It's New Year's Eve, and Wheatley has had a bit to drink.
"C'mon," he says from the sofa, beckoning to Chell with open arms. "That thing up on the tower's going to drop soon. Or… or whatever's happening. Got no idea. Telly's a bit fuzzy. Looks like everyone's excited, though. Don't you want to watch?"
Warmth snakes inside the hollow of his chest as Chell joins him. Instead of sitting beside him, she settles into his lap, straddling his hips with purpose, and rests her palms upon his shoulders.
Wheatley bites at his lip. There is a persistent heat smouldering in his lower belly. It's been easy to ignore throughout the course of the night, but her sudden closeness makes him ache. Shifting beneath her, he becomes acutely aware of the erection stiffening between his legs. He forces a thick swallow and tries his best to shove it out of mind, but the warmth and pressure of her against him is far too much.
"Ah, sorry," he mumbles with a shy grin. "About… uh, you know, for that. Not very, well, gentlemanly. You just feel—mmmnnn—" Wheatley closes his eyes, trying to wade through the haze to find the proper words. The few glasses of wine have done a number on him, it seems; his intolerance is quite exemplary. "You just feel really… really good. Incredibly good. I don't… hah, I don't really know what else to say, actually. Not like there's any excuse or anything. Just—you're lovely. You are."
He brings his hands around her waist, tucking his fingers into the small of her back. The material of her shirt is thin and pale, and the heat of her skin pulls into his nerves. Her face is flushed, he notes, although whether it's from the alcohol or from something else, he's not sure.
"You make me feel… different. Don't know why." His head lolls back against the sofa cushion as he gazes at her through the smudged lenses of his glasses. "It's weird, you know. There's so many other humans out there, tons of 'em, loads, and I only get like this 'round you. I mean—well, that. Um. You can… uh, feel. That. I think."
Chell smirks, loose strands of dark hair collecting at her temples. She's beautiful, he thinks; the coolness of her eyes, the slope of her neck, the gentle jut of her collarbone. Her jeans hug her hips in this wonderful way, and her tiny tank top has shifted to where he has an excellent view of—well, just excellent overall, really.
"I don't suppose you'd—ah, you'd like to—"
Wheatley is cut off and his entire body is roped taut and tense when she shifts overtop of him. She's so warm, and he's… god, he's hard. There it is. Bloody stupid of him, he knows, but he can't help it; she's so gorgeous and stunning and she's in his lap, he can scarcely believe it, and he's finding it increasingly difficult not to grind against her with how flush her hips are with his.
"Well," he breathes, rubbing small circles on her back, "well, uh, you are on top of me, after all. Oh, but I don't mean to pressure you or anything, all right, not at all—just was, ah, wondering if you'd maybe—"
Chell kisses him, and it draws the air out from his lungs in a heady rush. Her mouth is so soft, tasting faintly of some unknown vintage she'd shared, and he sucks in a breath and presses her close.
Midnight strikes.
The voices on the telly cheer with excitement, but neither Wheatley nor Chell have any interest.
