Characters: regressor!Mituna, Caregiver!Kurloz, other dancestors mentioned but not present
Words: 1, 200
Summary: Kurloz gets a visit from his moirail, Mituna, and takes care of him for the afternoon.
Warnings: Canon-typical difficult to read dialogue from Mituna, also cussing from Mituna, seizures, difficulty communicating, references to both of their previous injuries but nothing graphic
Kurloz was lazily knitting against a wall, hands flitting over needles and purple yarn. Porrim had been happy to teach him, and it gave him something to do in the monotony of the dream bubbles. There was something satisfying about watching fabric coming together out of twisted cords of thread, and it was just as satisfying to pull apart at the end, each stitch coming apart with a little jolt.
Stab, twist, and tuck the needle through: a rhythm that Kurloz’s fingers were becoming quicker and quicker to carry out.
“Kulozzzz!!” The mangled version of his name was shouted from above him, and Kurloz looked up to see Mituna running along the top of the wall that Kurloz was leaning against.
Predictably, Mituna slipped just as Kurloz looked up at him, and went sideways with a little shriek.
Kurloz dropped the knitting and caught his moirail, who had curled up to try and minimize the fall.
Finding himself unharmed and in Kurloz’s lap, Mituna scrambled up. “Dnn touch now!!” he complained, brushing off his arms. Kurloz held up his hands, showing that he was no longer reaching for Mituna. His moirail could be picky about when and how he was touched, which Kurloz could understand. Mituna wasn’t wearing his helmet, and his hair was chaotic as usual.
HOW ARE YOU? Kurloz signed, raising his eyebrows to signify the question.
Mituna scowled, showing his little fangs, and plopped down cross-legged across from Kurloz.
“Fucked sll thought,” he said, grumpy. “Flcking toddler brainer.”
DO YOU WANT YOUR PACIFIER?
Kurloz had always enjoyed the sign for pacifier, as if he was placing it in his own mouth.
“Not a babybrains.”
Kurloz raised an eyebrow, making the sign for pacifier again. Mituna bared his teeth, a baby troll gesture of aggression from before their horns grew in properly. Kurloz waited, and sure enough, Mituna frowned and nodded after a few seconds.
“Stills not frcking baby,” Mituna declared, sticking out a hand.
Kurloz smiled, stitches tugging at the corners of his mouth as he dug Mituna’s pacifier out of his pocket. Between Mituna and Meulin, he always had a collection of baby gear in the pockets of his suit, making him think about adding a bag to his usual outfit. He wasn’t sure where he would find one here in the dream bubbles, but he could always tell Horuss to make him one.
Mituna snatched the pacifier from Kurloz’s hand and popped it into his mouth, still managing to pout with his whole body, even with his mouth covered by the yellow plastic guard. Kurloz nodded and flashed a thumbs-up, tapping his smiling mouth.
“Efrenv’sh,” Mituna said, his usually slurred speech utterly incomprehensible from behind the pacifier. Kurloz bobbed his head as if he’d made perfect sense. “Snnnf’rm?” Kurloz continued to smile as Mituna babbled, waving a hand this time as if to make a point. “Krlw’nrt!”
Catching on that Mituna was asking for something, Kurloz raised his hands and asked YOU WANT TO GO AWAY?, pointing back where Mituna had gone. COME? He added as a second option, gesturing to his open arms.
Mituna shook his head, vigorous enough to spin his hair into new tangled formations, then tried to get to his feet and fell over sideways. Clearly disoriented, Mituna managed to get back onto his knees and crawled over to Kurloz, poking his leg.
“Krlsnnfrm?”
SIGN? Kurloz asked.
Mituna made a series of gestures that did not remotely resemble sign language, most of them involving hitting himself in the side of the head. Although he understood Kurloz, Mituna’s own use of sign language was even more spotty than his speech capability.
Kurloz shrugged, showing Mituna that he’d not understood any of that.
Mituna sighed and dropped his head down on Kurloz’s leg, a familiar position from his regression. Kurloz twisted his gloved fingers in Mituna’s hair, so much finer than the yarn that had been abandoned beside him. Mituna made a happy moirail rattle in his throat and settled down, tension draining from his body. Kurloz felt himself relax as well, relieved to no longer be guessing what Mituna wanted from him.
