Prompt 024: "In follow up to prompt 008, chapter 9, What about a little something in which Wheatley returns the favor? Maybe by putting that overactive tongue of his to good use."
Chell is so intricate.
Wheatley is constantly amazed at how her body is structured. There's taut muscle and flowing shape and soft skin, and everything slopes in such a way that he's compelled to look. Whether it's a simple walk down the block, or when she's by the stove with a ladle in hand, or when she's sprawled out across the couch, he can't help but stare. He's no expert in art by any means, but he's positive she should be sculpted out of pallid marble, draped in white sheets, and poised on display.
When he touches her, it's always on the hands, the wrists, the dip in her back, or the gentle curve of her hips. He wants more, of course—god, does he ever—but he's always afraid he's going to do something wrong. After all, this is a very new and recent thing, all of this sudden touching, and even though he's overcome with delight at the fact, he's equally as terrified. He's not sure if it's because he's so bloody tall, or if it's because she's so incredibly small, or if it's perhaps because of some other latent insecurity that's tucked underneath his skull, but he fears he might somehow cause her harm.
And… well. Hurting her is the absolute last thing he wants.
So when she squeezes his butt when he's making tea or when she curls her small fingers around the length of his cock and kisses the line of his backbone after he walks out of the shower, he freezes up and his mind flickers white and he doesn't know what to do. He can't rightly do the exact same with her—different anatomy and all that nonsense—so he finds himself wishing he knew more about how human bodies work.
And it's unfortunate, but it feels like he's missing a big chunk of information when it comes to this kind of closeness. Sure, all sorts of data were available when he had his core-like chassis, and even more when he inhabited Hers, but he didn't exactly peruse them as he should have. None of it was particularly interesting or pertinent at the time. He did take care of humans, but the countless texts on their social rituals and the finer workings of their bodies just didn't take precedence over his other tasks. Everything has left him with rather vague concepts of intimacy and flashes of what he thinks might be memories.
It's frustrating. He wants to touch her and kiss her and just… be with her, but there's this gnawing feeling that pinches at the back of his neck. When he wants to slide a hand down the back of her thigh and cup her rear, he doesn't. When he's tempted to pull her into his lap and trace his mouth down her neck in elaborate patterns, he doesn't.
He wishes he weren't so tentative. He wishes he weren't so afraid of being wrong, of hurting her, of screwing everything up. Because really, there's only so many times a bloke can wind up being wrong, right?
And so one evening, when she's nestled with him on the couch after a long day, he finally decides to swallow his fear.
The den is dark with curtains pulled, and the television's glare flushes the gentle shape of her face with flickering light. The pressure of her leaning against his side is pleasant and warm. He notices a familiar ache in his groin and his heart pumps liquid anxiety. They've been watching the same show for half an hour, but he honestly doesn't know what's happening. He's too consumed.
Wheatley starts by bringing an arm around her as he's seen the blokes in his shows do. When she snuggles closer, confidence snakes behind his breastbone and he leans down to nuzzle against her temple. He can feel her tense beneath his nose; he notices her watching him from the corner of her eye.
"Sorry," says Wheatley. "Didn't get you, did I? Sorry, if I did. Didn't mean to."
He thumbs the crescent beneath her eye. It flutters, and he catches a glimpse of the telly's light in the pale blue of her iris. His heart thumps a bit harder.
"It's just, well, I… I like this. I like it a lot, actually. Being here, that is. Being here with you. It's nice. And so are you. Um, well, not exactly nice, that's not—no, no, not like that! You are nice—but that's not the word I'm looking for, I just…"
Wheatley sighs and pushes his glasses up the bridge of his nose. If only he didn't get so bloody tongue-tied.
"You're pretty," he says. "Sorry. Just wanted to say that. And now I have. So there it is."
Chell brings her shoulders close and runs a hand through her loose locks of hair, as if embarrassed. He can't see very well in the dim light, but he thinks he can see color in her cheeks.
Come on, Wheatley, he thinks. Come on now. You're great at talking. Brilliant at it. Just bloody talk to her.
