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schmericaHello, friends. Here, have 2200 words of teenage Charles/girl!Erik make-outs.
you've had a hold on me
*****
Erika is curled up in the corner of the couch, reading a book, when Charles climbs up the ladder. He's out of breath, though he tries to hide it from her -- he had dropped his bags on his bed as soon as he got home, and then practically ran his way across the grounds to the treehouse to get here as quick as he could. Or, well, as close to running as he could, given the handful of inches of snow on the ground.
Erika sets the book down on the cushion, and brings her knees up close to her chest. "I thought you said you'd be back by noon."
"The flight was delayed," Charles says. Salt in the wound, the few extra hours in his mother, stepfather, and stepbrother's company, in a crowded airport, no less. Charles had gotten a headache from the sheer amount of annoyance and unhappiness and irritation of the minds surrounding him in every direction, and he'd ended up stealing one of his mother's pills from her purse and slept most of the flight. "I hope you weren't waiting too long."
Erika shrugs. "It doesn't matter." It's nicer here than at home, anyway, Erika thinks. Charles is almost certain she doesn't intend for him to catch the thought, but he does nonetheless, even the slight bitter edge to it -- that the treehouse, a throwaway plaything for his family, is in better shape than the apartment she and her dad share.
It was built when Charles was quite little, but he didn't really start using it much until after Mother and Kurt got married, right before he started middle school. He appreciated it so much more, once the house got so much more unpleasant. It's warm out here, even in the winter, and cozy, and most of all private. If it had wifi and food delivery, he could live here.
He and Erika used to spend hours and hours out here, afternoons after school and whole days during summer vacation. It's been a long while, though, since the last time they hung out here. Erika emailed him, a few days after he left for Christmas vacation, with plans to meet up when he got back, but Charles still doesn't know why.
Charles takes off his things, hat and scarf and coat and boots, and leaves them at the edge of the room where Erika's already lay. He runs a hand through his hair, feeling a little self-conscious about it, and sits on the opposite end of the couch from Erika. To his surprise, she turns sideways, letting her legs extend to the ground, facing Charles as she sets an arm across the top of the couch.
Charles isn't used to this. It's been ages now since she started shying away from him, setting her body language clearly and unmistakably to don't get too close. Not that Charles is particularly good at body language, but the tint of her thoughts, the clear walls that weren't there before, gave the message just as clearly.
He's always taken his cues from her. He feels a little nervous, now, though he doesn't know why. He turns in his seat to mirror her.
"So what's up?" Charles says, trying for a casual smile. "Did you have a good break?"
Erika shrugs. She's picking at a loose thread in her jeans, and for the first time Charles notices what she's wearing - an oversized gray sweatshirt with the logo of the company her dad works for, and ratty jeans with paint stains dotting the fabric. That's out of character for her, too, Charles realizes; Erika always takes what seems like a ridiculous amount of pains to look flawless. When they were younger, Charles had gone shopping with her a few times, to the thrift shops and secondhand stores she shopped at, and watched her pick out the few things that met her perfectionist standards, half of which would go on to be altered by her sewing machine as well. Once or twice he even watched her do her make-up and hair, a lengthy and tedious process that left her looking untouchable and perfect and a little scary.
Erika hasn't let him see her like that in years, of course, but he doesn't doubt her routine is similar. But she's not wearing make-up today, either, as far as he can tell.
"It was fine," Erika says. "Boring. I got a lot of studying done. Worked on my mutation exercises." She hesitates before saying, "I had a lot of time to think."
"Yeah?" Charles says. "About what?"
Erika frowns, looking almost angry, although the faint awareness of her thoughts Charles allows himself doesn't feel angry. "About you, mostly."
Charles freezes for a moment, and has to remind himself to breathe. He looks away from Erika, scanning the plain walls, the rug on the floor that his mother had decided was too old to remain in the house.
He's known Erika for five years, since she moved to town when he was eleven and she was almost twelve. He is fairly certain he's been in love with her almost that long. She's not very nice, and she's prickly and sensitive as all get-out, and he doesn't half-understand her, and she's the best friend he's ever had, and he's never said a word to her about it but he's sure she's always known. He's never dared to check, though, since he didn't really want to know the answer.
He can feel Erika moving forward a bit on the couch.
"What about me?" Charles says, folding his hands carefully in his lap.
