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Heather likes to hear her talk until she doesn't.
Duke doesn't understand why the switch gets flipped. Sometimes Heather loves to listen to her shred their classmates apart, laughing and grinning and watching Duke like she's an MTV VJ or something. Then suddenly she's cold and glaring and telling Duke to shut up, and all Duke can do is shrink into herself until Heather chills out and she's allowed to have a personality again.
(She also doesn't really know when Heather in her mind started to mean Heather Chandler. Heather always has to be the center of attention, the sun that everyone else orbits around, incinerating anyone who thinks otherwise. So even in Duke's own brain, "Heather" needs qualifications if it's going to refer to herself.)
Now she's sulking on a couch with her feet pulled up, hands wrapped around a cup of diet coke that she's pretending has rum in it, because she's already had one real drink and any more than that and she starts to feel gross. The rest of the kids at the party are giving her a wide berth. She's just a sophomore, and sophomores don't matter, except that Heather does. And they all saw Heather rip into her, tell her to shut up, tell her that the only people who think she's funny are brain damaged neanderthals with a fat fetish.
So nobody is going to come talk to her first. Not until Heather makes it clear that she's acceptable again.
Nobody except Mac, that is. Mac skips over with her own drink and a bag of regular flavour corn nuts and practically jumps onto the couch next to her. She jiggles the bag in Duke's face, and Duke just leans away and grimaces.
"D'you wanna come play truth or dare?" she asks, her voice slurred a little from the drinks she's had. "Some of the senior boys are playing, and Heather won't be there, she went off with Peter Coleman." She waggles her eyebrows suggestively, even though Duke knows that at best Peter's walking out of that having copped a feel and gotten a handjob. Heather always overpromises and underdelivers, and she gets away with it because she's Heather and the guys are just grateful that she's even looking at them.
Looking is important, Duke has learned. There's power in looking, and in being looked at. Heather can get away with so much because she's turned her gaze into both a carrot and a stick, something to be craved and feared at the same time. Duke knows all about both, about feeling Heather look at her and being hot with want and cold with fear.
Duke can feel people looking at them now, and she knows what they're thinking. They're thinking that Mac gets special treatment, that she's allowed to touch Duke even when Heather's made her untouchable because she's the favourite. But she's not.
Mac gets yelled at less because she's just so dull and agreeable, because she barely even thinks to do anything Heather would yell at her for. But even she fucks up. She doesn't sit around when it happens, she's not desensitized to it like Duke is. So she runs off to sob somewhere until eventually Duke goes to calm her down and bring her back to the group.
So it's not that Mac gets special treatment, it's that she's a consolation prize to Duke. If Duke was really alone every time Heather got pissed at her, eventually she'd find other people. Heather lets Mac talk to her so she doesn't do that, so she stays hooked and waiting for when Heather lets her back in.
It seems like Mac's too dumb to get that, though, because of course Duke can't go play truth or dare. Just because Mac's allowed to talk to her, it doesn't mean anyone else is, and they know that. It doesn't matter if Heather's not there. She always finds out. So she just rolls her eyes. "Ew, am I twelve? No thanks, Heather."
Mac's face falls at that, and she settles into the couch beside Duke. Duke thinks about telling her that she should still go, but it is actually nice to have someone here, so she lets her stay. It'll make Mac happy to think she's patching things over, even though she's just doing exactly what Heather wants.
So she lets Mac chatter about whatever, parts of the party that Duke has missed while sulking on the couch. Duke thinks of a million things to say, and some of them are pretty funny, but she keeps them to herself. She remembers what kind of people think she's funny.
When Heather comes down the stairs, all legs and cleavage in her little red dress, Mac makes some excuse for what she's leaving to do, like they don't both know she just doesn't want to get busted talking to Duke. Not like Heather would even care. She's allowed.
Heather's lipstick is still perfect, glossy and unsmudged, and Duke wonders if Peter even got a real kiss. Probably Heather just let him kiss her neck a little, hissing at him to avoid the lips, and feel her up until he got hard enough for her to jerk him off. She can practically picture Heather rolling her eyes as Peter groans, wiping the jizz off on whoever's bedsheets and bolting for the bathroom while Peter basks in his post-wank glory. And she pretends like she's so above the neanderthals.
She loses track of her in the crowd once she reaches the bottom of the stairs, and she waits to see her come in the door to the living room, but she doesn't. Rejection fills her stomach, cold and heavy, and she pulls herself smaller, sipping at her drink like it really does have alcohol, like it'll relieve her of this feeling.
But a minute later she feels Heather's breath against her ear, leaning over the back of the couch, and she can smell rum, not mint on it. So Peter didn't get a kiss after all. Heather always goes for the mouthwash after she kisses a guy.
"Enjoying the party?" Heather asks.
Duke doesn't dignify her by looking at her. "It's very."
Heather giggles at that, sounding tipsy and a little sultry, like she hasn't turned off whatever flirty facade she had on for Peter. "You look hot, y'know," she whispers. "Bet half these guys would give their left nut to get this dress off you."
Duke tugs lightly at the hem of the dress, a tight green and white striped thing that Heather had loved until she didn't, and was apparently back to loving again. But the compliment doesn't outweigh the sting, so she says, "You mean the neanderthal half?"
"Don't be a baby," Heather chides. She slips around the couch and falls in next to Duke, eyes roaming over her as she settles in close. Her fingers move to Duke's, where she's pulling her dress down, stroke over her hand and guide it away. She interlocks their fingers. It feels like she shouldn't be doing this here, where everyone can see, like it's too much. But it's easing that rejection in her gut, and so Duke lets her. When Heather comes to soothe the hurt, Duke always lets her. "You can sulk all you want, but it's way more fun being friends."
Duke just sighs and looks down at her hand, and Heather's red nails against her pale skin.
Heather leans a little closer, grinning expectantly. "Like me again?"
"I always like you," Duke lies. "You're the one who doesn't like me."
There's a soft squeeze of her hand, and Heather's pouting just a little. Duke's not even sure if it's mocking or not. "Come on, Heather," she says, dragging the words out. "But I like you so much."
It's almost a question the way she says it. Like she doesn't know if Duke believes it or not. Duke doesn't know if she believes it, either, but right now she wants to, so she goes along with it.
"Fine," she sighs. "You like me."
Heather releases her hand and sits back, a victorious grin on her face. Her eyes roam Duke one more time, and Duke feels a little off guard, exposed under Heather's gaze. Then she snatches the drink out of Duke's hand and takes a sip.
"Really?" she says when she tastes it, rolling her eyes in disappointment.
"Fuck off," Duke snipes, grabbing the cup back. "If you're gonna be a bitch, leave me alone."
"You're determined not to have a good time."
"I'd be having a good time if you'd let me." She fixes Heather with a resolute glare, trying to find some backbone even if it costs her.
But Heather just meets her glare with an amused look. "Well then let me help you. What do you need to enjoy yourself, Heather? Seems like it's not a drink. And you clearly don't need anything to eat. Should I go find you some guy who wants to get up that pretty dress?"
"I don't need your help getting guys," Duke snarls. "You're not the only hot girl."
"Obviously," Heather replies. "I already said you look hot, didn't I?" She shifts a little closer, only barely not touching her now, and Duke hates how she wishes she'd close the gap, press against her as they talk so she could really feel Heather's attention fixated on her.
There's a moment of just that, neither of them speaking while they look at each other. It's one of those moments that could go either way. Heather might say something that makes Duke feel beautiful and powerful, that she plays over and over in her head until the words lose all meaning. Or she might rip Duke's guts open just to prove that she can do it. She never knows for sure when Heather will like her.
When she does speak, it's neither. It's quiet and conspiratorial, and it almost seems honest. "I'm just asking what you want me to do with that, Heather. With how good you look like this."
And what can she even want? She wants Heather to say she's hot, to bury all the little jabs about her body and her fashion and her face under a mound of praise so deep that she can convince herself Heather actually means it. She wants Heather to look, to give that lingering stare and that approving grin that twists her insides up in a good way, instead of all tense and nervous. That's all there is to want, though. It would be too much to want anything else.
She turns a little on the couch, looking properly at Heather now. The look she's getting is half-amused, like Heather's waiting for Duke to entertain her. But her eyes are too focused for it just to be that. It's not just a look.