"I've—I've been doing a bit of thinking. About the other day. When you, you know, helped. With this." He palms the stiffness in his pajama bottoms for her to see. His face is hot and he swears the thrum in his chest is so loud she can hear it. "I haven't exactly returned the favor. Sorry about that, by the way. There's a good reason for it, though. I've just—I've been nervous. Really nervous, actually. Probably more than I should be, come to think of it."
Wheatley fidgets and bites at the flesh on the inside of his lower lip. She's peering up at him, curious, and her hand rises to meet his that's cupped around her shoulder.
"Don't want to be rude about it or anything. I mean, it does seem a bit selfish, doesn't it? Just sort of… sitting there while it happens. And there you are, doing all the work, and not getting anything in return."
She shakes her head as if to refute what he's said, but he turns her toward him with a long finger against her jaw.
"So I guess what I'm saying is… I don't know what to do, but I'd like to learn. If that's possible. I'm not exactly sure how we'd go about it, if I'm honest. Maybe you could show me? What you like, what feels good. I have no idea how you know with me—not complaining! It's fantastic, really—but I guess it's easier to figure out, isn't it? What I've got is pretty simple. Or at least it seems like it. You're… different. But no, not in a bad way, so don't take it like that. It's just—I think I'd like it if I could… if I could make you feel as good as you make me feel. Is that all right?"
Chell tilts her head to the side. Her lips are curved in a slight smile, but she doesn't seem upset or offended. After a moment of appraising him with silent glances, she nods, and breaks into a full grin.
"Oh, good." Wheatley releases a shaky exhale. "Honestly, I was afraid you'd say no. Ha, I feel stupid now. Making a big deal out of nothing. Well, not that this is nothing. Didn't mean that. It's quite the opposite. I mean, this is pretty si—"
God, her mouth feels incredible. There is a soft moan that pulls out of his throat and he feels his cock twitch as she climbs onto his hips to straddle him. She has her arms cinched around his neck, one hand sifting through his short hair, and as she settles atop him, she nips at his lip and smiles.
"Oh, wow," he breathes. "I—god, you're very good at this. Extremely. I mean, well, you can feel, right? You're right there, after all. And I just—I always get like this around you. Always. All… all hard and aching."
He brings his hands along her hips and squeezes. There's a glint in her eyes, smoky and hot, and the lust threading through his veins compels him to touch and feel and taste and—
"I want you to show me," he says against her mouth. He slides his hands down to grab her ass, coaxing her against his erection. The pleasure that knits through his nerves makes his hips jerk. "Show me how I can make you like this. I-if you would. Please. I want to know."
Chell's expression is this peculiar amalgam of what seems like frustration and desire. She's staring at him, lips parted, breathing hard. Another kiss, so warm, softer this time, and then she lifts herself and turns about in his lap so she's settled on the cushion between his legs. Leaning back, she lies against his chest, her head resting by his collarbone.
"All right," he says, adjusting himself more comfortably, "whenever you're ready. I suppose you—well, you could let me watch. Or maybe use my hands? I can probably reach more than you can. If you're comfortable with it. If not, that's fine. Up to you. Learning experience."
Chell pauses for a moment, as if deciding, and then she brings one hand over his left and guides it down to her thigh, giving it a pat before drawing away. He thinks he knows what she means, so he just strokes her there, thumb and fingers cupping and massaging gently.
He's unsure of when exactly she began, because when he looks down, she has two fingers between her legs, a bit lower than where his cock would be, rubbing in slow circles. Her trousers are still on, though, and it confuses him.
Wheatley taps her thigh. "Wouldn't you like those off, love?" His other hand pulls at her waistband. "I think it would help. Might feel a bit better. At least it does for me."
She glances up at him, a shy smirk, before lifting herself. Wheatley hooks his thumbs on the fabric and pulls—down, down, sliding down the muscle of her lovely legs.
"Gorgeous," he murmurs, and he sucks in a breath when she sits back down against him. He's insanely hard and having her so close is driving him crazy, but he is intent on learning this, and so he takes the opportunity to bring his hand down her thigh once more.
As he strokes her bare skin, he notices that he now has a better view. Her panties are still on, but they are might tighter, much closer than baggy pajama bottoms, and he can see exactly where her fingers have started to circle. He watches, curious and turned on, and he notes her gradual pace and how her forefinger stays to one particular spot, rubbing through the black cotton.
