A/N: Whoops. Ramping it up to M now because I am paranoid. Also: run-on sentences.

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Self Control

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Chell has a feeling she's going to regret this come morning. He's so new to this body and there's no way he understands what it is that it wants and she's probably taking terrible advantage of him, but it's hard, so hard to think about the moral implications of what she's doing with his palms burning against her waist and the warm wet of his mouth on her throat and the rumbling moan passing from his chest to hers. So instead of doing the responsible thing, pushing him away and kissing his forehead and smiling softly to show she's not mad, she's going to just keep doing whatever it is she thinks she's doing. She tangles her fingers in his hair and arches into the electric touch of his hands and tongue and squirms against the growing stiffness in his lap, lets out a slow, shuddering breath at the hot press of it against her and the low whine that wrings out of him.

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Wheatley has a feeling he's going to regret this come morning. He's so new to this body, and he doesn't fully understand what it is that it wants, not on an intellectual level, at least. What he does know is that this feeling, fantastic and electric and addicting, is far too close to the itch for comfort. Doing what he's doing is feeding it and he's probably taking terrible advantage of her and he should stop but it's hard, so hard to stop with her scent and the taste of her skin flooding through him and her smooth, warm flesh beneath his hands and her fingers pulling gently at his hair. So instead of doing the responsible thing, pushing her away and explaining that he's not upset with her, that he just doesn't want to hurt her, he's going to just keep doing whatever it is he thinks he's doing. As she presses her hips harder against his, putting more pressure on the swell of heat and hardened flesh there he keens low in his throat, biting down as gently as he can manage on the skin of hers.

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Everything is stretched tight and overheated and oversensitive and fantastic, and at some point in the night the line that divided one body from the other blurred into near invisibility. They move together; she is sinuous and serpentine beneath and he is solid above and their hips and shoulders tremble against each other's. The pressure of her legs around his waist and the press of her fingertips on his scalp and his back and her hitching breath and the way her body clutches around him has Wheatley feeling like he's about to fly apart and collapse into himself all at the same time. Chell feels lost in the way his weight pushes down on her and the friction of his skin sliding over hers and the way his limbs cage her and his voice vibrating through her chest, yet he is also her anchor. Something trips in her and she finds herself caught up in white-hot pinpoint terrifying bliss and she pulls him over the edge with her and they are falling together.

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When morning comes and Chell opens her eyes the first thing she sees is his shoulder beneath her cheek and his chest slowly rising and falling. She peers up at his face and when Wheatley opens his eyes the first thing he sees is the soft arch of her eyebrows and her lips, swollen and darker pink than usual, curved in a small smile. They each study the other's satisfied, contented face for a while, and despite the vaguely-remembered reservations from last night, they find they don't regret a thing.