"Tell me what you like about it," Duke says, desperate enough for Heather's praise to ask for it, like a glutton for punishment. "How I look."
Heather's eyes glint and she shifts closer, her bare knee touching Duke's and the skin-to-skin contact feeling hot and charged and like relief. Her voice comes out soft, and Duke doesn't know how she hears it over the noise of the party. "I'm loving the dress. Green's your colour, and it shows off everything you usually bury under three layers. I mean I like a blazer on you but it does hide how… how soft you are."
It's the sort of comment that would normally feel backhanded. Heather's made a thousand digs at her body, at the tiny bits of flab and softness that Duke can't quite get rid off. But here, in that tone, she says 'soft' like it's the highest praise she can imagine, and it sends a thrill up Duke's spine.
"Fuck, this makeup, too," Heather continues, her focus sharpening on Duke's face. "Really draws attention to your eyes. God, Heather. You've got such pretty eyes. So deep and full of hurt." She lets that statement linger as she reaches out to tuck a few loose strands of hair behind Duke's ear. A grin crosses her face, almost coy. "Is that all from me? Or is someone mistreating my girl?"
Duke stares at that, the blissful rush of compliments giving way to dread. "I'm gonna—" and she moves to stand.
But Heather grabs her wrist, nails biting into the skin. "Don't be boring." Her voice is stiff and commanding. It sounds like a threat.
They stay like that, Heather clutching her, for a long moment. Then Duke eases back into her seat.
"How was Peter?" she asks, not sure if she means it as a jab or to change the subject.
Heather just rolls her eyes. "I'm sure he'll tell all his friends he railed me. He's probably still in the bathroom trying to towel the jizz off the inside of his jeans."
She's pleased about that, Duke can tell. Heather's the only person Duke's ever known who would be happy about her hook-up's premature ejaculation. And Duke is probably the only person Heather would admit that to. It's this thing that sits between them, something that Duke could use against her if she had the balls. But for some reason, every time she tries to, she stops herself.
She likes it, is the thing. Having some part of Heather only she's allowed to see. She likes the invitation that lingers just beneath it, too, even though they both know she'll never take it.
"Sorry he left you frustrated," Duke says, all fake sweetness. "I'm sure that was such a disappointment."
Heather laughs. "Such." Her hand extends, stroking over Duke's for a moment, and Duke tenses. Then she takes the cup from her and sips, eyes never straying. "I'm sure I can find another way to get my needs taken care of."
There's the invitation again, a little clearer now. It leaves her wondering. If she did take the bait, would Heather really do it? Would she pull her off somewhere and get her hands up Duke's dress like she says the boys want? She knows what it feels like to have someone take her, to have them use her to fulfill their needs. But she's sure it would feel different with Heather. She'd have Heather's eyes on her, Heather's hands, Heather's mouth. She'd hear Heather's sounds and Heather's words.
But which words would they be?
That's the fear that brings her defenses up, that has her saying, "Not sure there anyone here your type, Heather." She digs the words in, relishing the little recoil that Heather fails to mask. "Can I go now? I wanna find a guy."
Heather stares as she takes another sip. Then she tosses the cup over her shoulder, letting the rest of the coke spill over the couch and soak into the cushions. "Go ahead. I'm sure you'll have no problem finding a guy who loves the way you muffin top over your panties every time you lean forward, Heather." Then she slips off the couch and leaves Duke there.
Heather likes to see her with boys until she doesn't.
It feels like there's no way for her to do it right. It feels like maybe that's the point. When Duke follows Heather too closely, or lingers around her, Heather gets snippy, or she plasters herself on some guy even more brazenly than normal before dragging him off somewhere. Duke watches for the signs without thinking, now. It's automatic. When Heather comes back, Duke looks at her lipstick, at her hair, at the way her clothes hang. She notices the scent of her breath and the temperature of her hands, and she tries to figure out what exactly Heather did. Did she kiss him? Did she blow him? Is this the time she finally lets one of them screw her?
At least, she notices these things if she's still there when Heather gets back. But she's learned not to be. Because if Heather comes back and Duke's still there, still without a guy of her own, then Heather really rips into her. It's beyond mocking, then. Heather doesn't even really try to be funny. She just cuts and cuts and cuts until Duke can't stand it anymore and she flees. So if Heather goes off, she knows she needs to, too.
It's better if Duke picks her guy first. Even if they don't end up sneaking off, even if they just spend a while necking in a corner, or something, it's usually enough to satisfy Heather. Their position depends on being wanted, Duke knows, and she knows Heather cares that they cultivate that.
With Mac, that's all there is to it. Heather's always pleased when she sees Mac flirting and dancing and kissing. The only time she gets pissed at Mac about it is when she's picking Kurt Kelly too often. Then she'll sharply remind her that she is not going steady with him, that the Heathers don't go steady, and Mac will obediently go find someone different for a while.
But with Duke it's not quite the same. It never is, with the two of them. Sure, most of the time, getting with some guy will get Heather off her back. But sometimes it's the opposite. Sometimes she'll catch Heather looking at her and her guy, jaw clenched and eyes burning, all barely contained rage. Sometimes when she gets back, Heather will treat her like she's absolutely disgusting, like she can't bear to be in her presence, like there's a stink that Duke can't wash off. Sometimes she'll start ripping into Duke for being a slut, as if she isn't the one insisting that Duke meet a minimum standard of sluttiness.
Tonight's one of those nights. It's the first big party of junior year, and Heather wasn't even going to come. She's going to a Remington party next weekend, so she's acting like she's too good for high school parties now. Too good for Mac and Duke too, she guesses. But Mac begged, and Heather eventually cracked.
Duke's careful. She doesn't linger too long, even though Heather's all biting sarcasm and detachment and wit in that way that makes her so much fun. Duke feels the pull, and she wants to stay close, but she's got the scars to know why she can't. So she grabs a drink, does some shots with Mac, and then she goes to flirt with George Davidson. He's a good choice, she thinks. A senior. Rich and popular and entirely okay looking, and he has a reputation for being good for more than a couple of pumps.
But, Jesus, he hasn't even kissed her yet before Duke can feel Heather glaring at her. George doesn't notice, thankfully. He invites her to dance and seems blissfully unaware that Heather Chandler is actively planning both their murders the entire time. Once he starts kissing her and getting handsy, Heather disappears, which really isn't as much of a relief as it should be. Duke knows that she's going to pay for that later.
George lives up to his reputation, at least, and when Duke gets back to the party, she finds herself instinctively scanning for Heather. It's a necessary precaution, she reasons. It would be far too dangerous not to see her coming.
But she doesn't see her at all, and it seems like nobody had seen her with a guy, either. She was there, and then she wasn't.
Well, fuck her, then. Let her go do whatever bullshit she's doing. Duke is going to enjoy the party.
It's a good thing she's gotten better at drinking, because it makes nights like these so much easier. She does another shot and she keeps a drink on the go, and it keeps her nerves from building too much in anticipation of what Heather's going to do.
Maybe it makes her a little stupid, though, because she's seen what kind of mood Heather is in and yet she still goes looking for her.
She finds her out by the pool. Heather's heels are sitting beside her, and she's on the edge with her feet in the water. A little mist rises off the water's surface into the cool night air, because whoever's house this is is keeping the pool heated even though nobody's swimming in September. It's lit, too, the only real light this far from the house. So Heather's illuminated from below, the patterns from the water's surface cast over the beautiful fury etched into her face.
There's something floating at the center of the pool— a red solo cup, and Heather's flinging something like playing cards at it, trying to land them in the cup. The pool surface is dotted with dozens of her misses.
As Duke gets a little closer she can see what she's throwing. She's got some family photo album she's grabbed from inside, and she's pulling the photos out and flinging them. She slips out of her heels and sinks into a sit next to Heather.
Heather doesn't even look over at her. "Done being a slut for every senior boy with a pulse, or are you just taking a breather to stave off the chafing?"
The water is warm and soothing as Duke slips her feet in, and it makes it a little easier to shrug off the insult. "Depends, are you done being an insufferable bitch?"
"I'm hardly insufferable," Heather drawls. "You suffer me plenty."