"About how I wanted to punch you in the face," Erika says softly, and Charles blinks in surprise and turns back toward her.
Erika is biting her lip, still looking pissed at the world. "I kept thinking about you going to the stupid winter dance with Gabby Haller, and I just -- wanted to hit you. And her. But mostly you. It's so stupid, Charles, I don't even know, it's just... She's not that pretty, or that smart, and she's not even a mutant."
Charles has no idea what to say to any of this.
"And the more I thought about you with her, the angrier I got. And then I heard you kissed Logan at Alex's party before you left--"
"That was a dare," Charles interjects quickly, though he's embarrassed by it immediately afterward. It's true, for whatever that's worth, and it's not like he's interested in Logan that way, but he sounds so kneejerk defensive about the idea, when really he's not even sure he's completely straight.
Erika ignores his input, though, continuing on, "--and that made angry, too, and the whole thing is just... it's been driving me crazy the last couple weeks."
Charles's impulse is to apologize, but that's utterly ridiculous; he hasn't done a single thing wrong. "I mean," he starts, a little awkwardly, fidgeting in his seat, "none of that has anything to do with you."
The glare Erika gives him could cut glass.
"What?" Charles says.
"I don't want you kissing people," Erika says, slowly, as if Charles is being particularly thick.
Charles is starting to get a bit angry, too. "What-- what is that supposed to mean?" he says. "You can't just say things like that--"
Erika makes a frustrated noise in the back of her throat, and, kneeling up on the cushion, pulls her sweatshirt over her head.
Charles goes silent immediately.
She's not wearing anything underneath, not a t-shirt, not even a bra. It's a sight Charles has imagined a thousand times or more, even with all the work he's put into trying not to think about Erika that way. Her skin's paler than he imagined it (but of course, it's winter, too), and she looks even skinnier without clothes covering her, the bones of her ribcage visible. Her breasts are small but lovely, with large brown aureole and little pink nipples that point slightly to the side. Charles can't look away.
There are a lot of thoughts that seem to be going through Charles's head, all at the same time. That this has to be a dream, for example. That this is too amazing to be real. Or that maybe it isn't real, that Erika is doing this for some stupid reason, and not because she really wants him like he always has her -- maybe he's pressured her somehow, without even knowing it, through his powers. Can he do that? Is that a thing? Is he supposed to say no and prove he's a good person, like some kind of weird test from the universe?
He's still staring, though, and he still hasn't said anything, and he can hear the impatience in Erika's head -- and even more, hidden behind that, her embarrassment and nervousness. Erika hides those things better than anyone; Charles doesn't think anybody but him ever gets to see them.
It occurs to him, all at once, that Erika will never forgive him if he says the wrong thing right now, and, further, that if he were to turn her down, she'd probably be humiliated and never speak to him again.
Charles raises his eyes away from her chest until he's meeting her gaze, which is frank and surprisingly open. "You're so pretty," he tells her, and even to his own ears he sounds ridiculously earnest.
Erika huffs out a soft laugh, and when Charles tentatively offers her his hand, she lets him draw her in close to him. He kisses her carefully, gently, and she responds equally softly. Charles isn't certain, but he thinks this is probably her first kiss. He lets his hand rest on the small of her back; after a while he can feel the tension start to ease out of her muscles, as she starts to relax and get more comfortable, pushing Charles's slow pace and dragging them deeper and deeper.
It's a few minutes later that Erika pulls away, removing the warmth and weight of her body completely from Charles. Charles feels a little dazed from the kissing, and he just looks at her a little stupidly until she reaches to tug on the hem of his jumper.
"Your sweater's a little itchy," Erika says, raising an eyebrow.
"Oh," Charles says, getting the hint, and he scrambles to pull it off and throw it onto the floor beside the sofa.
This time, Erika climbs on top of him, straddling his lap. He places his hands on her waist to steady her; when she sits back, he knows she has to feel the bulge of his erection through both their jeans, but she doesn't say anything, just tilts her head down to kiss him again.
Everything seems to go blurry after that, all mouths and tongue and heat, and Charles isn't really sure how much time has passed. It's only the feeling of his button coming undone, and then the slow tooth-by-tooth pull of his zipper, that bring him back to himself.
"Hey," he gasps out, against the sweaty column of Erika's neck, "wait a second."