The two of them sat there for a while, Mituna’s little purring rattles breaking the silence every so often. It was one of Kurloz’s favourite sounds, a troll at their most comfortable and trusting. If they had been back on their home planet, they would have needed to worry about the oncoming dawn, and finding shelter from the dangerous light. Here in the dream bubbles, there was no change of time unless you went from one area to another, and they could sit out in the peaceful evening light for as long as they wanted.
Lulled into a sense of peace, Kurloz took a second too long to realize that Mituna had gone unusually still.
Immediately, Kurloz twisted around and dragged Mituna away from the wall, as gently as he could while still moving quickly. Sure enough, he had barely moved his moirail when Mituna started to convulse, and Kurloz tugged the pacifier out of his mouth before retreating to a safe distance. Mituna’s full-body seizures weren’t unusual, and they weren’t dangerous if he wasn’t at risk of falling, but Kurloz still wanted to keep close. Kurloz crossed his legs, leaning forward to watch over him.
Count the seconds, keep his breathing controlled. Kurloz tapped his fingers against each other, keeping the rhythm of his own body steady even as he watched his moirail shake on the ground.
This one was a long one for Mituna, lasting over two minutes before he finally went limp. Kurloz moved over when he was sure it was safe, not directly touching Mituna but lying down beside him in easy reach. Mituna blinked his eyes open and touched his jaw, moving it in a way that made it clear he must have hurt it clenching down. Seeming to conclude it would get better soon, he looked around and beamed when he saw Kurloz.
“Kurloz!!!!” Mituna scooted over and rolled himself into his moirail’s arms, and Kurloz pulled him in. “Kurloz, sing fme?” He tapped Kurloz’s throat, making it even clearer what he was asking for.
Kurloz pressed his stitched lips to Mituna’s forehead in his version of a kiss, and obediently began to hum.
Back when the two of them were younger, and the game that ended the world had not yet begun, Mituna used to love Kurloz’s singing voice. It was one of his most common requests, whether he was sad or regressed or tired. “Kurloz, sing to me?” And Kurloz would curl up on the chair with his headset on, Mituna’s voice in his ear, and he would sing until he heard Mituna’s little rattling snores over their call.
Kurloz wasn’t used to making any vocalization anymore: he didn’t even make the subvocal rattles and clicks that were used for communication between partners. Mituna, however, was an exception. For the memory of all the nights they had fallen asleep at their computers, listening to each other’s voices, Kurloz hummed familiar songs as Mituna curled against his chest.
“Mml’v you,” Mituna whispered.
Kurloz’s arms were too full of his moirail to sign a response, so he traced a diamond on Mituna’s back and hoped he understood. I love you too, little miracle.
Characters: Regressor!Mae Borowski, featuring Gregg/Angus as baby!Mae’s friends and cg figures
Words: 1,200
Summary: Mae regresses while waiting for food, but it’s not bad when her friends are nearby.
Warnings: There are thin lines between dissociation and regression in this story, so if you’re bothered by descriptions of dissociation this fic might not be for you! ‘Little’ is used as an adjective to refer to regression. Lots of sensory description, but in a positive way.
Gregg and Angus’s apartment was nice. It was a little stinky, like boys and musty second-hand stores and cigarettes. But it was still nice. There was always snack food in the cupboards, and lights around their bedroom that flashed in soft patterns, and they had a loft bed (how cool was that??).
Mae especially liked their couch, squishy enough to swallow you and made of leather that squeaked when you moved on it. She liked the holes in the leather that you could stick your hand in and feel the stuffing, stringy but soft between your fingers.
Mae was playing with the squeaky couch, wiggling her butt to make silly sounds. Some of them were high and some of them were low and she couldn’t figure out if there was a pattern to it. Sometimes her elbows brushed against the leather, sticky with the summer heat. Bare skin made a different sound against the couch, but they all made her happy.
“Hey Mae.”
She looked up to see Angus leaning in the doorway. He looked kind of scruffy today, soft patches of hair scattered on his jaw and cheeks. He was still wearing his sweater vest, but the sleeves of his button-up were rolled to the elbow, and that was how you could tell he was feeling casual. Mae blinked at him, trying to smile but feeling too far away to tell if she was doing a good job. Angus’s voice was softer when he spoke again.
