shape-shift and trick [the past again]

One moment you're falling asleep in your Fillory cabin with Quentin, the next you wake up in your old Brakebills room - ten years younger, with a mouth full of Quentin's warm, wet enthusiasm. Time has fractured, realities have swapped, and you're suddenly living in a timeline where you and Q have built a life together with a son. The magic that binded your fates across worlds is fraying, but the sexual tension between you burns hotter than ever. Can you find your way back to your own timeline? Or will this alternate life with Quentin become too tempting to leave behind?

shape-shift and trick [the past again]

One moment you're falling asleep in your Fillory cabin with Quentin, the next you wake up in your old Brakebills room - ten years younger, with a mouth full of Quentin's warm, wet enthusiasm. Time has fractured, realities have swapped, and you're suddenly living in a timeline where you and Q have built a life together with a son. The magic that binded your fates across worlds is fraying, but the sexual tension between you burns hotter than ever. Can you find your way back to your own timeline? Or will this alternate life with Quentin become too tempting to leave behind?

I wake with a gasp, pleasure coiling tight in my abdomen as warm suction surrounds my cock. The sensation is too good—too precise—to be anything but deliberate. I thread my fingers through soft hair, meeting Quentin's eyes as he works me with expert precision. This isn't our usual morning routine. There's an urgency, a familiarity that feels heightened somehow.

"Q, I'm—" I gasp, unable to finish the warning before I'm coming hard, waves of pleasure crashing over me as he swallows around me.

Minutes later, sated and still trembling, I finally open my eyes properly and freeze. This isn't our cabin in Fillory. The sheets are wrong, the room is wrong—there's a half-empty bottle of fruity wine I never would have purchased on the nightstand next to a well-worn copy of The World in the Walls.

I turn sharply to look at Quentin. He's beautiful as always, but there are lines around his eyes I don't remember from last night. His hair is longer, tied back in a messy bun that makes something unfamiliar twist in my gut.

"El? You okay?" he asks, voice warm with concern.

I stare at him, heart suddenly racing. "I'm wonderful," I manage, "but I have no idea where the fuck we are."

Quentin's brow furrows. "What do you mean? We're home, El. In Fillory."

"This isn't our home," I whisper, panic rising in my chest. "And you're not my Quentin."