Title: Send All My Loving To You
Fandom: X-Men: First Class
Characters/Pairings: Charles/Erik
Rating: NC-17
Length: ~3000
Content notes: Sexual content.
Author notes: For pearl_o (and betaed by her 'cause I'm classy), based on this NSFW gif. Non-powered college AU.
Summary: Charles is resigned to spending the next month lonely and depressed until he finds a letter from Erik tucked into his suitcase.


It's an impossibly long train ride from Boston to New York. The morning went by too fast--waking up and eating breakfast and taking the T into the city and then in no time Charles had his arms clamped hard around Erik, trying not to cry as Erik kissed the top of his head and said, "You'll be back soon. Hardly any time at all. Hey, it's okay. I love you."--and the afternoon drags as the countryside whips by, putting more and more miles between Charles and Erik. He's inconsolable by the time the train pulls into Penn Station, not that there's anyone there to console him, anyway. He walks to Grand Central through the afternoon crowds, New Yorkers who are accustomed to not asking and ignore his teary eyes. He catches the Metro-North train back towards home just before four, barely missing the start of the rush, and has a three seat bench to himself. Which is good, because he needs all three seats to adequately contain his misery.

He won't see Erik again for almost a month. Four weeks. He has to go back to the house without even Raven to distract him, and spend four weeks avoiding Kurt and Cain, utterly alone in general and without Erik specifically. It's amazing how quickly he's gotten used to having someone to rely on.

He rests his head against the window and allows himself to feel pitiful and miserable and cry just a little more. He'll need to be collected by the time he gets back to the house on the off-chance he bumps into his family. The last thing he wants on a day that's already been this hard is to endure another of Kurt's lengthy tirades about how he gets his fag side from his mother and those European queers.

He gets a cab at the train station and returns to a blessedly silent house. Andrew, the gardener, informs him that his mother, Kurt, and Cain left some time ago, dressed very nicely, and Charles takes that to mean he has the house to himself, at least until later that evening. It's good luck, and his tense muscles begin to unclench one at a time as he crosses through the house with his suitcase, unconcerned about the noise of the wheels on the hardwood floors. He makes himself dinner, which he eats standing at the kitchen counter, and then takes his bag up to his room where he promptly collapses on his bed.

A day of traveling is exhausting and, as hard as it was to leave Erik so early in the day, Charles is glad Erik made him take the earlier train. It's already past dinner time and if he'd left at four, he would have been even more exhausted getting in after dark. He's tired and upset enough as it is without that added stress.

He rolls onto his back and wishes Raven was home. They've barely had time to talk at all since Charles got back from school. Raven didn't join him for another two weeks and they had a week to catch up before she was off to camp. He wants someone to talk to--about school in general and about Erik, of course. Erik is all he can think about and while he's sure Raven is desperate for more details, he's equally sure that she would have gotten bored after another day or two of Charles' lengthy treatises on the perfection of Erik's eyes and smile and cock.

Still, he misses her.

And, yes, of course, he misses Erik.

He pulls his phone out of his pocket and checks for new texts, but it's disappointingly silent. He slides his thumb across the screen to remedy that and types in Bored, tired, miss you :(

There's a chance Erik is asleep or out or busy, but it's just a matter of seconds before his phone vibrates with a reply.

Top pocket of your suitcase.

A strange reply.

Charles tries to read it a few different ways, tries to parse it in his overly tired mind before giving in and typing, ???

Look in the top pocket of your suitcase, comes back. Then, You'll see it.

Charles reaches one arm out and is just able to grab the handle of his suitcase without getting up. He drags it over and unzips the top pocket, the one he keeps his phone charger and sunglasses in. Behind those things is an envelope that Charles pulls out carefully. His name is written on the front in Erik's distinctive handwriting.

Got it, he types one-handed. He puts the phone on the bed next to him and then opens the envelope.

It's a letter. Just a page long and typed, but addressed with "Charles" and signed in slanted print with Erik's own name. A love letter, Charles thinks, his lips curling into a smile, and he leans back into the pillows to read it.

Charles,

It's weird how easy it is to say some things and how hard it is to say others. It feels strange that I can tell you I love you and how much and how badly I want to be with you, even after all the shit we've been through this year, but that I get tripped up telling you you're beautiful.

You are. Even though I'm embarrassed even writing that down.