“Do you want some pizza?”
Mae nodded. She was probably hungry. She usually spaced out around dinner time.
“She said yeah,” Angus called back into the bedroom. “Do you want me to order it? She’s little.”
“Baby Mae??!”
Gregg’s voice was loud and excited, and he raced into the room a second later, shoving a phone into Angus’s hands on the way past. He seemed to reconsider the motion as he did it, making a quick turn and running back to give Angus a loud kiss on the cheek before pelting towards the couch again. He dropped to his knees and slid across the carpet, ending perfectly in front of Mae where she was sitting on the couch.
“Hey baby Mae, how you doing?”
Mae did her best to smile at him as well.
“Yeah, that’s fair,” Gregg nodded. “Food’s gonna be on its way soon, do you want blocks or cuddles?”
Blocks were nice. Cuddles were nice. Mae tried to put those facts together and hit a wall. What was the question? She was trying to answer something, but she couldn’t remember why she was thinking about cuddles.
Oh, hey, Gregg was here! Mae reached out a hand to touch his hair, patting the crunchy top layer. Gregg put a lot of goop in his hair that made it not very fun to play with. Mae sometimes used goop to make her hair look spikey and awesome but mostly she just let it do what it wanted. She didn’t like the stiff feeling like Gregg did.
Greg tilted his head into her hand, letting her play with it. She used both hands to push it into a funny looking mohawk, but it was making her fingers sticky and she didn’t like it. She wiped her fingers on her shirt and poked Gregg’s cheek instead. Angus got scratchy when he didn’t shave in the mornings, but Gregg was always smooth and soft, like Mae’s cheeks. She pressed on his cheekbones, his bottom lip, the tip of his nose, between his eyebrows. So many textures for a single face.
Gregg took a deep breath and puffed his cheeks out like a chipmunk. Mae poked the new texture on his cheeks, then put her hands on either side of Gregg’s face and pressed the air out of his mouth. It made a funny squeaking sound, and that made Gregg laugh really hard. Mae tried to do the same thing to her cheeks, but she couldn’t make the same squeaky sound that Gregg did.
“Okay, baby Mae, let’s get you some blocks.” Gregg held out his arms, as if he wanted Mae to come into them. Mae looked at him uncertainly. Could she really move her body off the couch? It felt so big and unwieldy. “Take my hands,” Gregg suggested.
That seemed like something Mae could do.
She slipped her hands into Gregg’s, and he pulled her to her feet. Mae wobbled, dizzy and high up and far away, but Gregg wrapped an arm around her and she wasn’t scared of falling. She pressed her forehead into his shirt and got lost in that feeling for a second, the ridges of the neckline against her eyebrows and the rough texture of the fabric on her skin.
Gregg helped her sit again, a little further away from the couch, and went to get a box from the bookshelf. Mae entertained herself by running her fingers over the carpet, making little popping sounds with her lips. The carpet was rough in one direction and smooth in the other, and she drifted off again in the sensation.
“Here you go.” Gregg startled her by putting a box in front of her, a colourful box with stickers all over it. It looked like a kid had decorated it, but Gregg had done it himself, with all of Mae’s favourite colours. He was a good artist when he tried, but he preferred to make a big mess when he could get away with it. Mae loved watching him push paint around a page with his fingers, even though she didn’t like the feeling on her own hands.
It was Mae’s toy box, full of things that Gregg and Angus had bought for her. Mostly Gregg, but Angus had added a little stuffed bunny with stars on the ears, and Mae loved it so much. Mae had been surprised when they had first shown it to her, but now it just made her smile. She knew everything inside, stuffies and squishies and toys with lights that flashed different colours. Gregg only pulled out the blocks for now, upending the plastic bag they were kept in and letting them tumble across the carpet.
Mae picked a few of them up and ran her fingers over them. The edges, the curves, rough with wood grain and mixed up with sharp corners that poked her when she pressed her thumb on them. She knocked them against each other, enjoying the noise. Gregg played as well, stacking up towers of blocks and prompting Mae to knock them down. He laughed at the destruction, looking pleased with her poking fingers.