Well, shit, she can't really argue with that. So she doesn't respond at all, she sits and she watches Heather toss the photos. She doesn't land any of them, though one only misses because a little movement of the water pushes the cup out of the way.
"Fuck," Heather mutters.
"Pretty sure the cup's too small for any of them to go in, anyway."
"Yeah, well, it counts if you hit the cup, moron," Heather snaps. "It doesn't have to go in."
Duke rolls her eyes. "Oh, it doesn't have to go in. So the same rules you use with guys."
"Well, you take enough dicks for both of us," Heather says as she flips to the next page of the album. "How was Georgie, anyway? Lots of stamina? Did you enjoy the extra 45 seconds of him not knowing what a clit is?"
The next throw goes way over, hitting the far edge of the pool before dropping to the water's surface.
"The fuck do you care?" Duke grumbles.
Heather glances in her direction for a second before sliding another photo out. "I just think it's sad you keep thinking you're going to find a guy at one of these pathetic high school parties who can actually screw for shit."
It feels like she's flaunting her Remington party, like maybe she's mad at being here instead of there. "Oh so your college guys are going to be any better?" she says. "Like there's some screwing 101 class they take in freshman year?"
But that must not be it, because Heather just groans. "Fuck no." She flicks the photo and it curls through the air before falling just short, splashing a little water into the cup. "But at least they won't be so fucking boring. God, I can't believe we have two more years of this shit."
Duke lets Heather's frustration hang in the air for a second. "Maybe something interesting will happen," she offers.
Heather looks over at her, then. It's a long, lingering look, one that moves over her, and it conjures that simultaneous mix of heat and caution that Duke's so used to. But she got enough booze in her that she doesn't shrink from it. She lets Heather look.
"Maybe," Heather says, finally. She starts digging through the photo album with a little more purpose.
Duke watches with an arched brow. The scowl is gone from Heather's face, now, replaced with an odd focus. It's easier to appreciate how beautiful she is like this, bathed in the pool light, grey eyes gleaming. The black and red dress she's wearing hugs her body in a way Duke's sure every guy at the party noticed. But Heather's out here with her, instead, and until one of them inevitably picks a fight, it's where Duke's happiest to be.
Heather passes her a stack of pictures. "Here. Looks like this is all that remains of dear Aunt Gert. If you can hit the cup, I'll give you a prize."
She looks down at the photos, old fading shots of some ugly blue-haired bittie. "What kind of prize?" she asks, caution clear in her tone.
But Heather just smirks. "Only one way to find out, Heather."
It's weird how nervous that makes her, how much she feels like there's suddenly a lot riding on this. If she hadn't had so much to drink, her hands would probably be shaking. She turns to look out over the water. The cup bobs and sways on the surface, and she realizes Heather is kicking her legs a little, making the water move. Bitch.
The first couple of throws go far wide. But then she starts to get the hang of it, putting a little spin on each throw so that they fly a bit more stably through the air. The next few get closer, but still splash down without making contact.
She's down to her last three photos, and she can feel Heather watching her intently. Her legs have stilled, now, and the water is calmer. Duke glances over, just briefly, and instantly regrets it, because Heather is staring at her with her lip pinned under her teeth, and it makes her nerves so much worse.
The nerves are the reason the next throw sails far over, barely staying in the pool at all. "Fuck," Duke mutters to herself, and she hears Heather giggle over it. But then the next one arcs through the air, curves just right, and thunks into the side of the cup.
"Holy shit," Heather breathes, sounding genuinely impressed.
Duke smirks at her triumphantly.
Heather leans closer to her, then, so close that Duke can feel her breasts press up against Duke's arm, feeling absurdly warm in the night air. "Hit this last one," Heather whispers against her ear, "and it'll be an extra special prize."
An involuntary shiver runs through her body, and she hates that Heather's close enough to feel it. She bites her lip, willing all her focus onto the cup, and throws.
It splashes down uselessly to one side.
"Oh well," Heather says as she sits back, like she really couldn't care less.
Duke turns to look at Heather again. She's kicking her legs, looking down at the album in her lap, picking out a few more photos. "Well?" Duke prompts when she shows no signs of offering the promised reward.
Heather glances back toward the house, barely visible from here, and then over at Duke. "You want it now?" she asks, pretending like she's surprised by that.
"I guess," Duke says. "You never said what it is."
But that makes Heather roll her eyes, even though she smiles the whole time. "Don't play dumb," she teases, and leans in. "I know you know." She tips the rest of the album into the pool disinterestedly, and her hand slides over Duke's cheek and into her hair. Then she's pulling Duke closer as she leans in and brings their lips together.
Duke's still for a second, even as Heather's lips move against hers in a series of soft, chaste kisses. The sense of danger is sitting in her stomach like a brick, but it's competing with the fact that her whole body is hot, now, and she's pretty sure nobody can see them. Her pulse races, and she wonders for the briefest moment how long she's been waiting for Heather to kiss her. So she risks it, and she starts to kiss back.
The soft sigh that slips out of Heather when she does is more than enough to justify the danger. And when Heather's lips part, she can't stop herself from slipping her tongue into Heather's mouth and tasting the sweetness of the rum still lingering there.
Heather pulls her closer, her other hand moving along Duke's neck. Her tongue meets Duke's and she moans, this quiet, feminine thing that Duke's whole body responds to. Suddenly she's far wetter than she was even when George was inside her, and her hands dig into Heather's hips and tug. Heather's more than eager to get closer, water sloshing as she pulls her legs out of the pool and moves to straddle Duke.
Even like this, she still wants to keep her guard up. She has no idea how far Heather will let her go, or when she'll trigger whatever the price is. But she's tipsy and despite screwing barely an hour ago she's insanely horny, and it's enough to make her reckless. So she lets her hands move to Heather's ass and squeeze, she tugs her body flush to Duke's. Heather bucks against her, then, like she's barely keeping her own want under control, and she lets out another moans that Duke wants to etch into her brain forever. That sound must be the clearest approval she's ever pulled from Heather.
Heather's body is so soft in her hands. It makes sense, suddenly, how Heather can use that word like the highest praise she knows. The anticipation that builds through Heather's touch, and her writhing, and her deep, hungry kisses feels so different from how it is with any of the guys. But just as it reaches the point where Duke thinks she'll have to pull up Heather's dress, where she has to take it further than this, Heather pulls back.
Her eyes are dark and hazy, and she gives a giddy little giggle. Her lips move to Duke's ear and she whispers, "Too bad you missed the last throw, or I'd have let you fuck me."
Then she slips out of Duke's lap and grabs her shoes.
Duke stares at her dumbly, trying to wrap her head around what that was, or what it meant.
But Heather just fixes her hair and runs a finger around the edges of her lips, tidying the smudged lipstick. "You're right, though," she says, not looking back at Duke. "Maybe something interesting will happen." Then she gives a casual finger wave as she walks back to the party.
Heather looks at her until she doesn't.
And lately, she doesn't. Not really, anyways. Not like she used to.
She still looks at her enough to make her judgmental little comments about Duke's body, to let Duke know how unimpressed she is by her appearance. But she doesn't look like she used to, those long, lingering looks that leave Duke feeling all twisted up and bothered. The ones that, every so often, precede a moment where Heather gets her alone and they touch and kiss until Duke is starving for more, and then Heather abruptly leaves her cold. She doesn't look at her with burning eyes and a clenched jaw when Duke gets back from being with a guy, either, those looks that stay until she's dug her claws into Duke enough to feel satisfied that she's still hers.
The guys still like how she looks. It's just Heather who's being a bitch, who thinks she's too flabby and too flat at the same time.
And really, that's not the only reason she asks for it. There are plenty of plusses to looking hot. But it is maybe a little bit in the back of her mind when she tells her parents she wants a boob job for her birthday.
She gets it done right after the end of junior year, even though it means she spends most of her family trip to the cottage recovering. Still, it means she doesn't have to deal with Heather while she's on the mend, with whatever shit she'd say about her holed up in bed reading books to recover from getting her tits done.
It means she gets the jump on Heather when they go over to the Chandler place to hang out. Heather's eyes just about bug out when she notices, and even under her blazer they're pretty obvious. Mac notices, too, and unlike Heather she comments on it, complimenting Duke on how good they turned out and how much it suits her figure. Heather barely says anything, but she's looking at her again, so Duke knows that she's thinking about it. That's why she lingers after Mac goes home, even though without Mac around Heather's liable to really turn the bitch up.
