Literary figures. Playbills. Underground bands, Wrestlemania, art and more smothered Helga's bedroom walls in unframed prints and posters, just like the last time he'd been there.
Last time.
The seconds it took to step across the threshold and into her private space as an undeserving, private guest, stretched unreasonably. He failed to curb his gaze from darting across her room, each familiar detail jarring him like prickled barbs as he passed over them.
Busted ballet slippers. Ancient roller blades. An old baseball mitt.
Sun-faded needlepoint.
The flinch brought from the sound of her bedroom door shutting behind him sprung his eyes, irresistibly, toward the other door standing on his left.
The closet.
Arnold swallowed.
"Helga…I—"
He knocked back as she pushed him up against her door and cut him off with a rough kiss. He couldn't help his soft gasp when her fingers seized a grip in his hair, his own movements meeting the wet smack of her lips against his weakly; stunned. Reeling.
Not…okay.
Not enough.
…No, he thought, on the brink of recoiling as she devoured him in that small, airless space between her and the door.
It was—everything, was—too much.
Her passion. His entrapment. His feelings for her, against himself, over everything, and—
He was suffocating. He.
He had to breathe.
He, had—
"Arnold—! What?"
Nearly startled by the blue of her eyes as he caught his breath, Arnold stalled, hands on her shoulders. He hadn't even meant to push her back.
"Sorry, I—" he started and stopped awkwardly, spacing on how to reply.
And, shit, that stare of hers, demanding an explanation, wasn't helping.
"I, I just want—to…"
Oh, no, he thought, stomach dropping as that impatient confusion of hers morphed into something so much worse, into something like doubt.
Or distrust…
No! Get it together, he schooled himself. You can't let her think you're rejecting her. Just… forget it, forget all that other stuff.
Just… focus on her instead…
Arnold gave a self-deprecating scoff that he hoped sounded disarmingly good-humored, and let his softening gaze sink into hers.
A smile slowly spread across his face as he reduced his world down to just her, his feelings swelling warmly in his chest the longer he looked into her eyes.
"Sorry," he murmured again, sweeping his fingers up from Helga's shoulders and into her hair. "Let…"
…God, the way her features started to lax, eyes widening in that mollified look of hers that was almost vulnerable, as his other hand slid around her, guiding her back to him again; close.
"Let me kiss you..."
Helga blinked, and when her lips parted with the rise of an unmistakable blush, he enveloped her fully in his arms, and went in.
And, for the first time ever, kissed her slow.
…But, like any lip-lock that spellbound, its languid pace wasn't the only thing that set it apart. And, achingly soft movements growing firm and heartfelt when he secured his hand around her waist, Helga's knees buckled her shorter than him in a dead-to-rights swoon, and there was no question that she felt it, too.
That flow.
His hold grew more effusive, deeper, like he could cocoon them in their own little world. Tilting up her chin when she started to pant, he let his mouth melt tenderly over hers in a sigh, and for a drifting spell everything that plagued him dissolved, along with the rest of the world that lay outside.
…I am so in love with you…
But, just how all blissful escapes could seem to go on forever, their true, short-lived nature made no exceptions.
Shoved back against the door, Arnold's snap-back to reality was shivery and harsh; torn from her warmth as her eyes thinned at him, damp and stormy with betrayal.
"Don't—kiss me, like I'm one of your fucking girlfriends," she warned with a shaky vehemence. "Don't even pretend."
Arnold was no stranger to Helga's pushbacks. He had a history of handling them pretty well, in fact. Or, well enough, if she didn't spike his temper.
But, this wasn't one of those times.
And, faltering on the spot, he had to turn away from her to compose himself.
He struggled to straighten his breathing as he leaned against the door, and couldn't believe how much the sharp edges of her words kept twisting in his gut as the moment dragged.
"...Arnold?" she eventually ventured, in a tone he couldn't begin to read.
"Did it ever—"
He bit his lip, sterning himself.
Don't.
"Sorry," he said instead, turning toward her again with a half-handed gesture, gaze averted. "Forget it, I just… thought you'd like it."
A stiff pause followed.
"Well," Helga groused under her breath, crossing her arms, "if I'm gonna just piss you off…"
Arnold winced.
"You aren't pissing me off," he dropped his hands, pleadingly. "I just don't want to do anything you don't like. And I'm sorry, I'm not trying to—"
What?
Not make her fall for you?
Not make her forget about that other guy?
Have her find out how you really feel, where it all just somehow works out in the end?
Don't lie any more than you already have to.
"...Make you uncomfortable," he said instead, and hoped he didn't look self-conscious. "I'll try to dial it down, but, I'm just—" A romantic.