Eventually, Angus came back from the phone call and sat beside Gregg, one arm around his boyfriend’s shoulders and the other one helping with the towers.
Mae knew that the pizza would come soon, and the food would be in her tummy, and she would come back from the place where she was drifting. But for now, it was nice to feel the corners of the blocks and watch Angus help Gregg stack them higher. The shapes became real between her fingers, feeling the limits of them. She could knock down all the towers she liked because they would just be rebuilt in new ways, to the sound of Gregg’s delighted laughter. Things were far away, but it didn’t mean they were bad. It was kind of nice to drift when your friends were holding on tight, and you knew they wouldn’t let you go.
The Doctor is an enabler: he loves all the ideas you come up with, and he makes them into even wilder adventures. He just can’t say no to you when you’re excited!
He’s good at swinging you around and around, spinning you until you’re dizzy, and holding onto you until you’re steady again.
You get swift passing affection from him, for the most part: quick kisses on your forehead, hugs so tight and over so fast that you’re left stumbling.
But of course he never lets go of your hand when you’re outside the TARDIS.
He messes up sometimes: he yells when you wander off, and it’s scary, and he has to apologize afterwards, and you struggle through conversations about what you need and how he feels, but he’s learning, and you’re healing, and it might just be worth it.
The Doctor has never been just one thing, and especially not in this form. Sometimes he’s an exuberant caregiver, picking you up for piggybacks and rambling about adventures he’s had. Sometimes he’s quiet, watching over you from afar, keeping his hands busy with wires and offering tight smiles when you look his way. Sometimes he’s almost desperate in the way he holds you close enough that you can hear his twin heartbeats, unwilling to let you go anywhere without walking beside you and keeping you safe.
The universe is at your feet, and there’s never been a better guide. There are so many playgrounds to explore, and planets where you’ll be pampered as a regressor, and you’ll see the most beautiful sights in all of time and space with his hand holding yours.
Characters: Dirk Strider, mentions of Roxy and Jake
Words: 2,750
Summary: Dirk is an age regressor. (It’s a rough day but it’s easier as a four-year-old.)
Warnings: Isolation, body dysmorphia/dysphoria (unspecified), self-sacrificing ideals, one cuss word, mention of storms.
(Note: I’ve had a few people notice that I usually write from caregiver perspectives for agere fanfiction! I struggle with putting my experience of regression into words, in a way that I don’t with my caregiver experiences. I still enjoy writing reader-insert fanfiction that deviates from my personal experience of regression, but this is my best attempt at communicating the way that I regress.)
> Dirk: Regress
Your name is Dirk Strider, and some days it’s not worth claiming that you aren’t lonely.
Filling the hours of a day is routine by this point: there’s reprogramming to be done, and new scripts to be written, and fanfiction that you absolutely don’t post online under miscellaneous pseudonyms. There are fights to win and fights to lose and moments when you just throw yourself into the water and let yourself float there until the sun is too bright against your eyelids.
But some days just refuse to pass. Nothing feels like it’s really happening, and none of your friends answer your messages, and you refuse to message again because that would be desperate. Even with four centuries’ worth of internet videos, it feels like there’s nothing to watch, and the walls are closing in with the endless ocean stretching outside. You should be able to fill this day because it’s only as empty as every other day on this abandoned planet, but somehow time seems incapable of passing.
Today seems to be one of those days, and you’ve retreated to the roof to sit and watch the waves. The sun is too warm, and you’ll probably end up with a painful sunburn, but it’s worth it to be away from the wires and screens that remind you of the work you aren’t doing and the friends who aren’t responding.
For some reason this view always seems to feel new, despite the hundreds of days you’ve spent pacing on this roof, fighting on this roof, bleeding on this roof. Something about the sky’s ever-shifting shades and the way the ocean rolls far beneath you. Something about the seagulls that flutter down from the sky to rest their wings, or maybe the wind in your hair and the way it ruffles your clothes, the closest thing you have to human touch.
You close your eyes and lean your chin on your knees, breathing in ocean air that tastes like salt and smoke. You’ve always assumed that the bad smell is an effect of whatever technology the Batterwitch used to flood the planet, but maybe the air on Earth has always been horrible.
