The Bear and Barnacle

Dora stretches slowly, relishing the once familiar aches in her body. Joints too strained, skin too sensitive, nipples sore, and bits- well, those are still pretty damn pleased. She puts a hand through her hair as she morphs the brown back into bright pink. She rolls carefully to her left side, hand reaching out to stroke down the back of the naked man next to her. He's sleeping but gives a quiet rumble of approval at the touch, nonetheless.

( He purrs the same as ever. )

They haven't left the house since the morning they woke up years younger -- Jack about twelve, Zelgadis about five. And apart from everything else -- the interruption to work, to their schedules, to, well, their sex life -- Jack doesn't think this whole hiding-from-the-world thing is healthy.

He's sure Zel will stop panicking at the notion eventually ...

But the days pass, and even the threat of running out of coffee doesn't seem sufficient to lure him out of the shelter of home, so at last Jack resorts to desperate measures.

He goes into the lounge, where Zel is playing his guitar by laying it flat on the ground so he can reach the frets with one hand and pluck the strings with the other. Funny how they seem to have kept the age difference between them even though the ages themselves have changed. "Come on," Jack says.

Zel gives him that narrow-eyed, infinitely suspicious look of his -- the one that makes his ears flatten almost indetectably. "Where?"

At this point Jack picks him up bodily (by some weird magic Jack has little hope of understanding, Zel's stone body only seems heavy when it's forcibly placed somewhere he doesn't want to be -- which is fortunate for the furniture. Jack's arms don't seem to qualify as not-wanting-to-be). Zel flails a little and squeaks but he doesn't struggle particularly hard.

"The Pub," Jack tells him, checks that he has his wallet and keys and goes out the front door.

Val vaguely remembers crawling last night into Jack and Zel's bed, wanting the body heat (or so he would insist). He was expecting to be unceremoniously put out when his guardians decided they wanted their privacy back. This, though ... it's definitely unceremonious to suddenly have a tiny body struggling under his, but not at all expected.

( A YM thread. In which Zel is very small, Jack is very embarrassed, and Val is very wicked. )

Once he's fed his pet rat, Val dresses in Zelgadis's clothes (the jeans are too tight, but they're wearable, and the zippered sweatshirt fits) and walks down to the pub. He imagines Dora will have grown up just as he has. And everyone else ... well, this he ought to see.

He didn’t like this joke. This game was not fun.

On first glance, you would look right over the boy. Just a child, nothing of consequence.
The boy, gangly and awkward as most 11 year olds, sat cross-legged on the sidewalk. On closer inspection one would see the very un-childlike look in his eyes, or the mix of small burns and shallow cuts lining his arms beneath the oversized t-shirt he wore. As if possibly he was not convinced he was real and kept testing the theory. Occasionally he would lift his head to watch the passerby in the street, strands of green dangling over his eyes, before his eyes returned to the ground and his hands to the box of matches he was currently lighting one by one. A pile of ash, burnt items, and spent matches lay in front of him. Every few moments, one small hand would reach up to touch the sides of his face, and the scars there, as if to assure him of their continued presence.

He was small, but anyone assuming he was also helpless would be startled to find themselves spilt from navel to nose in a matter of seconds.

Jack is Not Happy— and who wouldn't be, he figures, to look in the mirror and find themselves looking very much the wrong age after spending such a long time barely changing? He feels disorientingly lighter with the loss of muscle mass, his hair keeps flopping too near his eyes, and he feels even more mood swingy than usual. His outer form seems to have gone back to the years of treating everyone as someone to swindle, shag, shoot, or any combination of the three. That's strange enough without the moods coming along with it.

But shallowly, it's more about finding himself much handsomer as he's been for over a century than he was somewhere in those late teens or early twenties. It's just all wrong. He grumps his way around and hopes to re-age very soon.

Spike stretched languidly across the bed. Or at least, tried to. As he started to stretch, everything hurt. Joints ached. He struggled to think if he'd been active last night...fought, or anything. His brain had an odd foggy feeling, and his hearing seemed off. He warily opened his eyes, and it took longer for the room to come into focus than it ought.

He slowly pushed himself up off the bed, groaning as he did so. Why the bloody hell did he ache so much? As he stood, he found that he couldn't even quite straighten his back all the way up.

"What in the hell?" he mumbled...with a deeper, more gravelly voice than he remembered. He brought a hand up to run through his hair, and that's when he saw, and he froze, eyes widening. That was NOT his hand. It couldn't be. The wrinkles, the age spots...he hadn't aged in over 100 years...but it wasn't just his hand. Both hands. Arms. Chest. All looked wrinkled...old. His hand finally reached his hair, to find it sparse and thin. Reaching for clothing with unsteady fingers, he was beginning to panic. Old. He was old. He couldn't BE old. Still undead. No heartbeat. No reflection. Still wanted blood. But old, so old. So slow, so achey, so tired.

He, much more slowly than normal, made his way up the stairs and out the front door into the evening. Couldn't just sit there...had to get out. Had to figure out why, what, how. Had to keep moving. Old. Couldn't be old. His confusion was threatening to take over his brain. Can't get old. Frail. Broken. Can't.

He wandered the streets desolately.