Erika's hands are both on his shoulders, bracing herself there as she rubs the seam of her jeans down against Charles's thigh, but she stops both the motion of her body and the use of her powers at Charles's words. "You don't want to?" she says, and it's comforting that she sounds just as breathless as Charles does.
"It's not that," Charles says, aiming the words at Erika's perfect shoulder. "We're just going really fast, and we haven't really talked." It's farther, actually, than Charles has ever gone with anybody; before this, the furthest reaches of his sexual experiences were weekly make-out sessions with Emma Frost last spring when they were lab partners and studied at her house, and those never went beyond some light above-the-waist petting.
"You want to talk?" Erika's disbelief echoes in both her voice and her mind.
Charles sighs inwardly and presses a final kiss to her skin before moving his head to an angle where he can look her in the eye. She's scowling down at him and it's unfair, he thinks, that even that looks so irresistibly gorgeous on her.
"I kinda do, yeah," he says quietly. "Or at least, I want to know what's happening."
Erika says, "I should think that's obvious," in a rather caustic voice, the kind that might be hurtful if Charles didn't know it was covering up fear.
"You know what I mean."
Erika sighs and rearranges herself a little, settling her head against Charles's shoulder. "Can't we just..."
Charles waits for her to continue, running his hands up and down her back.
"I told you," Erika says after a minute. "I don't want you kissing anybody else."
"But you want me kissing you?" Charles says, carefully. He's not trying to push -- there's nothing he wants less than to spook Erika away -- but this is, she is, too important to him to not know exactly what the rules are here.
Another sigh from her. "I have to keep my grades up if I have any chance of a scholarship, and then there's swim team, and journalism, and my dad, and I just -- I'm not good at people, anyway, you know that. But you are, everybody likes you, everything's easy for you--"
"You know that's not true," Charles interrupts, but she just pokes him in the arm with her sharp bony finger and talks over him.
"--And it's not fair, and I just ... want you all to myself." More quietly, she repeats, "I just want you."
He doesn't say anything, but he folds his arms around her, as tightly as he can.
"You're not going to get all sappy on me now, Xavier, are you?" Erika whispers in his ear.
"Never," Charles lies, and then he distracts her long enough to manage to get her on her back, lying across the couch, and then he's too busy with her nipple in his mouth to declare his undying devotion and love for her, anyway.
you've had a hold on me
*****
Erika is curled up in the corner of the couch, reading a book, when Charles climbs up the ladder. He's out of breath, though he tries to hide it from her -- he had dropped his bags on his bed as soon as he got home, and then practically ran his way across the grounds to the treehouse to get here as quick as he could. Or, well, as close to running as he could, given the handful of inches of snow on the ground.
Erika sets the book down on the cushion, and brings her knees up close to her chest. "I thought you said you'd be back by noon."
"The flight was delayed," Charles says. Salt in the wound, the few extra hours in his mother, stepfather, and stepbrother's company, in a crowded airport, no less. Charles had gotten a headache from the sheer amount of annoyance and unhappiness and irritation of the minds surrounding him in every direction, and he'd ended up stealing one of his mother's pills from her purse and slept most of the flight. "I hope you weren't waiting too long."
Erika shrugs. "It doesn't matter." It's nicer here than at home, anyway, Erika thinks. Charles is almost certain she doesn't intend for him to catch the thought, but he does nonetheless, even the slight bitter edge to it -- that the treehouse, a throwaway plaything for his family, is in better shape than the apartment she and her dad share.
It was built when Charles was quite little, but he didn't really start using it much until after Mother and Kurt got married, right before he started middle school. He appreciated it so much more, once the house got so much more unpleasant. It's warm out here, even in the winter, and cozy, and most of all private. If it had wifi and food delivery, he could live here.
He and Erika used to spend hours and hours out here, afternoons after school and whole days during summer vacation. It's been a long while, though, since the last time they hung out here. Erika emailed him, a few days after he left for Christmas vacation, with plans to meet up when he got back, but Charles still doesn't know why.
Charles takes off his things, hat and scarf and coat and boots, and leaves them at the edge of the room where Erika's already lay. He runs a hand through his hair, feeling a little self-conscious about it, and sits on the opposite end of the couch from Erika. To his surprise, she turns sideways, letting her legs extend to the ground, facing Charles as she sets an arm across the top of the couch.