The heat is heavy in the air today, which means there might be a storm brewing. The apartment is always the worst during storms, listening to the rusted supports groaning in the wind and wild waves. Sometimes you wonder if you’ll even make it to the fabled game, or if the ocean will just swallow you one day with none of your friends the wiser.
You feel ready to settle in for an afternoon of grade-A moping, but part of you doesn’t agree. Part of you feels like enjoying the sunlight, or going for a swim. That sounds nice, if you’re being honest, but you doubt that you could enjoy anything today. Part of your mind will always be thinking about the messages you’re waiting for, the hours you have to fill, and the fact that tomorrow will be exactly the same as today, and how will you be able to deal with that when today seems so endless?
That excited part of you is insistent, though. It really wants to run around and play, which is an instinct that seems foreign. You mentally inspect the desire, trying to decide if it’s a sign that you’re finally giving up your tenacious grasp on sanity. The more you pay attention to it, the more tempting it feels. Just let go for a while.
There’s an energy in the desire that moves into your body, replacing the lethargy of moping. Your limbs feel ready for climbing, for swimming, for exploring a ruined world stretching around you that you usually prefer to ignore. Maybe it would be nice, to let whatever off part of you this is take the helm for a while. It feels like it might be already happening, and you’re too tired to fight it off. You let the part of yourself that’s moping curl in on itself, finding a little corner of your mind to continue its lethargic musings.
And then you open your eyes and push yourself to your feet.
---->
Your name is Dirk Strider, you are approximately four years old, and the ocean looks incredibly blue.
You feel silly for all the moping you were doing before, and for wasting such a beautiful day. You really want to take off your clothes and get into the water, but a loud part of your brain won’t stop telling you that jumping from this high up is a really bad idea.
Your brain is stupid. You head down from the roof, slamming the door behind you to show that you’re upset about not getting to jump into the waves. Your shoes are discarded carelessly, shirt and sunglasses and pants dropped along the way. Your body is funny, not quite right and not quite wrong. It stops you for a second, and you poke your stomach, hold up your hands. The fingers are unfamiliar. This is your body, isn’t it? Why doesn’t it feel right?
You shrink away from the thoughts, but the part of your brain that’s enjoying its rest pushes you back into awareness before you can get away. Apparently you’re not allowed to stop being here, so you guess that you might as well enjoy it. Away with the body thoughts! You’re getting distracted from the real goal, which is to be in the nice cool water as soon as possible.
Once you’re free of uncomfortable clothes, you patter down a set of stairs where the walls give way to the rusted internal structure of the apartments that used to be below your home. The stairs stop at a metal platform that you remember constructing, the heat of the blowtorch and the glow of the sparks. The memory fits and it doesn’t fit, so you shrug it away as you swing over the platform onto a ladder that leads down to the water.
Halfway down the ladder you know that you’re close enough to the water that it won’t hurt to jump, so you push yourself away from the ladder and let yourself free-fall.
You hit the water feet-first and it envelops you. You can feel the air bubbles combing through your hair, rippling on the bottoms of your feet, the last bit of the above-water world clinging to you. You let yourself drift until there’s only you and the faint ocean currents pushing around you, peaceful and quiet. You wish you could stay here forever, but you can feel your lungs starting to hurt. You have to kick for a few seconds before you break the surface, sucking in a deep breath as soon as the air touches your face. The sun is too warm, and you stick your tongue out in its direction. Stupid sun.
You swim in the direction of one of the nearest buildings that sticks above the water, enjoying the sound of your legs kicking through the waves. The ocean is mostly calm today, and you can hear the seagulls crying up above you. You navigate your way through the familiar landmarks of rubble and ruin, switching from front crawl to elementary backstroke as your energy rises and falls. Your apartment towers above you, casting a shadow on the water. You think about painting something on the side of it, trying to liven up the plain grey concrete, but that seems like a thought for another day.
It takes a few minutes of swimming to reach the nearest neighboring apartment building, and you pull yourself out of the water onto a shore of concrete. There isn’t much interesting here, mostly crumbling bricks beginning to reveal the girders underneath. The roof has collapsed in on itself in slabs of concrete that you can pick your way across, avoiding the freshest evidence of seagull passerby. A plant has somehow made its home in one of the sections of brick, some kind of weed with jagged leaves and long tendrils seeking more dirt. One of the birds probably brought it from some faraway patch of land, high enough to avoid the flooding.
