the corridors. And she could show Emily that she can stop fucking staring at her now (that stupid stare that makes Naomi think she must be really sorry about all the lies and the whispers, just not sorry enough to actually do anything about it), well she can stop doing that because Naomi will have a boyfriend and she can just piss off again.
She has another quick look at Chris, who’s leaning back dangerously far, almost as if he’s trying to see how far he can go without falling. Chris as a boyfriend would be a good idea. He’s quite good looking, she supposes. Older, definitely, though probably not more mature judging by how amused he is by simply teetering on the edge of the wall. And she gets to wondering what this older, reasonably good looking but quite immature guy is doing at half past nine at night, sitting on a wall outside a block of flats and having a drink.
And maybe it’s the alcohol talking, but the question sort of slips out anyway. “Why’re you here?”
Chris shrugs. “Dunno. I was waiting suppose. But she’s not coming back.” He slurps away at his lager for a bit. “I don’t understand woman,” he says, reaching into his jacket pocket. “Like, at all. Ever,” he continues, pulling out a fresh roach and sticking it between his lips. “You’re all fucking…like, another species. Not monkeys. Monkeys, right, are straight down the line, cool guys. Women are like…I dunno, cows or something.”
Naomi snorts a laugh. “Cows?”
“Yeah, cows. Like, four stomachs. That’s mad man, and not the good pill sort of mad, you know? Four stomachs? Who the fuck needs that many?”
Naomi shakes her head in amusement and drains the remainder of her drink. “Yeah, well I don’t really get boys either.”
Chris chuckles. “My mate Maxxie, he’s a smart guy Maxxie. He’s got the right idea being gay, and just avoiding all women, and he’s sorted. Nil problemo.”
“But I’m not gay,” Naomi just about splutters, because that’s what they whisper at her, all thanks to bloody Katie Fitch and her big fucking lies and her big fucking mouth, but it’s not true.
Chris tilts his head toward her. “Yeah, right, no, course. Just saying that it’d be easier innit, cause then you’d understand each other.”
No, Naomi thinks. No, it really would not be. “Maybe,” is what she says.
He shrugs, and then holds his hand out. "Spliff?"
Naomi takes it, just for something to do other than think, which is completely overrated. She's careful when she takes a drag, she's only done it a few times before - one day after Christmas her and Laura nicked some of the hippies' stash that'd been left lying around and via a process of elimination worked out exactly how much they could take without feeling like shit after - and she doesn't want to embarrass herself again, so it's only a small inhale she takes before passing it back.
Chris, on the other hand takes a huge drag of it, and it makes him look like a bit of a poser, but she'll grudgingly admit that it's quite cool. Until he coughs so violently that he falls backwards off the wall and lets out a strangled "fuck" when he lands, and then it's just funny.
---
Boys, Naomi's quickly realising, are all the same. Lots of talk, and not much action.
He's been telling her about how life is her oyster, and she's been listening to him in her hazy state, but nothing else has happened, and she’s sure that’s not how it’s meant to go when they’re sitting alone and there’s drink involved.
So if she wants to pull him in order to prove to all that lot that she's not a freak then, obviously, this is going to be up to her.
"Chris?"
"That's me babe," he responds.
She briefly remembers that she's never been kissed properly, not really. Boys, from her two previous, very brief encounters, are all tongue, sloppy and practically attempting to inhale her face, and Emily. Well, Emily was a mistake that wasn't even made by her. So it'll be interesting, she thinks, as she closes her eyes and remembers Emily's face - how she looked so in awe of the whole thing - and Naomi tries her best to imitate it as she leans forward, to see what Chris is like.
He's a little bit stubbly, not like the boys her age, and it scratches a bit. And it’s the bitter taste of lager that she's left with, not sickly sweet cherry alcopop. And he presses against her lips with a little more force than she’s used to, maybe because he knows she won't break apart at something stupid like a kiss.
It's better, she's sure. Because this was how it was meant to be.
Chris grins when they separate. "Yeah, nice one," and he says, looking a bit dazed.
Naomi smiles back, unsure of how to ask for what she wants, but she knows now. She knows what she wants, she’s sure of it. "Do...can we go back to yours?"
“Sweet,” Chris says, his grin widening, and he jumps down off the wall. “Wait - you’re legal, right? Just age, man, like, it fucking blows my mind sometimes.”
“Yeah,” Naomi says, the lie coming easily. She is almost, anyway. And besides, going off some of the things she’s heard, fifteen is completely past it to be getting rid of her virginity.
“Safe,” he says, and holds his hand out so she can jump down as well.
It was different then, she learns. When kissing was just for the sake of kissing, and when kissing was only the beginning of something.