And in love with you.
"I'm like that, and—I want you, and I just… I do things how I know."
Though a part of him itched to correct and relent to the fact that he'd never been so reckless, hungry or self-debasing for a girl, he cut the chase and the point to himself.
He'd always done everything with heart.
"...I hope that that's okay," he added, quietly.
Arnold met her eyes as he waited.
Though difficult to read, particularly when she wanted to be, he felt some relief as she slowly seemed to come around, reconsidering. Helga stepped forward, enclosing him against the door once more.
"Then we'll do it my way," she murmured.
Then sucked such a soft bite around his bottom lip that his stomach fluttered hot with butterflies.
"Get on the bed."
Arnold grew so hard and weak-kneed he leaned against the door for support, going lightheaded.
"...Yes, ma'am."
He'd drifted for only half a moment, eyes shut, when he felt her tug the collar of his shirt. Even if his legs were working properly, he doubted she'd have any trouble pushing him across the floor and onto her mattress.
I'm on her bed—fuck, rushed the thought, heating up so fast he might've steamed. And when the image of the last time he'd seen her bed came to mind, when he saw that soiled toy that he'd wanted against all decency to bend over and taste, that steaming heat burned him up in a panting sweat.
"Fuck," he gusted under his breath, bracing his weight back on his hands as her knee lifted over the mattress and slid, with slow deliberation, against the length of his outer thigh, half-mounting him. A warm shadow cast across Helga's features as she loomed above, her gaze smoky and hungry as it fixed on his.
Arnold shivered, pinned; and Helga hadn't even straddled him.
He shuddered at the controlled, unhurried way she tilted his head back and descended, meeting his lips. But he was more shaken from the feeling of it. Not just from her dominance, but there was something about her hold on him softening in a considered way that he could almost mistake as tenderness, if he didn't know any better.
But…
God, he had to pant just to breathe.
He twisted his fingers in the comforter, reeling beneath her. Arnold didn't know how, but being kissed like this felt… dangerous, somehow?In a way that didn't in the times that she'd been rougher. How could he feel so… taken over, when she was being so gentle?
He felt… powerless in a way that made it all the more exciting, but frightening—and confusing, when… when he felt almost cared for…
But she can't, because she doesn't care about you.
His heart raced despite its wrenching ache, unable to help his own swoon as she pressed their chests flush and slid her tongue against his. And, God, he wanted to melt into the kiss but also jump out of his own skin, or touch himself, or her, or do something—
Don't, he caught himself. Let her lead, do this her way.
But, when one of her hands released his hair and smoothed over his throat, then between their chests, and down, he broke the kiss with an involuntary lurch.
"Sorry!" Arnold gasped, "I—"
What the hell?
What is wrong with you?
"I—" he gulped, and was thankful he didn't have to reach far for an excuse. "I need to use the bathroom, if you're—I mean," he stammered, and hoped despite his overwhelm that he sounded apologetic as he winced away from the look of her startled, disgruntled scrutiny. "I should… freshen up, from earlier… my pants…"
As excruciatingly lame as that sounded, there was a logic to it that neither of them could dispute. And he capitalized on that, inching out of her hold as she relented with reluctant annoyance. Arnold felt his gaze tugged to her frown, the dubious, troubled crinkle of her brow despite the reason of his words, and tripped on his bag on his back-step toward the door. He cleared his throat and grabbed the half-empty water bottle that had fallen out onto the floor; waving it at her as he felt for the door knob.
"Um, might as well uh, hydrate, too, while I'm at it…"
"...Oh-kaay…?" she finally replied, arms crossing.
"R-right," he answered, trying to ignore the Raggedy Anne doll hanging on her door as he opened it. Or the hallway window facing him when he crossed the threshold, that had silhouetted her nude figure the last time he visited.
Correction: trespassed.
Fuck.
Arnold locked the bathroom door behind him, turned on the faucet, and just let it run, its noise filling the space as he stood in front of the sink, face buried in his hands.
…What the hell was that?
You go down on her, twice, you guys dry hump, she wants more, and brings you back to her place—and now you're suddenly not ready for her to grab your dick?
Well you really should freshen up if you're gonna—
"Oh, come on," he hissed under his breath and the sound of the running faucet, "that's not fucking why…"
He sighed; he couldn't… figure all that out, just then.
Still, though. He'd had a point, and he really should freshen up.
Arnold unlooped his flannel, unzipped, and cringed, acutely aware of the unpleasantly stiff, starchy sensations that he could no longer ignore when he peeled down his spent jeans and boxer briefs. Okay, yeah.
Definitely should.
