His skin is softer than she expected.
This is the first thing that Heather thinks as her mouth slides across his skin. It's softer than she expected.
After everything that happened, she expected…
She had expected a lot of things.
Her dark hair is pulled out of her face with a scrunchie like Heather Chandler's. She wants to believe that it makes her more like Heather, but it doesn't. Nothing could make her more like Heather. Heather is unattainable. She will always be second place.
No. Not second. Third.
She will always be third.
She thinks of Veronica the way that she imagines wood thinks of termites. She thinks of Veronica, and no matter how nice Veronica has been that day, she feels the desire to wring her scrawny little neck until her perfect little face turns as blue as her clothing.
Veronica, once they hit high school, managed to achieve everything Heather had always wanted, without even trying.
She even got Heather.
In her mind's eye, she sees them, Heather and Veronica laughing like old friends, as though they spent nursery school not with Martha Dumptruck but with each other. The very thought is infuriating; it would guarantee, once and for all, that Heather has failed not because of something she failed to do but simply because she is herself.
Heather refuses to believe that this is the case.
Heather cannot believe that Veronica is everything she isn't.
So as her lips glide over the tip of J.D's cock and slowly slide down, she can barely feel him pressing against the back of her throat. She's not thinking about him, not at all.
She's thinking about Veronica and Heather whispering stories at slumber parties in light cotton nightgowns and doing some good old experimenting.
She's thinking of Veronica's hands over Heather's perfect breasts, Veronica's lips pressed against Heather's flawless visage. Veronica is smiling, as though she is satisfied- and Heather realizes she doesn’t want to know what kind of satisfied Veronica is.
J.D. comes, and she feels it, theoretically, but she barely notices it as he removes himself from her mouth and tugs his boxers up her waist.
He lowers himself until his fingers are just the right height to fit into her.
It's not J.D. It's not J.D. It's not J.D.
In her mind, it's Heather, her perfect red nails prickling inside her and making her cry out in pleasure- pain- pleasure- which is it? She doesn't know, but it's certainly there.
Not J.D. Not J.D. Not J.D.
"Come on, Heather," she can almost hear Heather whispering. "Come on, do it. Do it. You're mine."
And she does.
JD looks startled. Why wouldn't he? He wasn't doing anything spectacular. He's honestly not that great.
It wasn't him.
But he belongs to Veronica. Finally, Heather's taking something back.
And somehow, that makes it all worth it.