Actions

Work Header

Rating:
Archive Warning:
Category:
Fandom:
Relationships:
Characters:
Additional Tags:
Language:
English
Stats:
Published:
2025-03-31
Words:
1,321
Chapters:
1/1
Comments:
16
Kudos:
100
Bookmarks:
10
Hits:
1,072

the sweetest torture one could bear

Summary:

She remembers the sight of Mark between her legs, the way she gripped him by the hair and held him there, wordlessly begging him not to stop. But she can’t get the image of Helly out of her head. Helly with her clothes askew, lips parted, messy hair framing her face—wild and uninhibited like she always is, like Helena only got to be the few days she stepped into her shoes and tried to walk into Mark’s heart.

Helena wants.

Notes:

(See the end of the work for notes.)

Work Text:

Helena reaches out to check her alarm clock for the fifth time tonight. 2:36 AM. She’s been tossing and turning for over two hours, losing sleep to the thoughts racing through her brain—thoughts of Mark, and Helly, and Mark and Helly. It’s not like she can fully escape them in the mornings or evenings, but at night they often become unbearable, a form of torture she delights in as her mind fills with images of crashing lips and wandering hands. It’s only intensified since the ORTBO, now that she knows what it’s like to be held by Mark, touched by him, kissed like he’s drowning and she’s his sole air supply.

And tonight it’s the worst it’s ever been. After today’s events she’s too wired, her brain too active to let her get some much needed rest.

She’d suspected it the second she regained consciousness in the elevator: Mark had fucked Helly. Helena had hurried home hoping to catch a glimpse of their rendezvous, only to end up disappointed that all she could really see was two desks covered with sheets of plastic. The girl wouldn’t even let her have that.

But there was something she did have, something only she had: access to Mark Scout. Her curiosity had been piqued—she just wanted to find out if he’d feel anything for her. So she snuck out, drove to his house, and waited. She was beginning to lose hope—there was no guarantee he’d leave the house this evening, and she could hardly knock on his door for no reason—until she saw him walk to his car, get in, and drive away. She quickly followed, relieved when he came to a stop outside the Chinese restaurant ten minutes away.

She’d approached him anxiously, trying to loosen herself up, trying to emulate the woman Mark S. knew, the woman who had what she needed. And it worked. They laughed and flirted and he regarded her with an intrigue that sent desire coursing through her body—the same body he’d been inside less than twelve hours earlier, a fact that was proving impossible to forget.

Then she’d fucked it up and he’d bolted, leaving her with the dull and comfortable pain of rejection.

But he’d definitely felt something too. That might be a start.

And now she’s pondered it long enough that she just wants to sleep, find a temporary escape from it all where neither she nor Helly can complicate her life further.

She twists and tugs at the cuff of her pajama sleeve—an old habit, something she’s trained herself not to do in front of her father lest he berate her for showing signs of unbalanced tempers. The satin is smooth against her skin.

She wonders what Helly would wear to bed if she had the choice, if she was allowed to sleep. Would she bask in the comfort of soft pajamas after being forced into office wear her entire life, or would an oversized t-shirt be enough? Would she forgo underwear? Would there be times she’d wear nothing at all?

Helena feels warmth pool in her stomach at the thought.

Has Helly ever seen herself, seen her, fully naked? Does she like the body she’s been given? Has she figured out the ways Helena likes to be touched? She’s sure Mark helped her with that. She can picture it clearly: Mark and Helly under the desks, his hand making its way up her thigh, thumb swiping over her clit and fingers curling inside her like he already knows exactly how to make her body sing. Because he does.

She runs her hands down the side of her body, or Helly’s body (it doesn’t matter, it’s hers either way— Helly is hers), and hooks her fingers through her pajama bottoms and underwear, swiftly dragging them down her legs and placing them neatly on the nightstand.

Helena sighs breathily as images of Mark and Helly continue to inundate her brain. Him kissing her, softly at first then with increased fervor, lips moving down her jaw and to her neck, sucking at the spot that makes her go weak.

Her hand slides between her legs, manicured fingernails digging crescent moons into the flesh of her thighs until need wins out and her fingers fly to her throbbing center. She slides two fingers down her soaked folds and swears under her breath before pushing into her entrance.

In her mind, Mark kisses his way up Helly’s legs, making her laugh. Helena had forgotten she was ticklish until Mark’s hands on her sides and his mouth on her stomach and thighs reminded her. She wonders if Helly’s giggles make him think of hers. Mark drops a kiss on Helly’s pubic bone, then his tongue meets her clit and her giggles turn into gasps. Helena whines and presses the heel of her hand against her own clit, rolling her hips hard. She remembers the sight of Mark between her legs, the way she gripped him by the hair and held him there, wordlessly begging him not to stop. But she can’t get the image of Helly out of her head. Helly with her clothes askew, lips parted, messy hair framing her face—wild and uninhibited like she always is, like Helena only got to be the few days she stepped into her shoes and tried to walk into Mark’s heart.

Tried and succeeded. Mark laughed at her jokes. Mark fucked her. There’s no need for her to use Helly as a proxy here, and yet.

The images blur as he buries himself inside her, and suddenly she doesn’t know if they’re of Mark and Helly or Mark and her or if she’s somehow fucking Helly herself.

Does Helly come with a loud moan or a quiet whimper? Helena bets she sounds beautiful, that she’s unrestrained and proud—the cry of a woman who’s never been told her pleasure is meaningless, shameful, a distraction. A woman who takes what she wants freely.

Helena keeps working herself, varying the pace and intensity of her strokes, chasing herself to the edge and back again, drawing the softest of gasps and the deepest of moans from her mouth, until the sensitivity is almost too much to bear and she’s hurtling over the edge with a broken cry of her own. Waves of pleasure ripple through her body as she slows her pace and rides out the orgasm, clenching around her fingers tightly.

She brings her glistening fingers to her lips and licks each of them. At least she’ll always know how Helly tastes.

She rolls onto her side and curls up on the edge of the bed, not bothering to pull up the bedsheets at her ankles. She stares at a spot on the wall where the paint has chipped away, a crack in the otherwise perfect house decor, and thinks about the way Mark looked at her while she was on the severed floor, when they were sitting by the campfire, when they were lying naked face to face and he didn’t tell her he loved her but he might as well have. His Helly smile, the one she caught a glimpse of at the restaurant before she ruined everything. Helly wouldn’t have done that. Helly is kind and always knows what to say and is loved even when she doesn’t.

Suddenly feeling exposed, Helena tugs the covers up to her ear and curls deeper into herself. Only a few more hours until she has to wake up and go to work and her body is Helly’s once more. She wonders how she’ll use it.

As she drifts off she hears a voice in her head, similar to but not quite hers. I’m not yours. I don’t want to be any part of you.

Her last thought before losing consciousness is that she can’t blame Helly for that. She doesn’t want to be herself either.

Notes:

god i could talk about hellyna for hours… thank you for reading!