It's hot as hell that day, and Heather insisted on finishing the whole game of croquet even after Mac had to bail, so by the time they get back inside, they're both sweaty. Heather discards her blazer on one of the kitchen stools while she goes to get a drink, and Duke decides to do the same. She's too hot, after all, and if it shows off her new tits a little, maybe that's just a perk.
Heather turns back from the fridge and smirks. Her eyes run slowly up Duke's torso, eying the way that the blouse she's wearing fits so snug. It used to be a little baggy to hide the bits of squishiness that Heather always points out, and now it can barely hold her in. Heather slides a bottle of diet coke across the kitchen island to her, and she leans forward to wrap her ruby lips around her own straw and sucks.
"Thanks," Duke says lightly as she grabs her drink. Heather's not bothering to hide her stare now, and Duke grins a little at it, taking a sip to hide how pleased she is.
But Heather notices, and abandons her drink to stroll around the island. Her fingertips stay on the counter, sliding slowly along the marble, just like her eyes stay on Duke and slide slowly up and down her body.
"How do they feel?" she asks as she stalks her way up next to Duke.
Duke shrugs. "They're not really sore anymore."
That makes Heather roll her eyes. "No, moron." She steps closer, her toes touching Duke's. "How do they feel?"
"Oh," Duke says dumbly. Her cheeks flush. "They were a little hard at first. But they're soft now."
Heather's fingertips move from the countertop to Duke's waist, and she steps around behind her. Her head lowers a little, close to Duke's ear. "Can I?"
Her instincts say to say no. It's too vulnerable to be with Heather, and she's worried Heather will be rough when they're not one hundred percent healed. It'd be just like Heather to do something to ruin them. But even like this she can feel Heather looking at her, and she really doesn't want her to stop. So she chokes her thoughts down enough to sound bored. "Fine, whatever."
Heather's hands run slowly up from her waist to her chest. Then she presses closer, her body against Duke's back and her lips in Duke's hair. Her hands cup slowly around her breasts, gently, and they give a soft, exploratory squeeze.
"Happy now?" Duke says, trying hard to sound like every inch of her body isn't suddenly incredibly sensitive, like she's not aware of every fold of fabric against her skin.
But Heather lets out a frustrated little breath against Duke's ear. "Hard to tell under all these layers," she whines. And then her fingers find the buttons on Duke's blouse and linger.
"I don't want your parents walking in on me with my tits out in their kitchen," she hisses.
"Okay," Heather concedes, but her fingers don't move. Then she whispers against Duke's ear, "So where do you wanna get your tits out?"
Duke fully flushes at that, her fingertips clenching the side of the island.
When she doesn't answer, Heather asks, "My room?" and Duke manages to nod.
The door to Heather's room clicks shut behind them, and Duke hears Heather lock it. Then she's up against her back again, already pressed close and undoing those buttons. She slides the blouse off Duke's shoulders, and Duke can feel her hot breath on the exposed skin as the blouse hits the floor.
She curses the fact that she hasn't had a chance to get really nice bras for the new cup size yet, and she's just wearing some comfortable, plain thing that she's been wearing for recovery. But Heather's so focused on her she doesn't even comment. Instead her fingertips gently run along the underside of the bra, and she asks, "This too?" in a husky whisper.
"Okay," Duke says, her arms still rigid at her side.
Heather steps back a little to undo the clasp, and Duke hates that she misses the warmth of her touch. Then her bra joins her blouse on the floor, and Heather's body comes back.
Heather's hands cup around her breasts again, stroking, feeling their weight and their softness. "Oh," Heather breathes, sounding very pleased. "How very." Then her fingertips move to Duke's nipples, teasing and stroking. "And these… any less sensitive now?" She punctuates it with a gentle pinch, stroking them between her fingertips, and they stiffen eagerly under Heather's touch. "Mmn, guess not."
Duke can feel how wet she's getting, the insistent stroking of Heather's hands making her whole body feel tense and electric. It's teasing in a way that it never is with the guys, who are just eager to get in and get off. This is slow and agonizing, and it's not even going to go anywhere. She tries to memorize the sensation so she can fuck herself to it later, because there's no way she's not going home pent up and horny, now.
Then Heather makes a sound in her ear, half a breath and half a moan, and her hands give another appreciative squeeze. "They really are excellent tits," she says with a low little giggle. "Now nothing will stop you in your mission to be the biggest slut at Westerburg."
Duke bolts away from her touch and turns to glare at her. "Fuck you, Heather."
But Heather steps forward after her, eying her bare chest through glazed eyes. "What, you wanna pretend you got a boob job for your self-esteem?"
She takes another step back. "Don't be shitty to me just because I actually have the guts to screw. Ram told me you pussied out and just did hand stuff, y'know."
"Woe is me for missing out on both pumps of Ram's unwashed dick," Heather drawls. Then her eyes glint. "Anyway, seems like you liked my 'hand stuff.'"
Duke scoffs, and steps around Heather to grab her blouse and head for the door.
"I certainly did," she hears Heather say from behind her. Then, a little lower, "You should feel how wet I am."
Those words melt through her, building the heat between her legs that's already almost unbearable, but she's not giving Heather anything when she's being like this, so she says, "Gross. I'm not like that."
"Okay," Heather agrees easily as she slips up behind her again. Her hand runs down Duke's arm to her hand and takes the blouse away, dropping it back on the floor. "You're not like that," she whispers. "I'm just saying they did the job. You should be happy, Heather. I'm being nice."
"You're never nice."
Her lips press against Duke's ear. "I'll be so nice for you, if you let me." Her hand slides over Duke's bare stomach and pulls her flush against Heather. "You were gonna go home and rub one out, weren't you?"
Duke's back arches and she inhales sharply. "No," she lies.
Heather doesn't even acknowledge the lie. "I could do it for you. Since I'm so nice." She nuzzles along Duke's neck, and Duke can feel how hot her breath is. "I won't even do hand stuff, since you think it's beneath you."
For a second, that doesn't make sense to Duke, since despite her frequent references to one, Heather doesn't actually have a dick. But then she understands, and it makes her shiver, it makes her even wetter, and she thinks her panties are probably completely soaked, now.
Fingernails scrape up her thighs to the hem of her skirt. "Well, Heather?" She lingers for a moment, and when Duke is still frozen, she adds, "I'm not Ram, Heather, I wanna hear you say yes."
Duke tenses and grits her teeth. "Yes. Okay? Do it."
She feels Heather's hands on her hips then, turning her around and pressing her back against the bedroom door. Her eyes are dark, and so focused on Duke, looking at her now with more intensity that she's ever seen before. She slips onto her knees in front of her, and her hands slide up Duke's thighs and slowly tug her panties down.
She slips one finger in the discarded panties and holds them up, looking at Duke with a quirked eyebrow and a knowing smirk. But Duke just looks away.
So for once, Heather doesn't say anything shitty and puts her mouth to better use. Her face disappears under Duke's skirt, and then Duke feels her hot, rough tongue against her pussy. A wave of feeling pulses through Duke, familiar pleasure, but a completely new thrill, a rush of power from the fact that it's Heather's tongue on her. She licks slowly, tasting Duke's wetness with an appreciative hum, and sucks softly at her folds. It's teasing, and Duke writhes, but she doesn't give her the satisfaction of demanding more.
It takes all her willpower to keep her noises in, to not just grab Heather's face and shove her closer. But it's worth it when Heather finally gets bored enough to move to her clit and suck, the tip of her tongue flicking languidly against her. Then she finally lets her moans out, lets Heather know how good it is.
It's nothing like the boys, working sloppily against her to get her wet enough to take them. Heather's tasting, and feeling, and trying to find everything that makes Duke twitch or moan. Duke closes her eyes and she works her hips against Heather's mouth, feeling the pleasure build, closer and closer to what she needs but never quite enough, and god, could Heather quit fucking around?
"More," she husks needily.
Heather sucks a little harder, works her tongue faster, but it's still not enough, and Duke starts to wonder if it's on purpose. Then she opens her eyes and looks down and sees Heather's hands folded demurely behind her back.
"Heather, come on," she whines.