Chell makes a soft sound, quiet and breathless, and she arches into him. Her body is so small but there is so much power there; her strength is evident as she forces herself against his chest. Fingers stroking closer to the juncture of her leg and groin, Wheatley presses his lips to her jawline, trailing slow, open-mouthed kisses down the slope.
"Can I try?" he asks, his hand overlapping hers with a feathery touch. "I really… really would like to feel. If that's all right."
There is a moment of pause when she pulls her fingers away and succumbs to a shudder. He waits for her permission, and when she gives it—a slight nod—he feels a swell of thrill curl amongst his ribs. Slowly, he allows his hand to drop. It settles on the place where she was so focused, and with the pad of his index finger, he traces down the front of her panties.
The first thing he notices is oh, wow, it's damp. It's almost like how his pants get when he's been hard for so long, and there's just a bit that beads at the tip and smears along the inner fabric, but oh, this is so much more, so much wetter, and—
Oh, there's this little valley there, isn't there? Sort of dips down, all nice and pleasant, and… oh, yes, it gets even wetter below. But that's not quite where she was circling, was it? No, it was higher, just a little, and so he rubs his finger from the source of the soaked cotton and draws it further up.
He presses gently, exploring, testing, and when she shivers and her hips rock into his hand, he knows he's found the correct place.
"That feel good?" asks Wheatley. He tries his best to mimic her movement and pressure, using the tip of his finger to swirl around her clit. "Am I doing it right?"
Chell nods, seeming dazed.
"Is this all, though? I mean, I feel like there should be more." Wheatley runs his tongue along the back of his teeth in thought as he pokes beneath her panties. "Hard to explain. Just something aah—oh."
For a moment, he has trouble functioning. He becomes very aware of how hard he is, of how close she is, of how good she smells and how warm her body feels, and now of how incredibly, amazingly wet she is. His finger is flush with her skin, soaked, dripping, and he can't fathom how much of a turn on it is. He's trying so hard to hang onto a coherent train of thought and it's seriously not working: it's a crazed fog of This is amazing and What do I do and I want her so BAD.
"Listen," he says. "Listen, I—I'm not entirely sure what you want or what you don't want, or what this sort of thing might feel like, so just… bear with me. Need a way to say what's good and bad. Just—well, feedback. So we're on the same page. No misunderstandings. All right?"
He feels her nod against his chest. She's shaking, and god he wants to make her tremble.
"Right, okay, how about… all right, how about two short taps for stop? Just real quick, like this—" He demonstrates on her hip with his free hand, "—so they're easy to feel. And maybe a nice squeeze if you like something. Could be any kind of squeeze, soft or rough. Maybe rough if you really like it. But is that all right? Sound good? Same page now?"
She nods again, and he feels her hand move down to apply pressure to his thigh.
Wheatley bites into his lip, and he lets his finger nudge further between her legs. He's marveling at how wet it is, how slick and smooth, and as he slides his fingertip up and down along her folds, pushing them aside, he realizes there is a dip, warm and wet, and the further he explores, the more it seems to coax him in.
"Can I," he breathes. He's circling there, barely pushing; he won't do anything without her permission.
The squeeze on his thigh is quite firm.
He can't help but moan when he sinks in. It's one bit at a time, gentle and slow, but feeling her so wet and soaked and clenching around his finger with each push makes his cock throb with need.
"Oh, you're so hot inside," he rasps. "I never thought… just, wow. You feel amazing. God."
When he's in to his final knuckle, he nips her earlobe and begins to draw it out. Chell's back is in a lovely arc, her legs spread wide, her mouth open and shuddering exhales. Her hand is giving his thigh a few good squeezes. As he pulls the tip of his finger out, he smothers her clit with her wetness and circles it once or twice, just enough to make her elicit this soft, shivering, "Ahhh."
"Is that good?" he says, though he doesn't need to ask; her body language is shouting paragraphs with the way her shoulders knead into his chest and how her neck tenses and how her ribcage heaves with short, shallow breaths. Regardless, she gives his thigh another squeeze.