You stare at the bright green of its leaves, aware that it must be one of the only living things in the surrounding area. In the end, though, it’s impossible to resist picking it out of the wall, the tendrils clinging desperately to the rough bricks as you separate it from its home.
It’s rubbery in your hands, and you dig your fingernails into the leaves to watch the darker green show up in half-crescents where you tore the skin. You wrap the stem around your fingers, admiring the colour. You think about eating it, moving it towards your mouth, but there’s a mental feeling of someone smacking your hand and you drop the plant with a frown. Your brain is too busy and dumb.
You pick up the plant and move it into a patch of sunlight, hoping that it’ll get eaten by another passing bird. Then its seeds can go somewhere else, maybe even on the roof of your house.
You dive back into the water, daydreaming about having a jungle grow on the roof of your house, the roots becoming part of the apartment walls and the leaves changing colour like you’ve seen in TV shows.
---->
The afternoon passes in a delirious blur of sun and splashing, laughing at your own voice and trying to climb one of the supports of your apartment building before finding the metal too hot from the sun.
Eventually, you pull yourself out of the water and climb up the ladder one rung at a time. You take a last look at the rippling water as you open the door and step into the concrete stairwell up to your apartment.
The inside is dark and cool in contrast to the sun-heated world outside, and you begin to shiver as you make your way into your room. An old towel is in the laundry pile, so you scoop it up and use it to dry yourself off. It smells a little musty, but it does the job fine. The feeling of not-right-not-wrong hits you again as you dry off, and you push it aside more easily this time. Not your problem, and you’re starting to have the feeling that you won’t be here for long. It seems silly to worry about it with the little time you have left.
You get dressed in the nicest clothes you can find: there’s a shirt that seems way too big, and you pull it on before looking at what’s on the front. It’s a silly design with wobbly lines that you can’t put together from upside down, and the shirt hangs almost to your knees. It feels cozy, and you add a pair of boxers to the outfit before deciding it’s good enough for lazing around.
The bed is soft and springy and you settle onto it with a sigh, shoving a pillow into the corner to lean on. The day has been fun, but your shoulders are tired from the swimming and your head hurts from all the sunlight. You snag a pair of sunglasses from the table beside your bed, careful with the points as you fit them onto your face. The world gets darker and you relax, grabbing the nearest soft thing to hold. It’s Hella Jeff in his silly coloured onesie and you laugh at his big eyes, widening your own in an attempt to mimic his expression.
Your tablet is difficult to fish out from under the mattress while you’re sitting on it, and once you turn it on it makes a lot of loud noises at you until you exit the window that was open. My Little Pony is easy to find, and you pull up one of the early episodes before propping the tablet against your feet so that you can watch it while hugging your Hella Jeff plushie and maybe resting your eyes a bit.
You can feel the rest of your brain perking up as soon as the theme song comes on, but it’s your episode to enjoy, so you push everything to the back and sing along with Pinkie Pie, and if you fall asleep before the second episode is over, then there’s no one to tell you it’s too early to sleep and who cares about time anyways.
> Dirk: Wake Up.
You wake up in a tangle of blankets, with your shades half-off and poking into the pillow, and Hella Jeff’s ass in your face. You push him off grumpily and sit up in bed. It’s late, and you fell asleep with the light off, so your room is dark aside from the flashing lights from the various panels scattered on the desks.
You’re hungry, and still groggy from the unexpected nap, and the afternoon feels like a distant dream that could have happened to someone else. You try to prompt that same sense of excitement, the eager curiosity that had taken over for the day, but it feels utterly foreign to your mind. You physically poke yourself, as if that will make the mood re-emerge and take over, but it only makes you very aware that you’re wearing one of your old sleep shirts that you stopped wearing when you were about twelve. You pull it off with an irritated sound, and roll out of bed. Your pounding head demands food and water, and you haven’t checked your messages in seven hours.
