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Lucid Dreaming

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Oh. He hasn't had this dream in a while. Decades, probably. Yet it's still as vivid as ever. Charles' bedroom. Charles' bedroom, 1962. Magneto turns and finds the Charles of 1962 - all freckled porcelain and soft brown waves - snuggled naked in bed beside him, and in his groggy state Magneto thinks to himself, Well. This is a nice surprise.

Magneto lifts the blankets to get a better look, and he is far from disappointed. Dream-Charles's ass is better than he remembers, and Magneto doesn't wait three seconds before he reaches out to run his hand over it. Charles doesn't wake; he only hums a little, turns fully onto his side, and pulls the blankets closer. If anything, he's given Magneto an opening, which Magneto, being Magneto, promptly takes advantage of. He presses himself against Charles' back, spooning himself against his soft, pale skin, taking a moment to shudder with pleasure at the sensation before he lets go of Charles, rolls onto his back, and unties his drawstring pajama bottoms.

He reaches into his drawers and finds that he's already beginning to get hard - and wasn't that kind of the dream to allow him be in his early thirties, too. Not that he wouldn't have enjoyed the dream in his current body, but this is a nice perk.

Why hasn't Charles woken up yet? he wonders as he strokes himself to his full potential. The other times he's had this dream, Charles always woke up and made those delicious little noises he used to make, then climbed on top of him and rode him until they were both making sounds neither of them would admit to in the morning. But the dream has only just started, Magneto reminds himself; there’s no need to rush. Let it play out.

And then he thinks, Bit strange that I'm thinking about all this...

Lucid dreaming. That's what it's called. He can't remember ever having lucid dreams before, but of all the dreams in which he could be lucid, this really is not a bad choice. Top Ten. Top Five, even.

Magneto pulls his cock out of his embarrassingly old fashioned white briefs - he has to give this dream points for accuracy, at least - and spreads Charles’ legs.

Charles rolls away ("Mmmf. Erik, not now..."), but Magneto wraps his arm around Charles' chest and pulls him closer, until Charles turns and gently pushes him away. "Go to sleep."

What the hell kind of sex dream is this, anyway? Magneto thinks sleepily, and pulls Charles closer once again, waiting for him to make the noise and kick off the dream as he remembers it.

"Knock it off, Erik," Charles says instead, and pushes him away once more. "For god's sake. We just had sex an hour ago. I appreciate your enthusiasm, but I need to get some sleep."

Magneto rolls onto his back and stares at the ceiling for a few minutes. He can feel his cock beginning to deflate (and he decides that must be a small bit of reality creeping into the dream; obviously his younger self was incredibly virile), and he sighs in defeat.

"Damn tedious waste of a sex dream," he mumbles, and falls back to sleep.


Magneto wakes again. Same dream. Same room. Same bed. Still 1962.

This time, it's 6:30 in the morning and Charles is sitting at his desk flipping through some papers. He puts them down and looks up at Erik with a sigh. "Couldn't sleep after all," he says with an air of apology.

Magneto rubs his eyes and looks around, marveling at how vivid and detailed it all is. His memory was never this good. None of this feels like a dream. Everything looks the way it looked then. Everything feels the way it did then. When he reaches out magnetically he finds that the old copper wiring is in place, the underground bunkers he would give almost anything to visit don't seem to be there at all, and the school is definitely not equipped for Wi-Fi. That he knows for certain. No Wi-Fi, for him, is like breathing mountain air: crisp and clear. Normally he'd pay good money for a Wi-Fi free getaway, but this is unnerving. He stretches his senses out through the entire house in search of a wheelchair and doesn't find so much as a rolling desk chair. Not that it's a surprise, considering Charles is standing up and walking towards him.

And all at once he realizes that this is not a dream. This is something else entirely.

He waits until Charles gets closer. "You look like you're as nervous about all this as I am,” Charles says as he approaches Magneto's side of the bed. “But don't worry. I--"

Magneto reaches out and grabs Charles by his collar, his stupid blue collar peeking out from that stupid old cardigan. "Who are you?" Magneto snarls. "What is the meaning of this?" Quickly Magneto tries to think of any mutants he knows who could pull off such a feat – trapping him in a world of his own memory – and Professor X is the only one he can think of who could do it. But that doesn't seem like the professor's style, and though it might be a stretch to call them “friends” at this point, Magneto hasn't done anything lately that would inspire him to such a stunt.

Charles struggles a bit and sputters, "What the hell are you -- Let go of me! How dare you!" No, this isn't the work of The X-Men. This recreation of Charles as he actually was then is too accurate: bossy, pretty, soft, and manipulative. If this Charles was an X-Men Creation, it would be the Charles they worship, the one that exists only in his followers' minds.

Magneto stands, the Charles-facsimile still firmly in his grasp, and towers over him. "You tell me right now what is going on or I will tear your blood out of you through your pores, do you understand?"

Charles trembles - though he doesn't seem to think Magneto has noticed - and begins to lift his hand towards his head. Magneto gasps. This proto-Professor X can't even use his powers without a finger to his temple! If he'd wanted proof that this wasn't his doing, that was it. The Charles he knows would never sacrifice his powers in the name of accuracy. He lets loose a maniacal laugh, saying, "Go on! Try it! Do you think I can't block this Charles?"

Charles drops his hand, looking indignant. "'This Charles'? What is that supposed to mean?"

Magneto shakes his head and lets go of him. Whatever this all is, 1962-Charles is not a threat to him, nor is any of the other junior X-Men that might be roaming the hallways of this house.

Speaking of which...

Magneto throws on his robe (and, passing a mirror, is pleased to note that he's still looking like 1962-Erik) and stalks down the hallway. "Mystique?" he calls. "Mystique!"

A moment later, a young blond woman steps into the hallway.

He stands there dumbstruck for a minute, gaping at her. Raven. He’d forgotten about Raven. He doesn’t know what he was thinking: of course Mystique isn’t here. His Mystique doesn’t exist yet. Raven thinks he’s using a fun codename. His disappointment must show, because she holds her chin a little higher and flickers back to blue.

“Like we talked about, right?” she says, and he hasn’t the foggiest idea what she’s referring to, but he nods anyway.

“Erik, what on earth is going on?” asks Charles from behind him, and Magneto doesn’t know what to say. His mouth opens and closes a couple of times, but nothing comes out. He’s surrounded by ghosts. Or perhaps he is the ghost. Perhaps he is dead. His vision begins to blur. “I don’t know what’s got you acting this way,” Charles says, “but we hardly have time for this right now. We need to leave.”

Magneto spins around to face him. “Leave?”

“For Cuba.” Charles gives him a bewildered look. “Don’t tell me you forgot.”

“Cuba?” Magneto asks, and Charles’ expression grows increasingly concerned. “Shaw? Is that today?”

Charles looks dumbfounded. “Yes, that’s today!”

Magneto looks to Raven, then Charles, then back again. He grins. Whatever this is, it might be fun after all.