Prompt 020: "I've been craving (more) Chelley fluff-smut lately. So here's the prompt: Wheatley sees Chell naked for the first time. Can be as NSFW (or not NSFW) as you'd like it to be."
Wheatley's first encounter with a half-naked lady resulted in him being shoved out of a room and ignored for two days straight until he recited a whole page length apology for barging in unannounced.
His second encounter is far, far different.
Wheatley steps out of the shower. Dripping wet and steaming from the hot water, he nabs the towel on the rack and begins to meticulously dry himself off: hair, shoulders, arms, chest, hips, legs, toes. After he's satisfied, he cinches the towel around his waist and reaches for his pajamas. When his hand grabs nothing on the edge of the sink, he blinks, confused, and then—oh—he must have left them back on his bed.
"I'm really not with it today," he says, rubbing an eye with the inside of his wrist. "Not enough sleep, I guess. Should try to turn in early tonight. Maybe that'll help. Probably will. Memory retention or some nonsense."
On a quest for his clothes, Wheatley leaves the bathroom and heads into his room. Upon entering, he finds that they are not, in fact, on his bed, but rather in a heap on the floor.
"Now, how did you get down there?" He huffs, bends down, and scoops them up into his arms in a bundle of plaid navies and whites. On the way out, he notices that his comb and glasses are still on the dresser, and so he swipes those up as well. "Bloody things," he mutters, pushing the frames up his nose. "I swear, sometimes I think we're haunted. Always finding stuff like this. Mad."
Wheatley exits his room and turns to the right only to meet the face of the closed bathroom door.
"Okay," says Wheatley, brow knit, "I'm pretty sure I left that open. Almost positive, actually. This is starting to get weird. Moving clothes, teleporting combs. Now we have self-closing doors. I'm as accepting of paranormal activity as the next bloke, but really now, this is getting out of hand."
Forcing down a swallow, clothes guarded against his chest, he reaches out for the doorknob. With a twist, it gives way and opens wide.
Now, Wheatley is somewhat acquainted with human anatomy. He's well aware of his own and what sorts of things it's capable of, but when it comes to the opposite sex, he has a rather rudimentary understanding. There are some obvious differences, of course, mostly the whole chest bit and the nice wide hips, but the finer details? Not so up to speed.
While he's not one hundred percent on all of the quirks of the female body, he's quite sure there is absolutely nothing paranormal about Chell with most of her clothes off.
She's standing on the bath mat, her back to him, pulling her shirt over her head. Her toned legs are slightly apart and she has her weight shifted to the right, curving her body in a pleasing contrapposto. Fine lines of definition run up her calves, climb her thighs, and structure her arms.
Wheatley's jaw does this peculiar thing where it slacks without warning, and he has to consciously tighten it so he's not breathing through his mouth. His eyes climb up the backs of her legs and settle on the fine shape of her rear, one of the last spaces that's still covered.
Her shirt has tumbled to the floor in a pool by her feet. Chell turns about, sensing his presence, and her hands immediately cross over her chest—which, Wheatley finds, is pleasantly bare.
Chell can't speak, but she doesn't need to. Her face does all the talking. Wheatley can hear it now: "What are you DOING? GET OUT!"
But he doesn't. His feet have transmuted into metal and his legs have become stone. His heart is thumping in the back of his mouth and his face is hot and there is an inexplicable heat that churns below his belly.
Wheatley has said a lot of stupid things in his life. He doesn't have the best track record when it comes to thinking on his feet. He also does not have a particularly effective filter between his brain and his mouth. There are dozens of thoughts that are spinning about his head, thoughts like Oh god she's going to kill me and I'm seriously going to die and She looks so different than me and Her body is incredible, but the one that spills out of his mouth is:
"Bloody hell, you're beautiful."
And apparently that was the right thing to say, because her expression lessens from "You are going to regret this" to "I'm sorry, what was that? I don't think I heard right." The tension slips out of her shoulders and although her arms still cross in front of her breasts, she looks much less, well, murderous.
Wheatley notices an odd tightness in his groin. He swallows, adam's apple dipping, and he glances down to find that his, erm—anatomy—has picked a less than ideal time to present itself.
