#m!a: herekiddiekiddie

[viggowolfe-cain]

☟

Send me ☟ for my muse to turn back into their younger self, with only the memories that led up to that age.

Six years-old, the dark blond's hair has a slightly darker tint, not yet bleached by Arabian days. The eyes have never tasted melancholy, and even in their previously revived state, there's more of an innocent and excited gleam to them as they look around. It's strange. His family was here a moment ago, but now there's no grandfather Lowell, no mom, no dad, not even Elijah toddling after him. The house is still standing, though, and every corner of it is known inside and out.

The young Viggo rolls out of the large bed, suddenly feeling the weight of the necklace around his neck. The over-sized shirt is peered down at, catching the unknown metal figures against his chest before feeling another unfamiliar one around his finger. Golden irises stare at it curiously, rubbing at it in hopes that it won't fall off, but decides to bend the set to the attached palm as the only way to keep it.

The other hand reaches up, turning the knob to walk into the rest of the home. As the bare feet move beyond the threshold, they stop at the sight of another small boy, brunet and slightly younger.

"Welcome to the Wolfe cottage," is greeted with an encouraging smile, naive to what should be a peculiarity. However, Viggo's expression only grows warmer, outstretching his hand for Idris to take. "I'm Viggo Ira Wolfe. What's your name?"

[constantinepayne]

☟

Send me ☟ for my muse to turn back into their younger self, with only the memories that lead up to that age.

A toothpick seesaws, clenched between the twin rows of teeth with the tongue dipping and rising at the back end. It's an absentminded gesture as the ten-year-old has planted himself at the edge of the unfamiliar couch. Crisp, white coloring has tennis shoe arches pressed to it. In spite of the Tribeca apartment going unrecognized, Constantine has already made it his home on someone else's dime. It's probably just another place he's been dumped at by Paulina Payne, the submissive wench of the Executive Director that pretends to be his mother only when it matters.

In front of him, the screen against the wall blares while to the right of him shows one of the best views of Manhattan that money could buy. Jaded already, the skyline is lost, barely noticed by the peripheral vision, while attention centers on the television. That is until a hand flies up in annoyance, taking the toothpick with it.

"This is bullshit. Acceletrex was at fifteen yesterday, now it's fifty-five? The Hell is this?"

The remote is pressed, flipping away from CNBC to land on another news organization, taking note of the date that is immediately announced in the bottom right corner of their graphics. The brunet's neck cranes back, taking in the information in silence for a long pause before the youthful brow furrows.

"That still doesn't explain anything. This is crap."

Unfazed, the device is dropped on the cushion before jumping off, heading to the kitchen before another's appearance makes itself known. An eyebrow rises, looking over at the stranger casually.

"You should really get some pants on. Flashing a minor isn't going to get you anywhere, but looking forward to what the price for silence is these days."

By the time the fridge door opens, the other is out of sight, hurried out to get dressed while the bottles of opened alcohol are pushed aside to get at the remnants of the orange juice. A chance to pour out its contents fails, looking up to finally catch a familiar sound tugging at his ear: the electronic ping of the private elevator.

The metallic sheen is seen sliding back from the hall, revealing the visitor. Blond hair, slate blue eyes, standing inside the small space as the young resident looks back.

"Who the Hell are you?"

[dom-horatio-md]

☟

Send me ☟ for my muse to turn back into their younger self, with only the memories that lead up to that age.

In the kitchen of the Hull residence, latest renovations seem to date to the 1980s, where modern-day conveniences includes faux woodgrain decorating counter edges, ranges, and have matching cabinet handles. There’s an oven that occasionally works, stovetop that’s showing its wear-and-tear, and then there’s the four year-old Horatio standing on the laminate surface with the drawers pulled out to show his makeshift stairs.

Clothes are oversized, indecency not realized, as the nude boy has his toes gripping to the counter while the tiny hands leave every door open in his search. Shelves are looked through, accidentally knocking things over to fall to the floor. A ceramic dish is one of the casualties, watching as the fragments form before his grey eyes.

“Oh, shit,” gets muttered before looking up to see Jaeger’s appearance, causing his face to change. “CUNT-TWAT!” is yelled fiercely, oblivious of the redundancy when the words fail to reach understanding. “Don’t look at my junk bits!”

In his determination, though, the young boy turns back to his search, grappling with the very top shelf until a bag of flour gets tipped over to spill over him.

“GRAH! GODDAMNIT!!”

A distraught expression shades the young face, head lowered to sweep the white dust out of his watering eyes. Disappointment fills him, failure, giving the other brunet a saddened look. The entire body is drenched in flour, making the pasty male even whiter with a deep frown curving against his face.

In the small and endearing voice, one thing is asked: “Make me parma-violets, cunt-twat?”