Pleased with himself, Wheatley circles it once more before pulling his hand away. She's trembling as he brings the finger coated with her against his nose. He inhales, and there is a thick, musky scent that collides with his senses. Humans can be smelly, sure, but this… this is completely different.
"Mmn, I like that. I like that a lot." Tentatively, he darts his tongue out to give it a taste—and wow. Something sparks inside his head and then he's gripping her hips and kissing the space beneath her ear and pressing her close against his cock. "Hold on, love," he says. "Got an idea. Mind getting up for me? Just real quick. Won't be long."
Wheatley guides her with his arms as she lifts herself off the sofa. He watches her struggle to stand in the television light as he rises up behind her, and he frames her hips with his hands to help her balance. Biting at his lip, he tugs at her panties with his thumbs.
"Need these off," he says. "If it's all right. It'll make things easier, I think."
Chell complies, tucking her fingers beneath her underwear. He notices that she purposely rubs against his erection as she shimmies it off, a subtle sway back and forth, and the aching pleasure below his belly sharpens.
"All right," he says, curling an arm about her waist. "Down you go again. Get yourself comfortable."
As she settles in, Wheatley peels off his damp shirt and lets it join her clothes on the floor. He then kneels down, sliding his hands up her calves, the bends of her knees, her thighs, and he grabs her ass and pulls her closer to the edge of the cushion. Her skin is so soft, so warm, and it makes him harder just touching her.
"Right, so if something doesn't feel good," he says, peering up at her from between her legs, "just pat my shoulder or something. Two times, at any point. Okay?"
Chell nods in reply. He can see the shapes of her breasts straining through her small tank top as she breathes and it's driving him crazy. He feels himself twitch in his trousers and… and god, he really wants to touch himself to ease the ache, but he can't, no; this is about her right now, this is about making her feel good, and god damn, he wants that more than anything.
Wheatley grips her thighs, palms pressing against smooth skin, and he lowers himself, drawing close. He has a much clearer view now that her panties aren't in the way, and although everything looks much different than what he's got—lots of gentle curves, wetness, folds of pink—he finds himself being very much attracted to what he sees.
"Lovely," he murmurs, a thick exhale against her.
Chell's hips roll forward, straining, as if she's asking to be touched. The smell is so heady and Wheatley finds it too hard to resist, and so he leans in and covers her in his mouth.
His kisses are somewhat clumsy. He doesn't have a particular technique just yet—still sort of new at this, after all—but he tries to imagine the sorts of things she's done to him. He imagines how her tongue brushes against his the plane of his jaw or how she parts her lips just enough so he can feel the wet of her mouth against the column of his neck, and he tries to mimic that as best he can.
When he lathers his tongue across that small place she was so focused upon before, he feels her fingers weave through his hair, clutching at the roots, and her palms push him closer. He's close enough that the lenses of his glasses touch the thatch of coarse hair between her legs and his nose is buried flush with her skin, drawing in that addicting scent, and bloody hell, if that's not an oh yes that's good god please keep at it, then he doesn't know what is.
And so Wheatley does it again, slower this time, the flat of his tongue on her clit. Chell twists on the sofa, her legs closing over his shoulders, and he moans against her as his hands slide up her thighs and cup her ass. He tries to pick up the pace; he wants to make her feel good, he wants to have her shout and shiver and lose herself, he wants her consumed, he wants her, and his tongue swirls so hot and wet and he engulfs her with an open-mouthed kiss just there, exactly where she wants, and then he sucks.
God, her fingers are doing absolutely crazy things in his hair. They rub his scalp, tug at the roots, coaxing him forward. Her hips grind beneath his mouth, oh yes please do, and he can hear the lovely rhythm of her jagged breathing above. Her entire body is a tightly twisted bundle of trembling limbs, and in spite of being engrossed in her pleasure, Wheatley is very aware of how she moves—hurting her is always a fear.
With a languid lick, he pulls back, much to her protest.
"You all right?" he asks, running his tongue along his lips. "Just, you know, checking in. Seeing how we're doing."
Chell is biting at her lower lip. She glares at him from the sofa and her brow is knit together with frustration. For stopping, he assumes. Or that's what he likes to think, anyhow. The very idea of being able to make her feel like this causes enormous amounts of pride to swell within his chest.