Charles isn't used to this. It's been ages now since she started shying away from him, setting her body language clearly and unmistakably to don't get too close. Not that Charles is particularly good at body language, but the tint of her thoughts, the clear walls that weren't there before, gave the message just as clearly.
He's always taken his cues from her. He feels a little nervous, now, though he doesn't know why. He turns in his seat to mirror her.
"So what's up?" Charles says, trying for a casual smile. "Did you have a good break?"
Erika shrugs. She's picking at a loose thread in her jeans, and for the first time Charles notices what she's wearing - an oversized gray sweatshirt with the logo of the company her dad works for, and ratty jeans with paint stains dotting the fabric. That's out of character for her, too, Charles realizes; Erika always takes what seems like a ridiculous amount of pains to look flawless. When they were younger, Charles had gone shopping with her a few times, to the thrift shops and secondhand stores she shopped at, and watched her pick out the few things that met her perfectionist standards, half of which would go on to be altered by her sewing machine as well. Once or twice he even watched her do her make-up and hair, a lengthy and tedious process that left her looking untouchable and perfect and a little scary.
Erika hasn't let him see her like that in years, of course, but he doesn't doubt her routine is similar. But she's not wearing make-up today, either, as far as he can tell.
"It was fine," Erika says. "Boring. I got a lot of studying done. Worked on my mutation exercises." She hesitates before saying, "I had a lot of time to think."
"Yeah?" Charles says. "About what?"
Erika frowns, looking almost angry, although the faint awareness of her thoughts Charles allows himself doesn't feel angry. "About you, mostly."
Charles freezes for a moment, and has to remind himself to breathe. He looks away from Erika, scanning the plain walls, the rug on the floor that his mother had decided was too old to remain in the house.
He's known Erika for five years, since she moved to town when he was eleven and she was almost twelve. He is fairly certain he's been in love with her almost that long. She's not very nice, and she's prickly and sensitive as all get-out, and he doesn't half-understand her, and she's the best friend he's ever had, and he's never said a word to her about it but he's sure she's always known. He's never dared to check, though, since he didn't really want to know the answer.
He can feel Erika moving forward a bit on the couch.
"What about me?" Charles says, folding his hands carefully in his lap.
"About how I wanted to punch you in the face," Erika says softly, and Charles blinks in surprise and turns back toward her.
Erika is biting her lip, still looking pissed at the world. "I kept thinking about you going to the stupid winter dance with Gabby Haller, and I just -- wanted to hit you. And her. But mostly you. It's so stupid, Charles, I don't even know, it's just... She's not that pretty, or that smart, and she's not even a mutant."
Charles has no idea what to say to any of this.
"And the more I thought about you with her, the angrier I got. And then I heard you kissed Logan at Alex's party before you left--"
"That was a dare," Charles interjects quickly, though he's embarrassed by it immediately afterward. It's true, for whatever that's worth, and it's not like he's interested in Logan that way, but he sounds so kneejerk defensive about the idea, when really he's not even sure he's completely straight.
Erika ignores his input, though, continuing on, "--and that made angry, too, and the whole thing is just... it's been driving me crazy the last couple weeks."
Charles's impulse is to apologize, but that's utterly ridiculous; he hasn't done a single thing wrong. "I mean," he starts, a little awkwardly, fidgeting in his seat, "none of that has anything to do with you."
The glare Erika gives him could cut glass.
"What?" Charles says.
"I don't want you kissing people," Erika says, slowly, as if Charles is being particularly thick.
Charles is starting to get a bit angry, too. "What-- what is that supposed to mean?" he says. "You can't just say things like that--"
Erika makes a frustrated noise in the back of her throat, and, kneeling up on the cushion, pulls her sweatshirt over her head.
Charles goes silent immediately.
She's not wearing anything underneath, not a t-shirt, not even a bra. It's a sight Charles has imagined a thousand times or more, even with all the work he's put into trying not to think about Erika that way. Her skin's paler than he imagined it (but of course, it's winter, too), and she looks even skinnier without clothes covering her, the bones of her ribcage visible. Her breasts are small but lovely, with large brown aureole and little pink nipples that point slightly to the side. Charles can't look away.
There are a lot of thoughts that seem to be going through Charles's head, all at the same time. That this has to be a dream, for example. That this is too amazing to be real. Or that maybe it isn't real, that Erika is doing this for some stupid reason, and not because she really wants him like he always has her -- maybe he's pressured her somehow, without even knowing it, through his powers. Can he do that? Is that a thing? Is he supposed to say no and prove he's a good person, like some kind of weird test from the universe?
