‘ unlike the other girls you fuck, i’m a natural STRAWBERRY BLONDE. get another insult, BENDER. ’ she shook her head, the slight curls of her hair shifting as she did. he was RECKLESS, a trait she enjoyed, but his MOUTH, that was a PROBLEM. he had such snark, such deviance that it made her curious as to HOW LONG they could keep this up until one of them cracked, and stormed off.
her mouth curled, a curt nod at his implications, greens shifted to look at his hand and she used her own to push it away from the both of them. ‘ GROSS. is that why you came to bother me, to ask for a handjob ? i suppose that’ll get you BRAGGING rights among the boys locker room. ’ she dictated unsure about what he’d actually respond with; something absolutely vile no doubt. ‘ tough luck though, i’m not really into greasers. ’
Frankly, Bender is a goddamn saint -- he let Heather talk, and talk, and ain’t that just the saintliest thing a guy can do for a girl? Let her blab, while he feigned attention. He found himself stuck somewhere between the snarled edge of her painted lips and the glint of expensive jewelry.
All those preppy girls popped out of the same factory, accented with Daddy’s money and Mommy’s passive aggression. He let his hand drop, though he remained a step too close to her. He feigned injury when she slung the word ‘greaser’ at him, a term he’d accept with pride.
“I don’t really wanna have a bitch like you that close to my delicates, you’d probably rip it off.” He rolled his eyes, as a petulant scoff huffed from his lips. He glanced over her, a smirk splitting his features. “Plus, you got man hands. Like a fuckin’ built in catcher’s mitt.” She didn’t, but it was fun to insult her.
