Red
She's queen everywhere. At school, at home...
You have to love Heather if you want to be anyone.
She hates the frat boys, but they're a necessary evil. She goes down on them, but she never likes it.
She'll take it out on you later.
When you're in Heather's shadow, it's kill or be killed, fuck or be fucked. And if you're chosen, as much as you might hate her for it sometimes, you revel in it. Because as bad as she can be, you know that you're the one she chose.
She can be merciless when she wants to be. Her cruelty is legendary in the hallowed halls of Westerburg, but they don't know the half of it. You can go down on her for hours, until your jaw is sore and your knees are bruised, and when she cries out, over and over, it's never your name she'll yell. She'll play dominatrix, the role she was born to play, and your skin will bruise and blister but she won't give you permission to come.
But she needs you.
She'll never show it, never acknowledge it. The Heather Chandler who shudders in pleasure at your touch is not the same girl in the cafeteria the next day. Every orgasm seems to make her bitchiness increase exponentialy, as if giving you the cold shoulder will somehow make everyone else believe that she's all about the cock.
That's when you focus on the idea that pain is pleasure, pleasure pain. It's all you can do.
Still, she can't deny it at night, as her legs wrap around your neck and she's urging you to go faster. You can still feel the bruises her heels dug into your back. You can remember how good her need felt- not just need for sex, you know, but need for you.
At those moments, suddenly, you know you're in control.
In school, at home, even in the croquet matches, she's red, and she's unstoppable.
But stop means nothing when it's constant. She needs things to be in direct opposition to be in control. She is the dependent variable in the equation of your life.
Stop is defined by go.
Red exists only through its contrast with green.
And she has to rely on you.