Heather pulls back, lets the skirt fall off her face, and looks up at her. Her eyes are blown and her lipstick is smeared and her chin is slick with Duke's wetness, and Duke feels a surge of ego like she hasn't had in years at seeing Heather like that for her. But Heather just gives her a saccharine smile. "I only have the one mouth, Heather."
Duke rolls her eyes, way too fucking wound up now to play along with Heather being a dumbass. "Just use your fucking fingers!"
Heather tilts her head to the side, feigning confusion. "I thought hand stuff didn't count?"
"It counts, okay?" Later, she can regret that concession, that loss of something to hold over Heather. For now she needs it too bad. "Just fuck me, already."
Then Heather grins, pleased at getting her way and even more pleased at having Duke so desperate. She ducks her head back under Duke's skirt, and she tongues along her folds back to her clit, and then she finally slides two slender fingers inside.
And god, fuck, she'd been so close before all the bullshit that she's right back there again. She rocks her hips against Heather's mouth, too far gone to care about how needy she's being, even though she knows Heather will mock her for it later. The feeling builds, so good, so much, and it's all going to be over soon. Then she whines and tugs on Heather's hair, and Heather actually is nice, for once, and she thrusts her fingers harder and curls them right there, right where Duke wants it, and then, holy shit, she's cumming so hard.
She's seeing spots when Heather finally pulls back, and she slides down the door into a sit on the carpet, face to face with Heather. "Fuck," she mutters, and she runs her fingers through her hair.
Heather sits back and licks her fingers clean, looking over Duke with a smug smile. "Well, now I know why you're the flavour everyone wants to try."
"Fuck you, Heather," Duke manages between pants.
"Mm, next time," Heather promises. She pushes forward onto her knees, closer now, eying Duke predatorily. "Anyway, learn to take a compliment, Heather. It's real easy. You just say, 'Thank you, Heather, and by the way, thanks for eating my tight little pussy better than any boy ever has or will.' Or do you wanna pretend Ram Sweeney gets you off like that?"
She can't, obviously. She's not even sure she's ever cum that hard before. Still, she glares at Heather for saying it. "Thanks, Heather," she snipes mockingly.
But Heather just crawls the last little bit forward, nuzzling into Duke's neck. "My pleasure, Heather," she whispers. Her hands cup Duke's breasts again, squeezing softly. "And thanks for getting these for me, I love them."
"They're not for you," Duke snaps, not really sure who she's trying to convince. "Just because you're a self-obsessed dyke doesn't mean everything's about you. It just means you think it is."
Heather pulls back at the insult, her lazy post-coital grin shifting into something colder. "Fine," she sneers. "You got them so you could finally have tits fat enough to match the rest of you. Happy?"
That's enough to finally push past her afterglow, to make her angry and ashamed enough to get to her feet, grab her clothes, storm into Heather's en suite, and slam the door behind her for good measure. On the other side, she just hears Heather laugh.
When she finally opens the door, dressed and ready to go, Heather's sitting on her bed with her nose in a book. She's fixed her makeup and pulled back her hair, so she doesn't look like she's spent the afternoon nose deep in Duke's pussy, but she still glances over and gives her a knowing smirk. "Want me to walk you out?"
"I know where the door is, Heather," Duke snaps, and she leaves without waiting for Heather's reply.
She spends the rest of the day pissed off, though she barely even knows why. She wanted Heather's attention back and she certainly got it. Better than that, she got confirmation that Heather really is a full-on lesbian, dodging doing anything real with the guys but all too eager to muff dive when Duke lets her. It should be a loaded gun that she can hold on her, a way to keep Heather in line, even to put herself on top if she wants to.
So why does it feel like she's more under Heather's heel than ever?
When its late and she's been tossing for hours, she finally just buries her hand between her legs and thinks about when Heather was there, that orgasm that Heather had given her that wasn't like anything else. And when she finally cums, she does it with Heather's voice playing in her mind.
Fat. Slut. Moron.
Heather likes her best until she doesn't.
They screw each other's brains out all summer long. Duke barely puts up a fight, makes a token effort like it's not going to happen again before melting for Heather the first time she shows an interest. It's better this way. It's certainly the most enjoyable thing they've found to do with each other.
It's addictive, the way that the praise flows so much more readily from Heather when they're fucking. Duke has a whole catalogue of shit that Heather's said to her playing on a loop in her brain, most of it just salt on so many open wounds. Sometimes it's like she wants to hurt herself, the stuff she chooses to replay.
But when her breath is coming in husky gasps, and her eyes are dark with want, and her hands are all over Duke's naked, sweaty body, Heather gives her other things to replay.
"You look so fucking hot on top of me," Heather rasps when Duke is straddling her lap, Heather's fingers buried deep inside her.
"God, I've never tasted anything so good," Heather moans between Duke's legs before burying her face back in Duke's pussy.
"You're gorgeous," Heather sighs as she collapses beside Duke, legs still twitching from her orgasm. "Fuck, just look at you." The back of her fingers caress along Duke's stomach, no hint of judgement if there's a little softness beneath them. "Gorgeous."
In those moments, Duke can even believe that she means it. It makes her face flush and steals her words away, it makes her imagine a world where she gets that Heather all the time, the Heather that sees her and likes what she sees. But that's just imaginary.
Because once her afterglow fades, the claws always come back out.
One of them always starts it. Sometimes it's an insult they've just been saving for the right moment. Others, one of them just takes something wrong, sees a cut where one wasn't intended and retaliates viciously. The worst times, it's one of them feeling happy and soft enough to show a little vulnerability, and they both have the same reflexive response to seeing the other's guard down.
That's how it goes this time.
Duke slumps back, curled up in the corner of the backseat of the Porsche to catch her breath. She rubs self-consciously at a few of the hickeys on her chest, possessive little marks that the guys never bother with, but Heather does. She's down to just her skirt and her socks. Everything else is strewn around the car. But she's too spent to start collecting her clothes right now.
Heather is sprawled out over most of the backseat, arms spread and head tilted back, savouring her post-orgasmic bliss. Some of the last sunlight of the day is dappled through the trees and glows on her bare skin, and she looks unfairly beautiful, as always. The guys at school would give anything to see her like this, naked and sweaty and freshly fucked, but it's Duke who gets this part of her.
That thought lingers in her mind, though. There's something warm about it, something thrilling. So before they can start digging in to each other again, she blurts, "Am I the only one?"
Heather tilts her head in Duke's direction and raises an eyebrow. There's a smug look on her face, and Duke feels her defensive instincts flare.
"I mean I know Ram and Kurt both think the other has screwed you, and neither has. Is it like that with all the guys? Am I the only one you let fuck you?"
For a second Heather just stares. Then her eyes glint in amusement, and her voice comes low and teasing, "Is that what you want?"
Duke scoffs and looks out the window, eying the road back out of the woods toward Westerburg. "I'm just wondering if you still haven't figured out where guys are supposed to put it, that's all."
The leather creaks as Heather sits up and turns to face Duke fully. "Say it's what you want and I'll answer the question."
She shoots back a glare at that. "What?"
But Heather fully looks like the cat who caught the mouse, now. She leans forward. "Say you wanna be my girl, my one and only, and I'll tell you exactly how many other people I'm fucking."
It's never a consideration to say it, really, no matter what Duke might want. The fact that Heather offered that at all means there's at least one other person, probably a few, and Duke doesn't need to dive face first into the humiliation of saying she wants all of Heather and then being told how little she actually has. So her answer comes easily.
"I'm not a dyke like you, Heather. This is just fun. All I want from you is a couple easy orgasms until I can find a guy who can actually fuck," she snaps back.
Heather's smile doesn't fade, but it does leave her eyes, shifting from malicious delight to something stiff and plastic. "Well, lucky for me then, sounds like I'll have you for a good, long while." Then she grabs Duke's blouse and throws it at her. "Get your fucking clothes on, I'm bored of you."
Duke smirks to herself as she dresses, pleased at making Heather's shitty little game backfire on her. It pisses Heather off so much that she doesn't talk to Duke at all for three days, until she finally swings by Duke's place to coordinate plans for the start of senior year, and fucks her in her walk in closet with hand pressed over her mouth because Duke's parents are in the next room over.