Sherlock Holmes peered into the mirror, having to lean in close and squint a bit. His vision seemed cloudy. He ran a hand through thinning hair. “I should be grateful the whole hundred-six years weren’t dropped on me in one go,” he commented dryly to himself. He needed to go to the pub and see if he was the only one affected by this sudden onset of age. He turned, wincing as his joints protested the sudden movement. Sighing, Holmes made his was slowly downstairs, hanging onto the rail. It seemed chillier than it ought, and Holmes put on his coat and cap, having a dreadful time doing up the buttons. It appeared his fingers weren’t as nimble as they once were. Taking a cane from the stand, Holmes walked slowly of necessity, finding it amusingly ironic that he had on more than one occasion assumed the disguise of an old man. He’d gotten the pace wrong, he thought as he ambled his way along. Arriving at the pub, slightly breathless, Holmes struggled just a bit with the door and carefully negotiated the step up. He had to wait as his eyes adjusted to the dimness within. He scanned the patrons, scowling as he had to squint once more. “Ah,” Holmes murmured to himself, noting the sudden profusion of youngsters in the pub, a couple of whom he was able to identify. “Not an individualised phenomenon then.” He shuffled over to his usual table and sank gratefully into a seat.

Lucius Malfoy hadn't felt this good in quite a while. Years, in fact. He had awoken from a deep sleep, feeling refreshed. That in itself was a surprise as he hadn't been sleeping hardly at all.

It had been rather unsettling, when in the shower he had noticed not only that his skin was tauter, body tighter...but that no scar nor mark marred his arm. He rushed to the mirror in disbelief, and his 16-year-old self looked back at him. Smug, confident, young...and oh, did he feel good. Energy pumped through his veins, and little aches of old injuries had vanished. Getting dressed, he found everything he owned a bit on the loose side.

With a spring in his step he hadn't had in years, he headed out into the town to see what other surprises the day would bring. Was this a spell? A potion he'd been tricked into taking? Perhaps he would visit Severus and Minerva...one of them might have an idea as to what had caused this. Or perhaps he would head to the shop...maybe he could find a good outlet for all the extra energy he seemed to possess. His stomach growled. It felt like he hadn't eaten in days. Had he always been this hungry as a school lad? Rubbing his stomach, he decided that perhaps his first stop should be the pub for a hearty meal.

It's safe. Upon my honour. Miquel peers at the trembling shape under the duvet. Really. Cesare. Come on out.

"No!" Cesare's voice sounds quite, quite young. Unbroken, in fact. "What new travesty is this?" Squealed into the pillows.

I don't pretend to know. Miquel sits and pats the duvet-covered rump. He follows Cesare's spine, feels Cesare claw at something. Finally, a dark head appears at the edge of the bed. It pokes from the mountain of duvets like a sullen mole. Oh come now. Stop crying, mh? Nobody has to see you like this.

"Oh really!" The boy wails and rubs snot all over the linens. His handsome face would resemble Donatello's David... if it weren't so red and pinched. His hair is a shade lighter than Miquel is accustomed to seeing, the hand that snatches the pillow a good deal narrower. A scholar's hand, suited to hold a pen, not a sword. Cesare's shoulders are hitching.

And then the snot-smeared little crab dashes from the bed, dogding Miquel, to run for the bathroom. Doors are banging, followed by more wailing. Miquel follows him through two walls and hovers over the bathtub. So far he's only glimpsed this most recent, unexpected turn of events but... mare de Déu. Oh God's martyrs. This is... something.

Cesare only stares at him with helpless, haunted eyes.

This is how I met you, Miquel says softly, extending a hand. This is what you looked like... at sixteen. The brat prince. The bookworm. The Bishop of Pamplona.

"Oh God I can't deal with this!" Cesare shrieks, again thrashing past Miquel who can only watch... Watch as Cesare dives into an expensive cashmere turtleneck three sizes too big, not to mention the pants that fall off his hips, watch him frantically hack at a pair of jeans that he has to tie around his waist, watch him run out without proper shoes, even.

Hasn't even taken the keys or money or his telefonino, the stupid thing. Miquel sighs. He'd take them for him, but he can't. He follows him at a safe distance, though, and is a little relieved when he sees that Cesare is running-limping-hobbling towards the pub. At least he's in semi-safe hands there.

So, I was planning on inviting people to my belated sixth birthday- decided to stay older than Val... but I suppose that won't work any more as I woke up this morning more twenty-six than six. And before you go telling me that it's just my morphing that's bollocksed up, look in the mirror.

Hell, take a look at the miniature Iago here. *gestures at the young boy beside her with the disturbingly angelic golden curls* Sorry, mate. But you've turned pygmy on me.

Hopefully this gets sorted out before things become too much weirder. Doubtful, knowing Margate.

*glances back down at Iago* So, I can go get those extra piercings now that I'm over sixteen, right?


Alright everyone. This month is an age play event (kinkiness entirely optional). Your character must undergo a significant/dramatic age change, either forward or backward. Yes, the change must be physical. *eyes the immortal/near immortal crowd* They can retain their memories and such, but be constrained by a mentality suited to their new/temporary age.

The tag for this is, yeah we suck at originality of tags, age play.

As always participation in the event is optional! Feel free to make an Other post if neither event nor topic is suitable to your character or interesting.