Peachy Perfect
Challenge fic. All I have to say is: Concrit?
Disclaimer: I donut own it.
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Fuzzy peaches.
Metaphorical, they could be the reason for girls, and boys, to giggle at the name. Whispering to each other. "Want my," insert wink here, "fuzzy peaches?"
A little immature, dirty analogy.
And the little girls reply: "Sure, and you can," insert another wink here, "cherry blast me." Another little newly-created candy comparison.
But, really. What did the Groovy Candy company want to prove? Did they sit around a big, long table, with one man standing by a chart?
These extortionate names, and these immature jokes never really affected Tom. At the orphanage, he never devoured into the sweets. He endorsed the real thing. There was something about the juice slipping into his mouth that intrigued him.
Which, of course, brought on more immature, dirty jokes. "Tommy Boy likes fuzzy balls in his mouth!"
He didn't care what they said, though. Because, Tom was special. He could make someone's bed float with a flick of a stick. He preferred not to, though. The dirty joking little orphans weren't worth his magic. So, he bit into the peach again, glaring at the little muggle children.
He was momentous. He would be great someday. He would thank his lucky peaches. He finished his peach and tossed the pit at a giggling blonde girl.
"Hey! Why did you do that? Just because we don't like fuzzy balls on our chins, doesn't mean you're much better than us," she said in her stuck up, contumelious voice.
Tom laughed sarcastically. "Oh, you little strumpet, you. You don't even know what you're talking about,"
Blondie stuck up her nose. "What's a strumpet?"
Tom took another peach and bit into it. "Call girl, whore, escort, fallen woman, harlot, hooker, hustler, pro, slut, streetwalker, or tramp. What would you prefer to be called?"
Blondie ran out of the room screaming. Tom laughed.
"Foolish muggles." Tom drawled to himself and bit into his peach, enjoying the cool juice in his mouth.