But the start of senior year changes everything, because the start of senior year is when they meet Veronica Sawyer.
The whole thing infuriates Duke immediately. Veronica dresses like shit, she's not any thinner than Duke is, her boobs are smaller, and she's not even really that pretty. None of which changes the fact that Heather is obsessed with her from day one.
Heather goes the whole first week of senior year without even making a pass at Duke. It's the longest they've gone without having sex since they started. Duke even goes out with Ram to work her frustrations out, but as much as she hates to admit it, he just doesn't get the job done like Heather does.
Partway through the second week, she's finally pent up enough to try to initiate. Shit, she's never had to before. Heather always makes the first move. Sure, sometimes Duke does a little work to bait her. She knows what Heather likes to gawk at, and she knows the kind of fights that end with Heather mouthing at her neck and groping at her tits, and she knows how to pick a fight with Heather better than anything.
But that only works when she can get Heather alone, when the heat of the moment allows them to come together, all teeth and claws, until they're bloodied and exhausted and licking each other's wounds.
So she strolls up to Heather, eyes dark and voice low and full of implication. And Heather gets it. Heather's a million shitty things, but she's not stupid. But she just says she can't tonight and doesn't even bother with why.
The next day Veronica has a new skirt, and when Mac compliments it, Veronica grins that dorky grin and says that Heather insisted on taking her shopping. Heather drawls about how she clearly didn't know how to show off her best attributes, and Veronica blushes, half awkward and half flattered. She says some cornball shit about how actually, her best attributes aren't part of her body, thanks, and Heather rolls her eyes and fucking smiles about it. Barf.
It's a brand new way for Heather to torture her, Duke thinks. Dodging her to waste time with Veronica and then rubbing Duke's face in it. Except that at no point does Heather look at her, not to rub it in, not even to confirm that she's actually fucking miserable. So she's not even trying to torture Duke. She's just not thinking about her at all.
Heather is fucking delusional if she thinks anything is going to happen, though. Sure, Veronica likes her praise. Who doesn't? But she doesn't like Heather. Duke wonders if Heather is just willfully blind to it, because it's obvious to anyone that Veronica is just using them to get out of loser status. She thinks she's too good for them, definitely thinks she's too good for Heather. Which doesn't stop Heather from doing everything short of ripping off her panties and leaping at her pussy first.
It makes Duke sick.
She calls Heather most nights. It's not like she's fishing for a hook up, although she is ready to go if Heather wants to. But they used to talk on the phone all the time, even before they started fucking. Now she's always either out or the line is busy, and Duke burns with the knowledge of who she's on the phone with.
More and more of her time is spent lingering with Mac, listening to whatever inane shit Mac is talking about while she watches Heather with Veronica. Precious virgin baby Veronica doesn't even notice all the ways she's leading Heather on, all the ways she's inviting the calamity that is Heather Chandler's affection. Duke watches them whisper and laugh as they move from table to table for the lunchtime poll. She watches Heather's lips curl as she fixes Veronica's hair, and Veronica's eyes follow Heather's fingertips. She watches them steal glances at each other when they think the other isn't looking. Duke's sure that it's just Veronica being starstruck, awed by being allowed to fuck with the eagles. But of course Heather takes it all as flirtation.
Duke knows first hand that for Heather flirting and torturing are synonymous, so she watches in anticipation of the moment when Heather really goes for Veronica's blood. She watches and she waits. And she waits. And she waits.
She's still fucking waiting when, after AP English lit, Veronica makes a point to leave with Duke, even though Duke knows her next class is in the opposite direction. "Hey, Heather," she says, a little of her nerves showing in her voice. "Can I ask you something?"
Duke just answers with a raised brow and an irritated glare.
"D'you think… I remember you and Martha used to be friends back in kindergarten," she starts, and for a second Duke thinks she's going to have to destroy her, like Veronica's angling to blackmail her into something. But Veronica's too wide eyed and innocent for that, too fucking stupid to use what she's got, so she lets her go on. "Heather's been helping me a lot, and I was thinking, do you think she'd be willing to help Martha if I asked her? It makes me feel kinda shitty, leaving her alone like this."
I think Heather would give you a kidney if she thought it'd make you fuck her, is Duke's first thought. And yeah, right now Heather's so pathetically horned up for Veronica that if she thought a little mercy for Martha Dunnstock would seal the deal, she'd probably do it. The shy way Veronica's looking away, half smiling as she daydreams about Heather being her white knight, finally makes Duke wonder if maybe it really would seal the deal, and now she's definitely gonna barf.
"I've tried to get her to chill on Martha before," she lies. "But maybe things are different now, I don't know. Let me talk to her and I'll see?"
And Veronica, the dumb bitch, grins. "Thanks, Heather."
Obviously, she's not going to let that happen. She's not going to let Heather go soft, for one thing, and certainly not so that she can screw some greasy goody-goody who's too naive to know when she's showing Duke her throat. So she goes home and she digs through some old photo albums until she finds what she's looking for. And then she goes to Heather's.
When Heather opens the door, she greets Duke with a roll of her eyes. "Clingy isn't a hot look on you, Heather," she says in lieu of a greeting.
"Jesus, get over yourself," Duke says. She holds an envelope up. "I come bearing gifts."
Heather's eyes flick to the envelope and then she reaches to snatch it out of Duke's hands, but Duke pulls it away. "At least invite me in, or did you lose your manners in the Veronica lobotomy?"
There's a moment of consideration, Heather's eyes gliding up and down Duke's body, and Duke wonders if she really will just slam the door in her face. "Guess green truly is your colour," she drawls, and turns to walk away, leaving the door open.
Duke lets the comment hang, more relieved than she'd like to admit to be back in Heather's house without anyone else around. It's familiar ground, and her body responds to it immediately. Her eyes fall to Heather's hips, watching her skirt sway as she walks. Anticipation sets Duke's teeth on edge.
It builds even worse when they get into Heather's room. Heather heads over to her bed and sits on the edge, leaning back and eying Duke languidly. It makes Duke want to go mount her, only Heather's just barely tolerating her presence, and she's not risking rejection right now.
It's instinctive, the way she scans the room. There's no reason to do it, except that it's been weeks since she's been here, and she wants proof that nothing's really changed, that it's the same as ever.
But it's not. The changes are small, but Duke knows this room so well, knows Heather so well, that they're obvious. There's a new stack of books on her night stand, deep, pretentious shit that she knows Heather's always had a weakness for but that she used to at least go to the effort of hiding. There's a heap of clothes on her arm chair, rumpled and picked through obsessively. Oh, Christ. There's a strip of photo booth photos of her and Veronica tucked into the frame of her vanity mirror.
"Well?" Heather prompts, cutting through her distraction.
Duke walks over to her and offers the envelope. "Just thought you might be interested in this, given your current obsession."
With a little quirk of her eyebrow, Heather opens the envelope.
Whatever else is true, whatever parts of Heather there are that Duke can't touch or understand, she'll always have this: she understands the monster. She knows the worst part of Heather like nobody else ever will. That part of Heather will always be Duke's. It was Duke she cut its teeth on, after all.
So she knows that Heather sees Martha as a threat, as the last real tie Veronica has to her pre-Heathers life. It'll never occur to her that Veronica can be both, can be her old self and a Heather, so she'll never feel secure in having Veronica until any chance of her going back is gone. And since Heather sees everyone as subordinates and possessions, when she sees the opportunity, her instinct is going to be to put Veronica through some fucked up loyalty test. All Duke has to do is give her the ammo.
All of this is obvious to Duke, so when Heather pulls those kindergarten photos of Martha and Ram out of the envelope, when she sees them holding hands and smiling at each other, she knows what Heather will see. She'll see her chance to force Veronica to destroy her old life, to force her to choose Heather once and for all.
And if Veronica is the person Duke thinks she is, that's the one thing that will guarantee that Veronica doesn't choose Heather.
Heather's eyes linger on the photos, taking a second to process what she's seeing. Then, inevitably, the cruel grin emerges. "My my, Rammie, what a torrid love life you've had." She laughs. "How very."
"See?" Duke says, hands on her hips. "Gifts."
The photos fall back into the envelope, and Heather leans back to tuck it between her alarm clock and her lamp on the bedside table. The reach extends her body, legs looking endless, and her light sweater riding up just enough to show a little of her midriff. The skin feels like a long overdue invitation.