---
They kiss some more, back at his, and it’s ok. She can do that. Kissing’s fine.
His hand, snaking up her top, pulling it over her head, is fine.
Grabbing at her tits through her bra is fine.
She hesitates only slightly when her hands reach his belt, and then she reminds herself that she's not a freak, and tugs it undone, his boxers following unceremoniously not soon after.
Naomi looks down briefly and tries to pretend it's not the first real cock she's seen close up. Its a bit...weird looking she thinks, just dangling there. And not very useful, probably, in its current state. Naomi’s not really got much of a benchmark to go against, but she did pay minimal attention in biology, and is fairly certain that something should have happened by now. “Um…Chris…you’re not…”
"Oh," he says in surprise, looking down himself. "Yeah. Well, you see, that was a test. And you passed. So, you've excellent observation skills. Well done."
"Oh," says Naomi, taking a step back. She’s sort of just realised what she’s doing. She was about to sleep with some random guy she’s only just met, to what? Prove something to people who she didn’t even care about in the first place. This was really stupid.
“Whoa whoa whoa, no! Don’t go!” Chris says, and he looks totally ridiculous, she thinks, pleading with her to stay, stark bollock naked. “Right, normally, I have an excellent dick. This has never happened before. Normally, I swear, yeah, normally, if anything, it’s a struggle to keep the fucking thing down.”
She raises her eyebrows skeptically.
“No, honestly. It’s just since Angie’s gone, and then that fucking Viagra," he says, slumping down on his bed.
Naomi sits next to him. "Isn't that meant to, you know, help with...that sort of thing?"
"Yeah. Never been the same since I OD'd though. I mean the first time, I thought it helped, and Tony reckoned it might have stretched it out or something, I dunno, but it was definitely bigger, so thought I’d try it again. That was a mistake. Had to piss up the way for four days straight. Think I've used up all my stiffies for life," he laughs, but then stops abruptly and frowns. "That can't happen, can it? That better not have happened. Oh God, mate, you better not have let that happen," he says, lifting his eyes to the ceiling.
Naomi shrugs. "Dunno. You should probably see someone though."
"What, like Kathy Barry? Yeah... Yeah, she was a woman. Oh man, those tits. Fuck, she'd sort me right out."
"I meant, like, a doctor?"
"Nah. Don't really like doctors.” Chris peers down again. “He's probably just depressed since Angie's gone. He'll perk himself up again. You could always kiss him better?" He asks, but it looks like it's more in hope than expectation.
Naomi grimaces in response.
"Ok. Well, what about a hand, then? You could give it a hand up, eh?" He nudges her in the side and he's laughing again, as if he's not really all that bothered by anything at all.
She sighs, looking at the thing, limply sitting there between his legs. He’s got red bed sheets and all she can think is hair, and fuck the lot of them, because she could if she wanted to.
"Yeah," he says, grinning widely when he sees she's considering it. "Yeah, go on, come to -"
"Just," Naomi interrupts. "Just, don't talk, ok?"
"Deal," he says cheerily, as she closes her eyes, sees a flash of red and sets to work getting rid of it.
---
It doesn't work.
His cock, that is.
"Nothing's happening," she huffs, after a torturously long five minutes, and maybe she should switch hands or something, because her arm is fucking killing her now.
"Maybe if you -"
"Look," she cuts him off, and indicates his still very lifeless cock. "I can hardly toss you off like this, can I?"
Chris thinks on it for a little while. "Yeah, good point."
And maybe the alcohol's working its way through her system, but Naomi's gone right off the idea of this whole thing and feels a bit stupid actually. "Maybe we should just forget it?"
"Yeah, you're right. I could always finger you, if you want?” He offers. “I've got magic hands," he says, wiggling his fingers.
She considers it briefly, but the moment’s passed. "Um. No. It's alright."
"Fair enough," he replies, pulling his jeans back on and passing her top over. "Biscuit then?"
"Yeah, ok," she replies. The sex side of things apart - which was admittedly a total failure - the evening has been quite nice and she doesn’t mind staying a little longer.
"Garibaldis," he says, chucking the packet at her.
“Thanks.”
“Good, right? What you wanna do is chase it with one of these," picking up a pint of milk sitting at the bottom of his bed.
Naomi wrinkles her nose. "No thanks. Won't it be off, sitting out?"
"Nah," Chris replies, taking a gulp. "Yeah," he corrects, "yeah, definitely off.” But it doesn’t stop him from having another swig.
She laughs, again. She’s done a lot of that tonight. It makes a change, a good change, and maybe they could do it again. Just, like, properly, next time.
She’ll show them. They’re all wrong about her, and she’ll prove it.