Prompt 008: "Can we get a Wheatley Warm Up with him trying to 'solve himself' and Chell walks in and he's all shy and apologizes 98798 times for 'giving in to the itch' and she reassures him and gives him a handjob to help him finish (basically just rlly fluffy smut)"

There are some things Wheatley has had to figure out for himself. Chell can only explain so much, he supposes. And really, some things can be a bit personal.

Masturbation is one of them.

Drowsiness pulls at his eyelids. He's only just awakened. He's supine to the ceiling, shoulders tense, covers half down his body. His trousers are uncomfortably tight and he's sucking on his lower lip, unable to focus on anything but the heat pooling below. He hasn't given in; he has yet to touch. He's not sure if he should.

He feels… well, guilty about it, if he's honest. There are so many conflicting emotions when he's like this. The only thing he's felt that's been remotely as agonizing and unbearable was The Itch when he was in Her body, and that—well. That hurt her. He doesn't ever want to hurt her again.

But oh god does it ever ache.

Wheatley's tongue runs along the back of his teeth as he palms his erection through his pajamas. It's hot and hard and he finds his hips arching, coaxing. She threads through his thoughts and the image of her slowly pulling off her shirt, the curve of her shoulders, her hips, roots in his mind's eye. His fingers snake underneath the fabric and he wraps them around his cock, squeezing gently into a slow upstroke. Pleasure shudders through his nerves in a heady surge.

He's incredibly weak and he hates it so much because he shouldn't be feeling like this, he shouldn't be thinking about her, he shouldn't let it take control of him again, but fuck this feels so goddamn good and he doesn't know why.

There's a threadbare moan in his chest and he's shimmied out of his trousers, his pants, air kissing his pale skin. Shallow breaths control his lungs and cocktails of chemicals pump through him as his blood runs southbound. His hand works with long, drawn out strokes; his fingers and thumb slide down to the base and leisurely meet back at the tip, coating in precum.

Just when he feels like he can speed up, he hears a knock at his door.

Fuck.

He's half naked, clothes strewn down his bed, blankets everywhere. What does he do, what does he do, what—

Another knock.

"Ah, um—just—just a second, s-sorry," he manages, voice hoarse and buried down his throat. Scrambling, he grabs his glasses and snatches his boxer shorts from the corner of the bed and tries to slip them back on. Not that they really do anything. There is a very visible tent.

The door starts to open and Wheatley opts to throw a blanket over his lower half.

She leans against the doorjamb, arms crossed, eyebrow arched. Oh, god. His face is red, he knows it. His cheeks feel warm and the tips of his ears are burning. He must look so guilty.

"Uh, hello," he says, lifting his hand in a halfhearted wave.

Chell's eyes dart to his still quite obvious erection beneath the sheets. Her smirk does not make him feel better. Neither does the small tank top she's wearing. Or the thin shorts. In fact, it complicates things. Namely making him much harder than he was a few minutes ago.

Wheatley's throat is very dry. "I'm—I'm sorry, I can explain. It's not what it looks like. Well, it actually kind of is but I—no, I'm sorry, sorry, it just happens, I can't control it. It just feels—" He makes this grunting, frustrated noise; "—it feels like… back There, you know? Like it's that… Itch. I-I just don't… I don't know. I'm sorry."

She shakes her head, dark hair falling into her eyes, and she strides across the room to join him in bed. Scooting in next to him, she reaches across to frame his jaw with her hand and pulls him close to her. She rubs her nose against his, soft, comforting, and when she kisses just below his lip, he can feel her smile.

"Um, sorry, what are you—I mean, not that I'm complaining, but—"

She traces from his jaw to his neck, down his chest, his belly, and then she pushes the blanket aside. Everything seems to intensify when she cups him through his undershorts and her thumb brushes the head of his cock. He can feel himself pulse and the heat of her hand is so pleasurable, so inviting; his mind is running blank and he doesn't know what to do with himself because she's right here and she's actually touching him, oh god.

"Ah," he moans in a shaky exhale, "god, that… that feels good."

His hips have started to rock as she strokes him through his pants. The ache is so twistingly tight, coiling, mounting, she feels so amazing, and then she's pulled him out, the softness of her fingers holding him, skin to skin. His breathing is jagged and he needs something to hold on to and so he curls an arm around her, cradling the back of her head, lacing his fingers in her hair. She licks his lower lip and he pushes forward and mashes it into a kiss because she's so fucking hot and doing incredible things to him and he can barely stand it.

"God," he breathes against her mouth, "god, love, please, I—"

She cuts him off with a tight upstroke, nerves sparking, thoughts disconnecting. It's fire, pleasure, the Itch, and she's helping him and indulging him and all he can think of is her beneath him, what she might look like, what sounds she might make, how lust would paint her face.

The pace quickens, her fingers squeezing, and his mouth won't bloody shut up. He's chanting, "Yes, yes, god, you're brilliant, oh, yes," because he doesn't know how to handle this, how to handle her, how to deal with her teasing kisses on his jawline or his neck or how incredibly hard he is and how it's so close, it's almost there, just—

And then something triggers; that delicious tightness sharpening to a peak, burying into everything, and fuck, it's insatiable and commanding and strings of incoherent syllables are drawing out of his mouth and into hers as she grounds him with a kiss. Her hand continues to pump as he comes, slick and wet with white.

Wheatley has stopped talking only because he's sure if he didn't focus on breathing he wouldn't be conscious right now. He's dazed, panting, shivering. God, that was amazing. Absolutely… completely amazing. His forehead presses against hers as his body slumps, and he feels her nuzzle his nose again. Gentle, reassuring: You okay?

"Oh… oh, wow." He clears his throat and tries to swallow. "That was… tremendous. Seriously. God. I… well, I made a bit of a mess. Um. Sorry. I didn't mean to, I just—"

He's silenced by another kiss. Her blue eyes are bright with laughter and her lips are curved in a smile against his. No anger, no hatred, no judgment. Not at all what he expected. Well, not that he expected any of this.

Wheatley holds her close, kisses her back, and grins.