The second the envelope is safely tucked away, though, Heather gives her a little wave with her fingertips. "You can go, now."
Duke scoffs in disbelief. "That's it?"
"Well, shit, Heather, what do you want? A finder's fee?" Heather hops to her feet and walks over to her dresser. "Give me a second, pretty sure I've got a twenty in my sock drawer."
Rejection is a familiar sting for Duke, especially coming from Heather. For as long as they've known each other, Heather has always carved strips of rejection into her and then demanded gratitude for salving the wounds. This is different, though. Those wounds were always deliberate, always inflicted because as long as she was hurting Duke, she had Duke's full attention. If Duke is really honest with herself, that was the reason that she endured it. It was what kept them entangled. Heather, watching Duke so she could know where to hurt. Duke, watching Heather so she could brace for the cut.
But this isn't Heather's malice, cruel and laser focused. This is apathy. She doesn't want to hurt Duke, she just doesn't care if she does. And to Duke's surprise, after all this time she learns that Heather still has brand new ways to hurt her.
"She's never gonna fuck you, you know." The words leap out of her, unbidden.
There's the briefest pause in Heather's rifling through her drawer. Then she just turns back, the bill pressed between two fingers like a cigarette. "Thanks for your input, Heather."
Jesus, she could at least have the decency to deny it.
"Wow, you really are fucking obsessed with her, aren't you?" She shakes her head in disbelief. "I mean I guess I knew you were a hardcore homo, but you're ready to start writing sonnets for this bitch."
Heather steps closer. "Is there a point to your little tirade? I like her. I admit it. You're boring me again."
"Well, then I hope you like pining, because like I said, it's not going to happen. She's a big fucking pussy, she flinches every time you tell me to shut up and she doesn't even like me. She's watched you strut around being a bitch for weeks, and by now you've blown any shot you ever had with her."
Cherry lips press into a thin line, and Heather's face is impassive for a moment. "I guess we'll see," she says, finally.
"We'll see?" Duke laughs in her face, loud and bitter. "If she even puts up with you long enough for you to make a pass, she'll just reject you. She'll probably go blabbing to everyone about it, too, and the whole school will know that you're a fucking dyke. The demon queen of Westerburg, ruined by her insatiable thirst for Veronica Sawyer's virgin snatch."
"Wow, Heather, this is quite the performance," Heather sneers. "It's so refreshing to see you really care." Duke opens her mouth to retort, but Heather cuts it off with a step forward. "The jealousy's a bit much, though, don't you think? After all, we were both just killing time until something better came along. Seems like you're just mad that I found a girl before you found your mythical guy who can get you off."
"God, get it through your skull! You haven't found shit, Heather."
"Then why are you so mad?" Heather's looming over her now, staring down into her eyes with cold contempt. "If Veronica's never going to want me back, if I'm so deluded, shouldn't you be happy? You just have to wait for her to shoot me down and then I'll come work my feelings out knuckle deep in your pussy."
But if the goal was intimidation, then Heather's play is backfiring, because all the proximity does is stoke the weeks of pent up lust in Duke's body. Her voice is thick with it when she says, "Maybe I'm just tired of waiting for you to figure it out."
Heather's eyes dart to Duke's lips for a moment, and Duke knows that this is the moment when Heather grabs her, when she throws her down on the bed and takes. But not this time. This time she says, "Well get used to it, Heather. I'd still rather pine over her than fuck you."
She turns to stride away, and Duke feels her rage boil, bursting out of whatever she'd had it bottled up inside of. Her hand snaps forward, grabs a fistful of Heather's hair and yanks.
A yelp of pain echoes through the room, and then a soft thud as Heather's back slams into Duke's chest. She keeps the fist in her hair and reaches around her, sliding up under her sweater to cup one of her tits. "Stop acting so fucking stuck up," she pants in her ear, wrestling her toward the bed.
"Fuck off, Heather," Heather snarls as Duke presses her down. She cranes her neck, breath coming hard and fast as Duke tugs her hair again. "You had your fucking chance, I'm —uhn!— bored of your shit."
Duke yanks that sweater up over her tits, probably stretching the weave, and then the bra after. There's no time to get it all the way off, she just moves her hand back to Heather's breasts, cupping and squeezing. "Oh, are you bored now?" She bites down on her neck, almost hard enough to break the skin, and Heather lets out a low whine. "Then tell me to stop."
Heather grunts with exertion as she forces herself up onto her elbows. Her head's still hung low, though, pressed against the bed, face cloaked in waves of blonde. She writhes and squirms like she's trying to get out of Duke's grasp, crawling further onto the bed and dragging Duke with her until Duke's on her knees on the mattress. So finally, she lets her loose. Another whine slips out of Heather as Duke releases the tangle of hair and plants her fist next to Heather's head. All the while, her fingers keep thumbing and teasing Heather's stiff nipple, and she bites and tongues at the skin of her neck, and she waits to hear Heather's voice. But Heather doesn't move away, and Heather never says stop.
Three weeks of nothing already had Duke worked up, but it's having Heather like this that's drawing every filthy impulse out of her. She's almost dripping already, she knows, and she hasn't even been touched. Her weight presses down as Heather keeps her head down in the covers, and Duke's hand moves from her chest to her skirt, pulling it as far up as it will go. She yanks Heather's panties down next. It stretches them out between her thighs almost to the point of ripping, but Heather keeps her legs spread, and Duke shoves her hand between them. "Fuck, Heather," she rasps against her ear. "If you're so bored, why are you soaked to your fucking knees?"
Heather groans in response, and even if she won't answer with words, her hips roll forward against Duke's hand, eager for her touch. Wetness coats her fingertips, and she rubs in rough, fast circles against Heather's clit. Heather inhales sharply as soon as she touches her, tenses under her fingers. Then the air comes out in a broken moan. And fuck, that sound reverberates through Duke, making her ache to take more, and she satisfies the urge by curling two fingers into Heather.
In months of fucking, she's never had Heather like this before, gasping and speechless and dripping off her knuckles. It's an unbelievable rush of power, and Duke knows she's never been so horny in her entire life. She takes her hand off the mattress so she can have both hands on her pussy, one thrusting and twisting and scissoring her fingers inside, the other working her clit so hard she knows it'll be raw when they're done. Heather's body is shaking, her arms straining to support both her weight and Duke's on top of her. Duke just lets her struggle.
Soon, the shaking isn't just from the effort. Heather's not immune to how long it's been since they've fucked, either, and Duke can tell her body is desperate for the release. Her moans are loud and wanton, barely muffled by the covers, and her hips rock back against every touch. Then Duke can feel the orgasm rock through her, feel the walls of her pussy quiver desperately around Duke's fingers.
Heather gasps loudly as the climax hits her and lets out a broken, pornographic moan. "Fuck!" she pants, "So good, fuck yes, fuck me, Veronica!"
The words slap Duke just like Heather obviously knows they will, and she jerks back instantly, shoving her away.
Peals of cruel, mocking laughter mix with Heather's post-orgasmic gasps for breath. She falls against the covers, sweaty, dishevelled, and spent, but her eyes are focused on Duke through the hair tangled over her face. "Oh, that was perfect, Heather," she purrs. "From behind, too, so I could really live the fantasy."
"You're a fucking psycho," Duke spits, still catching her own breath. "Like, holy shit, there's something broken in you, Heather."
Heather just grins bigger at that. "Oh, Heather. After that little performance, let's not pretend you're any better."
Shame and humiliation well up, mixing with the arousal that was already making Duke's body hot. It's a cocktail of emotions that just feels like Heather. Right now she hates it more than anything. She turns to leave.
"Heather."
The voice stops her. It's not the mocking drawl anymore, it's her commanding tone, and somehow that still means something. "You're not seriously going to leave without getting yours after all that, are you?"
She looks back at Heather in disbelief.
But Heather's sitting up now, still grinning. She runs a hand over her face, brushing her hair out of the way and then fixes her gaze on Duke. "You can go home and try to get yourself off if you really want, but you're not gonna do it. You're going to spend the whole time that you're fucking yourself over there thinking about me, knowing that I'm fucking myself over here thinking about her." She shrugs, letting her smile shift to something almost conciliatory. "Why not just skip the middle man and let me fuck you while thinking of her? I'll even be nice and stick to pet names so you can pretend it's you I want."