Arnold stalled, hesitating in self-debate as he considered, then fretted, over the embarrassing logistics required in freshening up. Shower? No permission: therefore weird. Was her sink low enough…? No, dammit. Washcloth…? That would work.
He adjusted the temp, grabbed one off the rack, and held it under the water, cringing at the mocking tone of his inner voice as he soaped the fabric.
Hey, Helga! Is it cool if I wipe my dirty dick down with one of your face towels?
Arnold grumbled with self-disgust and did his best to clean up, anyway, as a counter-thought crept in unhelpfully:
Well, it wouldn't be the worst thing of her's you've gotten cum on.
Arnold swore at his own reflection.
The rest of his thoughts were difficult to sort as he dried himself off with another washcloth (because he hadn't thought ahead and now needed two, dammit.) Like… Why was he so freaked out? It's not like he didn't want this.
Because you're in her house again, obviously, and—
But, no. That's not what set him off this time. He… he'd liked it, true, but. He'd been anxious… uncomfortable…
No, not uncomfortable, he corrected himself, and felt a light tremble wash up his back…
Vulnerable.
…He'd never been kissed like that before. Or… lead like that—different from the coy, flirtatious tugs from his ex's, or Helga's pushy aggression; sexual or otherwise.
He cursed softly over the toilet when he realized he should've waited to wash up until after he'd relieved himself, and lobbed his thoughts back and forth.
It's not like he hadn't felt powerless around her before. Or submissive, for that matter. He'd made peace with that; doing what she wanted. Being used how she wanted. In a big chunk of his fantasies—hell, in his own proposal to her, it's what he wanted. It was all he could hope for, when the threat of humiliation no longer deterred him.
…But, to not only feel like he'd been made small by her, but also cared for like that, at the same time…
Arnold flushed and washed his hands—then himself,again. Drying off, he heaved a sigh of relief when he spotted a messy hamper; he wouldn't have to ask Helga where he could leave her cum-stained towels (Christ.) He redressed, rewashed his hands for good measure, and paused.
He looked at himself in the mirror, slightly disheveled. Cheeks ruddy.
His heart raced.
He rinsed his face and ran damp fingers through his hair to calm his cowlicks, then chugged the rest of his water. Then refilled the bottle, and chugged it again. He…
He couldn't afford to feel that way, and make this work. Because feeling like that, when she obviously didn't care, it didn't just make him feel vulnerable, it. It fucking hurt.
Too much.
Arnold smoothed out his clothes and denied the suspicion that he wasn't grooming to impress, but to try and put himself back together. He was fine. He'd be fine.
And he could be a toy for cruelty, but not false kindness.
But, if all his years knowing her taught him anything, it was that Helga could act nice one moment, and then turn mean again on a dime. And for once, it comforted him to know that.
However good her good side, at the end of the day, he could trust the mean one.
His eyes darkened on their reflection as he shut off the faucet. And knew that whatever the sweet, caring Helga had in store for that other guy, that asshole… that the mean, pushy, demanding version back in her bedroom was waiting for an encore.
And Arnold, licking his lips as he turned out of the bathroom and down the hall, was more than eager to push everything else away, and oblige.
…
It wasn't long before she sidestepped his attempted pleasantries and pushed him back on the bed.
She straddled him, fully, and this time her kiss was dominating and rough; punishing. He stewed under her, relieved and hungry. Oh, yeah.
That's more like it.
"Shit," he panted, and kissed her back, pushing up the floating tulle of her skirt as his hands climbed the smooth warmth of her thighs. Just as his fingers squeezed around them, with the craving that she'd slide up a few feet and straddle his face instead, she seized his wrists.
He gasped as she trapped them to the bed like shackles around his head, and pressed him into the mattress.
"Stay."
Arnold swallowed, unable to stop the roll of his hips under hers as he nodded. And when she let his wrists go and sat up straight on his lap, he knew better than to move.
Not that there was anywhere else he'd rather be, of course.
But, just as she bit her lip and rolled her hips back, dragging that delicious, weighted friction over the strained bulge in his jeans, fuck—the corner of his eye betrayed him.
And strayed to her closet.
For a moment he couldn't tear his gaze away, until the sound of her heavy breath brought him back. And of course, she was absolutely stunning, eyes shut and teeth bared in a kind of pleasured sneer as she rubbed herself on him, but he was only half-there.
His heart palpitated.
He wished she'd—she'd lean down again, so they could kiss and block everything else out. Or, better yet, wished she really would just sit on his face, so he couldn't focus on anything else…
"Please, I—" he croaked, pleasure caught in his throat as his hips rocked back involuntarily, "I wanna make you come again."
