"Nurse Bradshaw?"

Arnold always had a history of never being too far from a golden truth. Never too far from the next, illuminated solution to either his, or other people's dilemmas. But lately, he'd never been further from it.

There was simply no script for what he'd gone through.

Nor had there been so many times he needed to conceal an unwanted public boner on any given day.

Or, in the case of today, a very inflamed, sore one from pushing it too far that morning; ignoring pain signals after marathoning himself that weekend and the night before. And distractions hadn't worked. Those worked on the old him, the one he hoped he'd get back after this… phase of his. At least, it had better be, he thought.

Christ.

It had been four days since he somehow made it out of The Patakis residence alive and entered an abusive relationship with his cock.

What scared him was that even at this point he didn't think he had the strength to call off his own hand, and he had the sneaking, foreboding feeling that this problem of his wouldn't be ending any time soon.

"Do you have a spare ice pack? My…thigh hurts. From, uh, running into a corner—a desk corner. Uh, please?"

Standing awkwardly at the entrance to the school nurse's office with his long-strapped side bag dangled strategically over his front, Arnold tried hiding his nerves (and more) as the matronly woman cocked a brow over the rim of her glasses and shot him a long, unamused stare. He bit his lip with a look of painful discomfort he didn't even need to fake to sell it, and prayed.

Rolling her eyes as she finally pulled away, the nurse reached into the freezer, pulled out a DIY ice pack filled with blue dish detergent in a ziplock bag, and waved him off.

I guess dish soap can save more than just oil-slicked birds, came the mild thought a few minutes later as he winced down the length of the empty hallway before coming to his locker, followed up by a bitter one: Not that anything out there could wash away what I've done.

Nevertheless.

Arnold sighed in relief as he pressed the cold make-shift ice pack against his raw, tender dick while practically standing in the open door to his full-length locker, and wished he could just step inside and lock himself away until graduation.

Or forever.

But no, of course this private moment of solace couldn't last. Not when he had to return to his World History class.

And not, of course, when she'd be there.

Fuck.

Bracing before the closed classroom door, he snuck the ice pack into his jeans pocket, winced as he shifted his (thankfully flaccid) self underneath its stinging chill through the other pocket, and adjusted his long-strapped bag to block his front without being obvious. Hopefully.

He heaved a sigh and finally opened the door, quietly.

Casting a furtive glance to his middle-aged teacher, who nodded mildly and pointed him back to his desk with the tip of a dry erase marker, Arnold tried everything he could to resist looking to his left before making his way down the row. Yet he failed, right at the last moment.

Swallowing, his eyes leapt irresistibly to her face.

Leaning cross-armed in her seat as he passed by, Helga glared stonily toward the board—away from him; and he only had a few seconds to look, but it was the first time he had since the 'incident,' and God.

The way her eyes thinned, baby blues darkening and sharp; how her thick upper lip puffed with her sulk.

How sick was it that her typical reaction could go from filling him with resignation to the feelings it gave him now?

And not, of course, the jabs of panicked, guilty nerves pincering his chest and squirming his guts that urged him to get away—but that lurch of involuntary excitement he felt, the craving that ignited, just at the sight of her…

Under the privacy of his low-hung schoolbag, Arnold pushed the ice pack harder to kill the stiffness that very-much threatened to encroach, and made it to his desk as unobtrusively as possible.

Even if he didn't have another boner to hide he'd still feel like crawling under a rock.

He only managed to listen with one ear on their lesson about the Roman Empire, and he retained even less.

And, catching the single, hot-pink streak dyed in her hair anytime her head turned a few desks up from him, shifted surreptitiously in his seat to adjust his ice pack as he fought and failed to curb the incessant, erotic, unethically obtained memories he had of her, each intrusive loop fanning the flames that engulfed him on the spot.

And fanned each blast of bitter, disgusted self reproach, as he scolded himself for the umpteenth time.

How could you be such a creep?

You shouldn't have even been in her room—her house. You shouldn't have seen or heard any of it! It was wrong then and it's wrong now! And besides…

This is Helga.

Helga, your childhood bully. The girl who'd take bets during fights. Who'd boss and intimidate everyone around her. Who was crass, stubborn and so insensitive—who still is. Who thinks you're actually a 'white knight' of all things just because you stuck up for your ex, and never lets you off the hook.

And hates you.

Arnold propped his open history book on his desk and wiped at his frown behind its ignored contents. Then set it back flat on his desk again and facepalmed.

How could you be so turned on? Still?

Why can't you just ignore her—all of this? You're in class. She isn't even doing anything.

Just be cool.