"Oh, don't give me that look," he says with a smirk. "Was just pausing for a moment. I won't stop. Well, I will if you want me to, of course. Stop, that is."
She glowers at him with this expression that screams, "BUT I DIDN'T," and she shoves his palms over his eyes.
"Hey now, no need for that," he says, one hand pulling away from her rear. He peels her tiny fingers back and holds them, savoring the warmth and how he's made her sweat. "Just wanted to make sure you were okay. That's not a crime, is it? This is pretty new. Well, for me, at least. Checking in is a reasonable thing to do, I think."
Chell rolls her eyes and tugs her arms away, folding them beneath her breasts. He notices how she pushes them up, how the fabric of her shirt bunches around them. He notices how she nibbles at her lip and how she's pouting in this incredibly attractive way and god it makes him want her all the more.
Wheatley resumes by bringing his free hand between her legs. He gazes up at her, gauging, and when he starts to press a finger inside of her, he feels the muscles clench and tighten and she's leaning back, eyelids fluttered shut, lips parted. He draws close and breathes against her, and then immerses himself once again: kissing along soft pink, tongue sweeping across her clit, mouth sucking gently. There is a moment where he's working his finger in and out at this gradual pace, slow and teasing, and when her hands clamber for his tousled hair again, he draws it out completely—and pushes two in.
The reaction he receives is pleasure incarnate. Chell is writhing; she grinds against his face and pulls him close and there are vocal sounds that purr from somewhere within her, sounds of broken vowels and consonants, mixed letters stitched together, all tucked between her teeth and wisping out with every breath.
Wheatley's knees are hurting from being bent for so long, but he doesn't care. She tastes incredible and he loves her soft little noises and she just feels so bloody good against his mouth and around his fingers. His mind is full to bursting with compliments and encouragements he can't say, not with his tongue doing all the work, but he settles for a low hum into her skin in hopes all the little things that make her up might translate his thoughts. As he thrusts, he feels her heels dig into his shoulder blades, her knuckles pressing along his scalp, and he wonders just how this feels for her: how his mouth feels, how his fingers feel, if it's good enough, if it's nice enough, if can really give her as much pleasure as she gives him.
He continues to massage her clit, plunging in her with a steady rhythm—she's so wet, amazingly wet, god, he can't bloody stand it—and it takes him by surprise when she moans. He's not sure how, but must be doing something right, because Chell seizes up and there's a mass of convulsions, tightening and pushing and insatiably wet around his fingers. He doesn't know what to do, so he just keeps going, sucking and thrusting, letting her pull his hair and groan and squeeze his neck with her legs.
After several moments, she seems to uncoil, tension unspooling. Her palms spread flat through his hair, stroking as if he were a pet, and he feels two short taps. Anxiety threading through his veins, he immediately stops.
"You okay?" he asks, peering up. Her eyes have this glazed sort of look, he notices; her hair is all over the place and perspiration beads at her brow, a gentle glisten in the television's light. "Did I—was that bad? I didn't hurt you, did I? I hope I didn't. I'm sorry, if I did. I really, really wanted to avoid that."
Chell shakes her head, a smile on her lips. He feels her hands shift to the base of his skull, and she tugs him up toward her. Wheatley stretches himself upward, torso against the cushion, and he lets her curl against him. Her legs cross in the small of his back and her arms clasp about his neck. She's a bit out of breath, he notes, but she's grinning, kissing along his angular jaws, and it takes a moment before he realizes—oh.
"Was that…? It was, wasn't it?" Wheatley encompasses her in his arms, and he can't help but smile as she buries her face against his neck. "Ha, I knew it. Solved you! I did, didn't I? That's what it was! Wasn't sure at first. I mean, really, mine is so different and all. Makes a right awful mess. You, though! Wow. That was tremendous."
Chell pulls back and scrunches her face with an incredulous look.
"What?" he asks. "What's that for? Surprised?"
She rolls her eyes and playfully bats him on the shoulder. Wheatley chuckles, rubbing his nose against hers, reveling in the silent giggle she makes. She's warm and all disheveled, and he kisses her, holding her close.
"Don't be so surprised, love," he says against her mouth. "Master hacker here, after all. I pick things up pretty quick!"