It's a ridiculous, insulting offer, and if Duke had any dignity at all, she wouldn't even consider it. But she can feel her soaked panties clinging to her, and she can still smell Heather on her fingers, and she's aware of how much her desire for Heather has turned into a need since they started all this. So she turns back and glares. "Just shut up, Heather," she says as she unbuttons her blouse.
Heather lives until she doesn't.
It ends the night of Ram's party. At first, Heather seems completely above it. Sure, she screams at Veronica, but as soon as she's gone Heather's back on the keg, laughing and mingling and floating like she does. It pisses Duke off something fierce, the way Heather can be so fucking obsessed with Veronica for weeks and then not even give a shit when she loses her. Clearly nothing matters to Heather. Certainly, if she cares so little about losing Veronica, she must care even less about Duke.
But an hour or so later Heather goes missing, and Duke is instantly sure that the mask is slipping. She thinks about going to find her right away, to dig her dirty fingertips into the open wound while it's most fresh. That would suit Heather fine, though. Fighting is cathartic for Heather, it gives her a sense of purpose. So she lets Heather stew in it. She knows Heather will be hurting herself worse than Duke ever could.
Eventually, though, she can't deny herself the chance to gloat anymore, so she goes looking.
It's the smell that gives her away, the scent of burnt leather wafting out from one of the upstairs bathrooms. Duke cracks the door and she sees the reason in the sink: an empty vodka bottle and the charred remains of Heather's vom-covered shoes. There's a candle on the back of the toilet casting long shadows as it flickers and dances, the only light source in the room. If it's scented at all it's being completely overpowered by the stench of cigarette smoke and flambéed Versace heels.
There's Heather, lying in the tub, feet crossed on the lip, toenails ruby red. A cigarette hangs loose in her mouth, half ash, and butts are scattered around her in the tub. A few fresh scorch marks marr her dress from where she's gotten careless with the embers, though it hardly seems like she's noticed. She's focused on her scrunchie, pulling it taught and then shooting it in the air and catching it.
The next time she launches it, Duke snatches it out of the air, smirking coldly down at Heather.
But as dishevelled as Heather looks, despite the tear tracks on her cheeks and the tangle of her hair, she grins when she sees Duke above her. "About time you got here." She clutches the side of the tub and pulls herself up, standing with just a little wobble. Tipsy, yeah, but far more sober than Duke expected. She steps out of the tub and flicks her cigarette into the toilet. Then her hands move to Duke's hips and her eyes dart to Duke's lips as she murmurs a soft, "C'mere."
Duke shoves her away and scoffs. "You think I'm here to be a rebound fuck for you? Did Veronica get half your braincells in the divorce?"
Heather scowls at that, but even then she doesn't bite back. That's how Duke knows she's a wreck. "Come on, don't be a bitch," she says, her tone gentle. "Not right now, okay?"
All of Duke's frustration and contempt comes out in her laugh, cold and mocking, and she watches Heather feel it, watches her struggle to get her walls back up. "God, how did I never see before how fucking pathetic you are? You're just a needy little dyke, aren't you, Heather?"
There's a flinch that Heather can't hide. A little pain flickers in her eyes. It's the deepest cut that Duke has ever scored, and it feels amazing, she feels like a fucking dragon slayer. "You want me to need you," she says, too soft to work as a dig. It's like she's trying to bargain, offering her need in exchange for Duke's mercy.
Which is insane, because Duke is so far past mercy.
She's still laughing, shaking her head at Heather's sad attempt at patching things over. "Oh, this is rich. God. It's so very." She steps forward, glaring at Heather, eyes blazing with hate. "You've spent your whole life getting everything by being a raging cunt. And you didn't even want it. And now that there's something you actually really want, you can't have it because you're a raging cunt. It's like fucking poetry, Heather."
Heather's expression finally hardens. The pain's still there, still written across every little muscle in her face, but she's past deluding herself into thinking Duke is going to feel bad for her. So she falls back into old habits, ordering Duke around like she still has any authority left to stand on. "Shut up, Heather," she snaps. "Just fuck me, already, will you? That's the one thing you're good for."
"Fuck yourself, why don't you?" Duke spits back. "Just go sob and ride your shower nozzle like the sad fucking lesbo that you are."
There's a second of silence, of Heather staring like she doesn't understand the girl in front of her. But then she finally manages a plastic smile, stepping closer to Duke again. "Fine," she says. "Enjoy this while it lasts, Heather. You'll be back in my bed by the end of the week. Know why? Because you've been in love with me for years, whereas I forgot you existed the second I met her."
Then she snatches the scrunchie back and storms past Duke, sliding it back into her hair as she leaves.
Bile fills Duke's stomach, and she wants to call after her to tell her how wrong she is, but the words get stuck. The idea that she could ever love Heather —that anyone could ever love Heather— is fucking ridiculous. It's classic Heather, all ego and self-delusion. But the words just don't come out.
It's also classic Heather how she managed to ruin even Duke's gloating. Her mood is fucked beyond saving, and even though she knows she came out of that fight with everything she wanted, she still feels like she lost.
But Heather must feel like she lost, too, because she goes home, writes some bullshit suicide note, and drinks drain cleaner.
Duke doesn't feel anything for days.
She doesn't feel victorious, even though after years of Heather and her trying to rip each other into tiny pieces, it's Duke who's the last one standing.
She doesn't feel relieved, even though she's increasingly sure that Heather was right, that if she'd lived, Duke would have gone right back to being her consolation prize, something to fuck while closing her eyes and thinking of Veronica.
She doesn't feel grieved, even though she finds herself looking for Heather all the time, even though she still hears her words in her mind on that same fucking loop.
The numbness feels like Heather's final insult. After spending her whole life making Duke feel alternatingly blissful and miserable, the last thing she takes away is Duke's ability to feel anything at all.
It lasts until the funeral, when she sits in the pew and she looks at Heather's casket and she tries so hard to feel something, triumph over her enemy or agony over her lover, because even pain would be so much better than the yawning expanse of nothing that's inside her. And then it happens.
She glances back to near the back of the chapel, to where Veronica is sitting with her creepy little boyfriend. He's grinning ear to ear, like a kid on fucking Christmas morning, and he's whispering to Veronica. And Veronica has to stop herself from giggling at whatever he says.
Heather Chandler has certainly never seemed more pathetic than this. She killed herself over that girl, and now that girl is sitting at Heather's funeral trying not to laugh.
And finally, Duke gets exactly one feeling back.
She gets hate.
She hates Veronica Sawyer so fucking much for never deserving Heather's attention, for ruining the last weeks that Duke got with Heather, for being the reason she won't get any more. She hates the way she acted like she was above them, like she understood the first fucking thing about what it took to get where they were. Heather handed her popularity on a silver platter without Veronica ever having to pay the price, and Veronica just acted like she was too good to pay the upkeep. And she especially hates the way that, as soon as Jason Dean looks away, Veronica's face falls into a wounded, distant stare.
It's a sick fucking joke that Veronica can grieve and Duke can't.
Whatever. Hate is enough for Duke.
She hates all of them. She hates Ram and Kurt for grieving only as far as now they'll never get to fuck Heather, like they were ever going to get to fuck Heather. She hates Fleming for waving around Heather's suicide note like it isn't obvious bullshit, like it has anything to do with who Heather was. She hates Mac for acting like she lost anything like what Duke lost, for being so fucking stupid that she can't see that Duke and Heather meant more to each other than Mac ever could.
She hates Heather for doing this.
She hates herself for not being enough reason for Heather not to do this.
Hate fills her to bursting, fills the wound that Heather left behind, and she knows with absolute certainty that she'll never be whole without it again. The hate is all that remains of Heather, and she loves it the way she couldn't love her. It will stay with her, the hate. It won't turn on her, won't turn happy words to bitter ones, won't make her doubt it or feel desperate to earn it. It's a gift, the only true gift that Heather ever gave her, a treasure that Duke will keep in her heart.
And as she looks around at the students of Westerburg, listens to them chatter their bullshit opinions about who they imagined Heather to be, she really does feel whole again.
She knows the hate is all she needs.