His heart leapt at the promising way she shivered, eyes flashing at his words, and stilled with bated breath as Helga slowed down to a deep, subtle grind; and breathed her reply like a promise.
"You will."
His head threw back, swooning in a flood of arousal at her words as he cursed in response.Yes, he thought, eyes clenching shut as memories between her thighs fogged him up in a much-desired, anticipatory haze. He wanted to eat her up until he couldn't even think.
Use me—again. Please.
He felt her hands smooth up his chest; heaving under her palms, ready for her to brace her weight and push forward and into his mouth, but instead, she…
She kept grinding, slowly, and breathed out his name in a foreign tone he couldn't place, but it fluttered his pulse.
"Do you have any idea how you look…?" she hissed softly. Again, in that same tone, as her hands swept over the form of his shoulders, his arms; then down again, like she was taking her time.
His thoughts scrambled for rationale.
…What?
Uh… pathetic? He answered mentally, taking stock of himself and what he could only suspect was an incoming bout of teasing—or torture—before she'd give him what he'd begged for.
Yeah, definitely pathetic…
But, there was no follow-up, other than the sensation of her hands slowly moving back down his chest and over his stomach. And then, she went completely still, and…
Began pushing up his shirt…
His eyes flashed open, watching the fabric bundle all the way up to his collar bones in bewilderment. What was—
He gasped at her face.
Arnold had openly marveled over every girl he'd ever been with. Didn't hide his awe over every new feature, every new inch of skin revealed that he'd never seen before—let alone touched. And, while he'd felt 'appreciated' before, approved of, physically, no one had ever done that back to him.
He stared, breathlessly, as Helga became the first and only girl who had.
His heart pounded—at that look of hers, at the way her breathing changed, growing shaken, heavier. At the feeling of her questing hands, touching fire into him, making him sweat and pant.
"Damn, Arnold," she huffed, eyes running him up and down. "You start moonlighting as a gym rat?"
He blinked in a kind of floating confusion, like his body couldn't decide whether to send blood to his cock or his brain, as it struggled to grasp what she'd said.
"W-what?"
Helga gave a light scoff in response, but kept her gaze locked on her hands as she traced the slopes of his pecs, modest abs clenching with definition as he trembled under the wanting, downward drag of her fingertips.
"You weren't packing like this in those swim trunks."
Arnold blushed. It's not like he was scrawny or anything before, but he had been working out a lot recently, to help deal with this… obsession of his…
He looked away with a light, sheepish smirk, blushing harder; he didn't even know what to say. She'd even noticed? He wasn't, like, big or chiseled, or anything…
The thrill from the revelation that she didn't just find him merely adequate, but actually found him worth hungering over, had him turning his face away in elation, in overwhelm…
And he stopped, staring.
In his carelessness, he gazed beyond the boundary of her bed and toward an art print she still had on display, a reproduction; one he'd stared at the last time he was there, when he'd snuck into her room.
A baroque, bloody painting of two women decapitating a man in his bed, framed against a wallpaper of faded hearts.
He swallowed.
A short gasp—then another, pitched higher, leapt from his throat as she explored the peaks of his nipples; and tweaked them.
Helga watched him squirm, and did it again, licking her lips.
"Like that?" she smirked.
His blush deepened; words failing. And when her smirk grew as she twisted, he faltered from that sharp, sensitized pleasure; feeling exposed and oddly weak beneath her.
Why would you care what I like?
You shouldn't...
Maybe she just got off on having this kind of effect on him… that she could unravel him with just a tease…
Like he was just a toy.
His hands clenched in their obedient captivity, and wished she'd just give it up and sit on his face already.
He wanted to taste her again, make her squirm, and not have to see or feel or think beyond anything other than her, so he wouldn't have to look at or notice anything else he tried not to—
—literary figures, playbills, underground bands, wrestlemania, art and more—
Helga balanced her weight on his chest and smoothed her other hand down his belly again. Then kept going, lower, and hesitated, making his breathing hard and heavy. And when she moved again, hand warm and palming over his bulge, he bucked involuntarily and moaned.
Then grimaced, both wanting to soak up and deny her attentions; her torture.
Because what else would it be?
"You—you don't have to—"
His protest broke in a wanting gasp when she felt the form of him, experimentally, and squeezed.
And when Helga's reply came, her words were nothing more than a breath bursting to freedom as it stole his.
"I want to..."
His jaw dropped in disbelief.
Desire was plain on her face, heady and undeniable—
"I wanna make you come…" she whispered heatedly, her admission scorching a whimper from the back of his throat.
Then left him gasping as she squeezed him again, harder, and tugged at the knot of flannel around his waist out of the way.