Charles wouldn't say he's embarrassed reading it, but he does blush, delighted and strangely shy. Erik's said it before, under something like duress, the heady hysteria of near-death experiences and shock-induced confessions and ten months of pent-up emotions looking for an escape all at once. You're beautiful, Erik told him the night of the car crash. I daydream about kissing you more than I do about fucking you. I've never felt this way before. I never want to stop touching you.

Charles confessed his own share of sappy declarations, but it hardly seemed to matter at the time, and he understands Erik's hesitance--he's had to pause as well before saying the things in his heart. It's hard to know what will be too much and to push past the fear of rejection and all the other mental blocks against being honest with Erik, being honest with himself.

He keeps reading.

I think about you all the time. It's probably partly hormones and loneliness, but part of it is just you and the way you make everything better than it was without you. You make me better. You make me brighter. I don't know how to explain it. I feel different around you. I feel different when I look at you. And I like looking at you.

I like looking at you when we're alone and when we're in bed and when we're out. Sometimes I can't look at you for too long when we're out, because all I can think about is how much I want to be in bed.

The bedroom is suddenly very warm and it's not just embarrassment heating Charles' cheeks up. He skims the rest of the letter to confirm, but forces his eyes back to the last line he read in full. It's a sexy letter. Erik wrote him a--an erotic--Erik wants him to jerk off reading this. Right? He's not wrong in that. He can't be.

He swallows. There's no one here to see if he gives in and no shame in doing it, either. This is no different than Erik talking dirty in his ear (not that Erik ever has), and he's jerked off to pornographic stories before. Of course, those were anonymous. They weren't about him and they weren't backed by this tangled expanse of feelings that's been growing since the moment he drunkenly laid eyes on Erik Lehnsherr on the back porch of the Kappa house.

He keeps reading, but leaves his pants on, despite his cock's interest in the proceedings. He does push his t-shirt up, though, just enough to lay the palm of his free hand on his stomach. He shivers at the skin to skin contact and forces himself to focus on the letter again.

The four months before I touched your cock for the first time were more torturous than--anything, I think. I think I jerked off more over those four months than I did the entire year I was seventeen. I would kiss you goodnight at the front door and then walk right back to my room and have my hand on my dick before I even got my pants all the way down. I would touch myself and think of you and try not to pass out with the force of it.

Fuck, Charles, everything about you turns me on. How smart you are, your mouth, your eyes, the way your hair falls in your face, your smile. I love when you kiss me and you bite my lower lip almost deliberately, like you know how sexy it is and you want to make sure I take note. I'm taking note. Fuck, am I taking note. Your hands on my body are so hot it's almost confusing, like sensory overload. You're so eager to touch me and you can't stop and you're so sure of yourself. Like you know you can do whatever you want to me and I'd let you. I would. I'd let you do anything.

Charles' nails are digging into his stomach. He's panting and he can feel his heart slamming against his ribcage, out of control as he thinks of Erik imagining all of this, remembering it, sitting down to write it out. He was probably hard just thinking about it, at least as hard as Charles is now and he has to rub the front of his jeans, whining high in his throat at the feeling of the thick fabric pulling at his erection. Erik rubs him through the placket of his pants when they're making out, sometimes, before they move forward, before it changes from kissing to full-on groping. Just Erik's huge hand pressing against him once or twice, as if measuring his effect on Charles before deciding to continue.

Charles rubs himself again and has to tilt his head back and moan at the feeling, at the memory of Erik doing the same thing, at the thought of Erik jerking himself off as he wrote, his mind full of images of Charles.

He has to unzip his jeans and push them out of the way. His ears are ringing with arousal as he tries to keep reading.

In case you haven't realized it already, I'm half distracted from writing these words by thinking about you and touching myself. I do that every night, now that we're apart. I don't even bother looking at porn anymore, Charles, I just think about you, about watching you sink to your knees before you take my cock in your mouth or the look on your face when you put your hands on my knees and slowly pull them apart as you get ready to fuck me. When you want something, the look in your eyes could start fires and seeing that look directed at me is almost enough to make me come without being touched. I nearly did the first time, when you crawled up my bed and put your hands on my thighs and pushed. I knew exactly what you were thinking about, what you wanted, and I wanted it so badly I nearly came all over your face. And then I thought about the sight of my come on your face and it almost happened again.

Charles' hand is definitely on his cock now. He's past trying to hide it or ignore it. He's thinking about fucking Erik. He's thinking about sucking Erik's cock and feeling Erik fuck him. Erik is huge, bigger than any other guy Charles has slept with, and the fervor that comes over Charles every time he sees Erik's cock is embarrassing. He wants it in him all the time. He wants it in his mouth or his ass or to close his fist around it. Nothing else has ever felt that good and he squeezes his own cock desperately thinking about it.