Chell seems to have noticed as well. Her eyes focus on his face, but seem flick southward every second or so.
With a nervous laugh, he opts to hold his pajamas over it in hopes that it will go away on its own.
"Sorry," he says at last, taking a step back. "I—I'll definitely be going now. Sorry. Ha, you know, we really should get a working lock on this thing. To, well, avoid these kinds of situations in the future. Not that I would want to avoid them entirely! Just—well. You. I meant what I said. Um, about you. You know what I said. Sorry. Again."
As he's shrinking away, Chell is approaching him. He recognizes the determination upon her face, mouth thinned and brow creased, and if his heart weren't already pounding double time, it sure as hell would be now.
She reaches out for him and there is a wracking shiver that plants itself at the bottom of his backbone when she's fully exposed. She tugs at the towel around his waist with the hook of her forefinger, coaxing it undone.
"What are you doing," he says, pressing the bundle of pajamas very close. He can't stop staring at her, at her hips, at her breasts; there is an electric current of must touch must feel jolting through his veins and he has no idea what's going on or how to stop it.
Chell's eyes sweep up and down his lanky body. She bites into her lower lip, and the ache inside of him sharpens.
"Seriously," he says, "I—I don't know what you're doing."
She doesn't seem concerned. Instead, she takes his free hand in hers and brings it around to her side, pressing his palm flat against her skin.
Such warmth. He's not sure what's happening, but he's positive she wouldn't be guiding him to touch her if he were in trouble. Wheatley sucks in a jagged breath and slopes his hand down to her hip, cupping there, thumb testing the elasticity of the pair of black panties that still cover her. In response, she ropes her fingers around the waistband of her underwear, shimmies them off, and then he's free to feel unhindered. There's a thatch of dark hair below, like him, but there is a distinct difference in anatomy. He's swimming in heat and very hard and not exactly sure what he's allowed to touch, and so he keeps his hand upon her hip, squeezing softly.
Chell is closer now, close enough that he can feel her breathing against his chest. She nudges against the pajamas with her thigh, and before he can register what's happening, she bats the clothes from his grip; both the pajamas and the towel join her shirt on the floor.
And then she's bringing his other hand around her as she comes flush with his body, pressing her skin so very close. She feels so good and when her belly rubs against the stiffness between his legs he grips her tighter and moans.
"You need to tell me what's happening," he breathes, watching her as she guides his hands upward, upward, up the ladder of her ribs and toward her breasts. "I mean, it feels amazing, so don't think I want to stop, because I don't—u-unless you want to, of course, I just don't understand—I don't—ahh—"
Wheatley eats his words when his palms meet soft skin. She cradles his hands against her and his thumbs brush against the raised peaks of her nipples. There's a knowing smile that curves her lips, and the warmth and the closeness and the touch is driving him insane.
"You feel incredible," he says.
A mischievous smile crosses Chell's lips and she squeezes overtop his hands before pulling away. He watches her as she leans down to turn on the faucet in the tub. The sound of running water plays an anxious note down his spine, but when he sees her signal him into the shower with the flick of her hand coupled with a sultry grin, it's completely forgotten.
"I'm—well, I'm already clean, you know," says Wheatley, awkwardly pushing aside the curtain and stepping in. His glasses sit on the side of the sink. "S'what I was doing before this. Just popped out because I forgot my clothes. So I don't really need another. Quite clean. Spotless, even."
Chell pulls up on the shower switch. Warm water drenches them both, but what he notices is how it pours down the curves of her body. She peers over her shoulder at him, wet hair cascading down her back, one eyebrow raised.
"N-not that I mind another!" he amends.
Chell's shoulders shake with silent laughter. She turns, droplets dropping across her face, and her small hands reach up to frame his jaws. He can feel her breasts against his skin and it makes him harder and throb with—with want.
His mouth is open again and he's about to ask what she's doing because god if he knows, but before he can, she pulls him down.
There is a brief moment where he can see into the pale blue of her eyes. He sees the little creases as she smiles, the delight in her face, the water running down. Her fingers coax him near, gentle and soft, and she presses her lips against his.
The warmth and the water wash over him. Wheatley can't hold back anymore, and so encompasses her in his arms, reveling in the contact, the touch, the heat, and he holds her close.