He cursed under his breath when he caught himself staring anyway at the flash of torn fishnets he saw as she recrossed her legs; the weathered sheen of combat boot leather as her foot bobbed impatiently. Christ.

If she found out she'd stomp you to death in those, he surmised, as the image of her cum splattered closet hung in his mind like a haunt. And you wouldn't even fight back.

You'd deserve it.

To his utter dismay, the thought of how up close and personal she'd had to be while cornering him angrily inflamed more than just the ever-lingering paranoia of still, somehow, getting caught.

Are you kidding me…?

Arnold closed his eyes in another moment of gratitude for the hidden ice pack numbing the raw ache below his belt like a damper of sanity. Whatever he had left, anyway. Self-contempt or soreness be damned, he couldn't wait to be back home again in his hand.

…God.

What is wrong with you?

He let out a shaky exhale when, finally, the bell mercifully rang and everyone around him erupted from their seats to gather their things and bolt to their final classes.

Just be normal, he thought, taking longer than usual packing his bag as he waited for her to leave first, watching that pink strip in her hair shift between bodies as his classmates filed out. So he could, at last, make it to his next lesson where she wouldn't, thankfully, be present.

Just be goddamn normal.

… … …

Laying out on his bed while cloud-gazing through his skylight typified any late afternoon for the young man, and always had.

But it was less typified by him jerking himself off to the mental image of a damp-haired Helga walking across the glass above him as that towel of hers parted open and fell away. He'd need more ice after this session, if just for the pain. Or maybe after the next one…

Christ.

This was not normal.

He didn't used to be like this.

Sure, he'd run a marathon here and there, but he'd always take a break for a few days at any real signs of injury, however light. And it wasn't even that hard before, to abstain for a while and occupy himself. It was the sensible thing to do, after all. And he wasn't strict by any means, but he'd always been able to manage at least some level of self control.

Until that incident, of course. God. Now it was like he couldn't even resist.

He could believe how badly he needed to get off the moment he got home, despite the hurt, and kept finding ways to touch himself so as not to directly aggravate the small abrasions under his ridge that stung when his skin pulled back, or the raw patch on the left side of his shaft.

A switch to his non-dominant hand to stroke the untarnished side of his length, and his left, precum-slicked hand palming the sensitized head of his cock, and he was off to the races. And fine, right? Besides, in some odd way the parts that hurt just made him throb more, and want to press harder, and—

Good fucking Lord.

What was wrong with him?

It's just because of the situation, came the reassurance he'd repeated to himself since he left her place. It was just—so much. He was still a virgin, pent up and frustrated after his ex, and he just…needed to adjust.

It'll lose its novelty soon, he thought as he clenched and bit his lip, closing his eyes to the memory of the filth she'd moaned, the slick sounds she made.

Of course seeing, hearing everything he had—especially a girl begging in earshot to get fucked, would make him lose it. Any girl.

Even Helga.

Not because it was Helga.

No.

Of course not.

And even the parts about her that gripped him were either superficial or impersonal, too.

Her body. That in her privacy, the pleas and noises she made were unquestionably authentic, a fact that left him horribly flushed and lightheaded; close. Like she just couldn't help herself.

Fuck.

But still. It meant nothing about her, that she could look like that. Sound like that, or…

God, he thought, as he indulged a hot, humiliating truth he'd pushed away until then that burned him up so much he tossed his head back and panted. That she could smell so good.

And though he'd never—if he had given in? He really could've just bent right over her bed, and tasted—

Smothering his loud volume into his pillow, he came harder than he had since that day, unable to even outlast the thought.

When he finally came to, he felt so low and high at the same time that it churned and chewed him up, leaving him lost.

And, despite himself, knew, without question, that when he went for another round, that fantasy would undo him again.

…God.

Arnold winced in pain as he cleaned off yet another mess, drained the water bottle on his nightstand, and facepalmed in the short reprieve he had before he could go again. Promised himself this next one would be the last for the next two days so he could heal. Hoping he could honor that promise, and unsure if he could.

And figured, as he fell back on his bed and chewed his lip with a thawing ice pack on his dick, that if he was going to be in a constant state of moral dilemma around Helga from now on, he might have to rethink his morals.

In truth, he was worried he already had.

… … …

Author's Notes: So do you think Arnold has suffered enough, or...? :)

Fic will have 7 chapters at this rate. That's right, smut with pining and PLOT!

(Also fun fact, bc I've gotten asked about this-yes, our boy is hydrated ;) And yes, guys can orgasm w/o ejaculating if they've been marathoning, dry orgasms tend to start around round 3 or 4, so... The More You Know)