He thinks about Erik's come marking him, dripping from his face or his chest. He thinks of grinding it down until it's a part of him, a permanent mark, proof that he and Erik belong together. His cock leaks at the thought and his hands shake.

I want to tell you all these things to your face. I want to be able to look you in the eye and tell you how badly I want your mouth around my cock. I want to tell you that I have dreams about how perfect your ass is. I want to tell you that when I see you bending over in the halls, I want to come up behind you and rub myself on your ass until I come in my pants. Right there in the hall in front of everyone. I don't care who sees me rubbing off against you while I jerk you in time to the pressure.

I want to touch every part of you. I want to count your freckles. I want to fuck you until we're both bruised and sore.

Charles can't breathe. Suddenly he wants nothing more than to be on his hands and knees with Erik behind him. He shudders and twists his hand on his cock, pumps faster and faster. He wants to close his eyes and picture Erik touching himself, but he wants to keep reading just as badly. Reading wins out, but barely.

I'm at my desk in my dorm. Bruce is in class and I'm supposed to go out and meet you for dinner in half an hour, but class got out early and this is what I'm doing with my time. I'm sitting at my computer, typing this letter with one hand on my cock, and imagining what would happen if you walked in right now.

You'd be surprised, I think, but you're good at rolling with the punches. I think you would kneel down between my legs without even asking. I think you would go at my cock like you were starving and you would look up at me with those eyes, those huge blue eyes while you moan around my cock like it's all you want. I don't know if that's show or if you really do want me as much as I want you. I hope it's the latter, but it doesn't matter. That noise does things to me. Hearing you moan like that gets me hard in seconds. Feeling it around my cock is enough to set me off.

I'd come down your throat. Or maybe in your mouth. Or maybe on your face. I'd come with your lips stretched around me like you want it all inside of you, just from hearing you make that noise.

Charles squeezes his eyes shut and snaps his wrist again and again, his mouth watering at the thought of Erik's cock, his brain painting the picture in intimate detail, down to the feeling of Erik's hands on his cheeks.

He gasps high and rough when he comes, streaking his own belly at the thought of Erik licking his mouth and face clean.

Oh god. Erik wrote him a dirty letter and he jerked off reading it. Erik wrote him something entirely to make him come and the thought is almost enough to make him hard again.

He tries to focus on the letter again. His vision swims slightly in lassitude.

I just took care of myself. I hope you did too.

This wasn't really at all what I intended. I seriously can't believe I wrote that and I don't think I can read it again without being totally embarrassed, so nevermind the typos. But it's all true. Please never doubt that you're sexy and insanely irresistible. Please never doubt that you're the only person I want to be with. Please never doubt that every day of this summer is going to be awful.

I love you, Charles. I know I've said it before, but I'm going to say it over and over again until I'm sure you know it. And the next time I see you, I'm going to try and tell you what it is you do to me without being embarrassed by the words that want to come out.

I hope this helps with the month we're about to spend apart. Think of me often and use this as much as you need to. And please feel free to write a response. I'm going to be lonely too, after all.

Love,
Erik

Charles stares at the signature, still breathing hard. He carefully traces the letters of Erik's name with his nail, careful not to smudge the paper with the sweat and come on his hand. He can't stop smiling. He misses Erik more than ever, but he can't stop smiling.

He'll send Erik a response. He shivers at the thought, at the idea of spending the month exchanging sexy letters, working each other up into a frenzy before they finally see each other again in July.

Maybe a month apart won't be so bad if they can make a game out of it.

He's too tired to think of a proper letter right now, though. Between a day traveling and the peace of orgasm, Charles is ready to nod off for the night. He tucks the letter onto his nightstand and grabs some tissues to clean up. Before he mops himself off, though, he pauses.

He puts the tissues down and picks up his phone.

He's never done this before and he understands the risks of putting this out there, but he trusts Erik and he's chasing the thrill of Erik's letter. He pulls up the camera and takes a photo of the lower half of his body, dirty and ruined, and sends it to Erik. Mission Accomplished, he types.

He doesn't wait for a reply. He retrieves the tissues and mops himself up, discarding them in the wastepaper basket once he's through. He places the phone on his nightstand and then reaches to turn off the lamp. He tugs at his blankets until they're up over his shoulders and sighs into his pillow.

He falls asleep with a smile on his face, already dreaming up his reply.