Prompt 022: "Wheatley touching himself for the first time?"

There are many things about the human body that puzzle Wheatley. He's used to everything serving a purpose. Machines are quite big on functionality, and his previous body was all about it. Nothing was there just because or just for show. Although, they did tell him he would die if he performed certain actions… but that doesn't really count, does it? They lied about it. They lied a lot, actually. Everything still served a purpose, even if they lied about it. Liars.

Humans, though. Humans. Humans are a train wreck. There are things that are required for basic function, of course—he doesn't have a problem with those, not at all—but others just seem so unnecessary and pointless. It's ridiculous. And quite frankly, he has no idea why they even exist.

Erections happen to be one of those things.

The first time it happens, Wheatley is barely awake. The sun seeps under the curtains in a blinding pool and he is convinced it is far too bloody bright for anyone right now, and so he rolls onto his side and pulls the sheets over his face. As he settles in, he becomes aware that there's this tight sort of ache below. Weird. That's new. And his decision to escape the sun has somehow made it worse.

Drowsy and confused, he feels down the plane of his belly with his palm. Stomach's fine; nothing there. Some skin, some hair. That's good. All normal. Nothing out of the ordinary. But that's not where that feeling's coming from, is it? No. A bit lower then.

When Wheatley discovers that there is actually something in his trousers, he bolts up and shoves down the blankets in a panic.

"What? Oh, you're joking. You have got to be kidding me. It does this as well? How?"

He plucks his waistband between thumb and forefinger and pulls it away. What he's met with confirms his suspicions. It is not a foreign entity, but very much a part of him—just different. It's certainly never done this before. It's thicker and bigger, and it's, well… up.

"How is this even possible?" he says, staring down in disbelief. "Seriously. I mean, what happened? I was sleeping. Wasn't doing anything at all. What is it supposed to do?"

Gingerly, he attempts to press it down with the pad of his thumb. He knows he shouldn't be surprised, but it feels much different than before. It's still sort of velvety, but whatever's happened to it has made it stiff, rigid, and the skin isn't so pliable. It still has some give; it just puts up some resistance, like the flesh at the juncture of his thumb and forefinger.

Wheatley bites his lip as it pops back up again. Determined bugger.

"There's got to be a way to make it normal again," he mutters. "Can't rightly go around like this. Looks ridiculous."

He draws a breath and gives himself time to inspect it further. Framing it with the shape of his willowy hand, he runs his fingers up the sides. There are veins, he notices; those certainly weren't there before. Or perhaps they were? He's never actually bothered to look. Not exactly the most interesting place to poke around. Rather sensitive.

Wheatley tries to ignore the tension below and tilts it to the side in hopes of finding… well, something. There's got to be something he's missing. There must be a reason this has happened, he thinks, though he can't imagine what. It seems bizarre to have a part of you just up and change all willy nilly.

Sensitive is right, though. Sensitive is very right. His fingers brush the tip in his exploration and muscles twitch inside and outside of him in a delicious twist and it moves. While that should worry him—the moving, that is, because seriously, what the bloody hell—the spark of pleasure that struck through him is far more interesting.

"Absolutely mad," he murmurs. "Humans deal with this?"

His fingers have curled around it at the base, a testing grip, he moves upward with a gentle stroke. He can feel his nerves ignite and the aching tightens but it's not a bad ache, no; it feels good. A shiver climbs through him, pouring down his backbone, and he sucks in a sharp breath as his hand slides its way back down. There's this small whisper scratching in the back of his mind that says he should probably stop. He should go find Chell, ask what's wrong, ask what his body's doing, because he honestly has no idea what's happening and this is completely different and not definitely normal—but god, it feels good.

Wheatley's eyes have fluttered shut and his spine has arced backward. Breathing has become more of a chore than it was, and he can feel the rhythm of his heartbeat throb in his neck. The heat inside of him is coiling; he's become so much thicker and harder and he doesn't know what he's doing but the raw pleasure of his strokes only short-circuits his mind.

There's a blurry conglomerate of her face that trumps all of his fragmented thoughts. It sharpens into the shape of her body, the slopes and curves and just—god, the way she is. There is powerful desire there, he notices; amongst everything else, he just wants her there more than anything in the world, and he hasn't the faintest idea why.

"God," he whispers, "god, what is this? I—ah, that's good, that—that feels—ahhh."

Wheatley bites the back of his right knuckle to quiet himself as he continues to pump with his other hand. He's so focused on how everything feels, how hot and how incredible it is, and how it's drawing closer somehow, building, how he wants her, how he needs this, and when the pleasure peaks, he breathes a hoarse moan and becomes so overwhelmed with that shaking, consuming sensation of release that he crashes back into the headboard, a trembling wreck.

After a brief moment of recovery and reflection, Wheatley peers down at his belly. There's sticky white mess on his hand, his stomach, his trousers—everywhere.

"Ugh." He grimaces and flexes his fingers, watching the warm fluid drip. "That was… well, that was amazing. More than amazing, if I'm honest. But if this going to happen afterward, I… well, I don't actually know if it's worth it."

Taking care not to let his hand touch the sheets, he leans forward and curls back into a sit. He swings his legs off the side of the bed and stares curiously down at his groin.

"Well," says Wheatley. "At least it's normal again."