Holy—
Her fingers worked impatiently at the top button.
Oh my God—
She unzipped over his bulge, the fly of his jeans popping apart.
Helga—
All that separated his twitching cock from her bare hand was the pulled, starched fabric of his boxer briefs.
I—
In all the fantasies he'd had of her, no matter how angry or shamefully vindictive, the very prospect of what she was about to do had always remained untouched, unthinkable:
That she'd ever pleasure him for his own sake.
And as much as he wanted her, loved her, he just, he…
He bit his lip as her fingernails dragged through his curls, pulling down the elastic band, and the sight of her closet door was waiting for him when he tossed his head away in self-debate.
…He doesn't deserve it.
"Wait."
The air went still.
He'd grabbed her wrist.
And steeled himself against the fear of self-preservation as it seized in his chest, and the mounting peak of her impatience, on the verge of exploding—
"Listen—please," he started, not backing down from the flash in Helga's eyes. "I don't know what we are, okay? And, I don't have to know right now. I mean," his stomach flopped, heart pounding, "I hope we're… something."
Arnold blushed despite himself, from saying the words and from the way her angry brow softened perceptibly, eyes widening.
He cleared his throat and set his nerve.
"If we're gonna keep fooling around, there's… something that I can't… not tell you," his insides trembled. "That I need to."
And you do, the voice in his head said firmly, cutting through the fears and oaths he swore to himself that he wouldn't. And all the panging thoughts that said, 'you're selfish if you tell her,' and 'she'll kill you,' grew fainter as they circled in his mind, as if swirling down a sieve of resolve and higher perspective. No. You do need to.
You have to.
He flushed with sweat, and released her wrist, hands clammy and trembling as he repositioned out from under her. And, tense as a tightrope, Helga sat on the edge of her mattress, expression fixed and rapt as she waited.
Arnold laced his fingers hard and tight, and averted his gaze to the floor. He had no idea why, but she'd really graced him that day with some rare silences, and though he knew better than to let this one drag much longer, his throat went dry.
He sat on the edge as well and scratched the words up, anyway.
"I had something happen, and… if you kick me out after I tell you this, never speak to me again, or—kick my ass, I. I'll get it. But, please," he wrung his hands, "I need you to understand that what I'm about to tell you, was a… stupid accident."
Not just, the back of his mind interjected.
Shut up, he shot back. It starts with one.
He swallowed and braced himself on the ledge of a proverbial cliff that felt all too dauntingly real. And, as the prickled sensations of fear washed over him, wondered just how long he'd really been dangling, and in denial.
He felt far away from his own voice when he started.
"Remember when Phoebe had that scholarship competition at the Hillwood Expo? A few months ago? Made some kinda—robot—something? She…"
He licked his lips, nerves racing.
"She apparently left some kinda 'control module' here, and was blowing up my phone, begging me to look for it and rush over to the Expo so she could fix her project in time before the… demonstrations started. Of course, I asked why you couldn't do it," he gestured with elaboration, "and she said you and your family were outta town, and I—"
He facepalmed into his sweaty hairline.
"They were running out of time, and Gerald and Phoebe wanted me to do it, so. Phoebe told me where the key was, and I. I came here," his voice cracked, then cleared it. "I was looking for it, in your—bedroom, and I…"
Arnold grimaced, breath shaken as he girded himself. He locked his eyes back on her closet door, dead ahead.
"I saw, and, heard some stuff that I… shouldn't have."
Sweat trickled down his temple as his whole body flushed with pinpricks in the gnawing, silent gap that followed.
You don't have to tell her the sordid details, he told himself.
She'll already think you're a freak enough.
"...It… turns out you were home, and, coming down the hall. And of course you had no idea I was there, or why. And I was the last person you'd wanted to see and I'd broken into your house, for Christ's sake, and I, just—I panicked."
His heart pounded in his ears.
And, fuck. It was so hard to breathe.
And the silence only got louder when he realized he couldn't hear the sound of her breathing anymore, either; not that he could bear to look at her and keep talking.
He still couldn't believe she was allowing him to live so far, let alone speak.
"So, I," he croaked out, swallowed again, "I ran into your closet, and I—"
He barely had time to even gasp in shock before she smashed him face-first into the mattress and pinned his arm behind his back—painfully.
It was the second time that day he thought of death, and with the wild edge in her voice as her knee pressed into his spine with force, he had no doubt it'd be the last.
"What did you see, Arnold?"
… … …
So do you think Arnold's fucked, or fucked? ;)
Got two more chapters after this! Thanks for your patience guys. Summer has been insanely busy. And as always, thanks so much for your reviews, they motivate me SO MUCH to keep going!