He's still staring, though, and he still hasn't said anything, and he can hear the impatience in Erika's head -- and even more, hidden behind that, her embarrassment and nervousness. Erika hides those things better than anyone; Charles doesn't think anybody but him ever gets to see them.
It occurs to him, all at once, that Erika will never forgive him if he says the wrong thing right now, and, further, that if he were to turn her down, she'd probably be humiliated and never speak to him again.
Charles raises his eyes away from her chest until he's meeting her gaze, which is frank and surprisingly open. "You're so pretty," he tells her, and even to his own ears he sounds ridiculously earnest.
Erika huffs out a soft laugh, and when Charles tentatively offers her his hand, she lets him draw her in close to him. He kisses her carefully, gently, and she responds equally softly. Charles isn't certain, but he thinks this is probably her first kiss. He lets his hand rest on the small of her back; after a while he can feel the tension start to ease out of her muscles, as she starts to relax and get more comfortable, pushing Charles's slow pace and dragging them deeper and deeper.
It's a few minutes later that Erika pulls away, removing the warmth and weight of her body completely from Charles. Charles feels a little dazed from the kissing, and he just looks at her a little stupidly until she reaches to tug on the hem of his jumper.
"Your sweater's a little itchy," Erika says, raising an eyebrow.
"Oh," Charles says, getting the hint, and he scrambles to pull it off and throw it onto the floor beside the sofa.
This time, Erika climbs on top of him, straddling his lap. He places his hands on her waist to steady her; when she sits back, he knows she has to feel the bulge of his erection through both their jeans, but she doesn't say anything, just tilts her head down to kiss him again.
Everything seems to go blurry after that, all mouths and tongue and heat, and Charles isn't really sure how much time has passed. It's only the feeling of his button coming undone, and then the slow tooth-by-tooth pull of his zipper, that bring him back to himself.
"Hey," he gasps out, against the sweaty column of Erika's neck, "wait a second."
Erika's hands are both on his shoulders, bracing herself there as she rubs the seam of her jeans down against Charles's thigh, but she stops both the motion of her body and the use of her powers at Charles's words. "You don't want to?" she says, and it's comforting that she sounds just as breathless as Charles does.
"It's not that," Charles says, aiming the words at Erika's perfect shoulder. "We're just going really fast, and we haven't really talked." It's farther, actually, than Charles has ever gone with anybody; before this, the furthest reaches of his sexual experiences were weekly make-out sessions with Emma Frost last spring when they were lab partners and studied at her house, and those never went beyond some light above-the-waist petting.
"You want to talk?" Erika's disbelief echoes in both her voice and her mind.
Charles sighs inwardly and presses a final kiss to her skin before moving his head to an angle where he can look her in the eye. She's scowling down at him and it's unfair, he thinks, that even that looks so irresistibly gorgeous on her.
"I kinda do, yeah," he says quietly. "Or at least, I want to know what's happening."
Erika says, "I should think that's obvious," in a rather caustic voice, the kind that might be hurtful if Charles didn't know it was covering up fear.
"You know what I mean."
Erika sighs and rearranges herself a little, settling her head against Charles's shoulder. "Can't we just..."
Charles waits for her to continue, running his hands up and down her back.
"I told you," Erika says after a minute. "I don't want you kissing anybody else."
"But you want me kissing you?" Charles says, carefully. He's not trying to push -- there's nothing he wants less than to spook Erika away -- but this is, she is, too important to him to not know exactly what the rules are here.
Another sigh from her. "I have to keep my grades up if I have any chance of a scholarship, and then there's swim team, and journalism, and my dad, and I just -- I'm not good at people, anyway, you know that. But you are, everybody likes you, everything's easy for you--"
"You know that's not true," Charles interrupts, but she just pokes him in the arm with her sharp bony finger and talks over him.
"--And it's not fair, and I just ... want you all to myself." More quietly, she repeats, "I just want you."
He doesn't say anything, but he folds his arms around her, as tightly as he can.
"You're not going to get all sappy on me now, Xavier, are you?" Erika whispers in his ear.
"Never," Charles lies, and then he distracts her long enough to manage to get her on her back, lying across the couch, and then he's too busy with her nipple in his mouth to declare his undying devotion and love for her, anyway.
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