The glasses you’re wearing don’t have build-in screens, so you swap them out for another pair once you’ve pulled on a t-shirt that actually fits and shoved some jeans over your boxers. Sure enough, Roxy has finally gotten back to you, and fairly recently.
You start responding to her message as you poke around the cupboards for something that you won’t have to cook. She’s messaged something benign, but you know that she knows that you know that she hasn’t been doing well or she would have messaged back sooner. Hopefully she’s feeling better, but you know from experience that she’s more likely messaging you to start an ill-conceived fight that she can use to rationalize her bad mood and self-isolation.
Having friends is exhausting. You find some packaged ramen and head back to your room, planning to just crush it up and eat it while you finish the episode that you fell asleep half-way through. Roxy is talking again, her words a blur of badly-spelled pink across your vision, and you already feel tired from the conversation. You miss Jake, and how easy he is to please. He won’t be back for another two days, out on some sort of island quest that takes him out of network range. You hope that he’s doing okay out there.
You settle into bed again, sparing a frown at your Hella Jeff plushie as if he was to blame for the entire situation. You hook up your tablet remotely to the TV so that you can properly hear it, and settle in to multitask for the night. This is what you wanted, something outside of yourself to focus on, someone else’s problems to solve, something to fill the hours for you.
But even as you start dissecting the things that Roxy isn’t saying, you find yourself craving that effortless enjoyment you’d felt that afternoon, the way your head had tilted up to the sunlight as if it was a second nature. You have a job to do, to keep everyone on track for a future that only you and Roxy know is waiting. But maybe one day, after everything was over and the game was won, you could take a longer break. Maybe there would be a new world for you to explore, and it would be better than the endless ocean of ruins.
For now, you wrap your arms around yourself and do your best to help Roxy communicate how she’s feeling. Your friends come first, and the future comes later.
Harry is an involuntary regressor who’s been very good at hiding it for all his life
He’s never owned any little gear at all; even as a child Dudley would take back his hand-me-down toys if Harry showed any interest in them
Harry regresses to an infant age range when he lets himself, but can force himself into a functional toddler if he needs to pass
He often wakes up regressed and confused after nightmares
Harry has had accidents all his life and some of his earliest uses of involuntary magic were used to clean them up because the Dursleys would be so furious about them
Even as an infant, Harry isn’t nonverbal; he can force himself to talk in complete sentences but it’s almost physically painful
Draco
Draco is also a regressor but once he finds out about Harry, that caregiver instinct comes faster than he would have expected
Getting Harry to accept Draco as a caretaker is a longer business of Draco convincing Harry that he’s genuinely interested in helping: finding out that Draco is also a regressor is the thing that settles Harry into it
They start with playdates and switch to Draco being a caregiver once Harry is comfortable enough
Draco worries about the way that Harry’s childhood malnutrition still impacts his health, and pays close attention to making sure Harry eats enough
Harry tries to do grown-up things when he’s regressed, like flying on his broomstick or forcing himself to age up to do homework, and Draco has to keep an eye on him because of it
Harry used to be very anxious when Draco didn’t get angry about his accidents or spilled juice, to the point where he asked for punishments. Draco wasn’t comfortable with it, and Harry is slowly getting used to the idea that he deserves the kind of loving patience that Draco provides
Draco loves to spoil Harry as much as he can get away with, with little rattles and pacifiers and all sorts of baby gear
Harry finds a lot of comfort in diapers once Draco introduces the idea, although he only wears them in his own rooms.
Nothing gets Draco into his caregiver headspace like helping Harry change into little clothes and then getting some cuddles
Draco is learning about his caregiving just at the same time that Harry is learning to accept his little side! Draco starts with a lot of difficulty showing affection but eases into it as he sees how much happiness it brings to Harry. Harry keeps trying to fight his littlespace but starts giving into it more as he sees how much Draco genuinely loves caring for him. They learn and grow together and love each other very much.
Fandom: Original Work (written for my friend @sparrowinged‘s dnd OCs)
Characters: Darcy (a half-orc cleric), Quest Riddlemaster (an elven adventurer)
Words: 4,000.
Summary: Darcy knows Quest as a reliable source of odd merchandise from the chaotic world outside of his seaside hometown. When the elf collapses on the floor of his store with life-threatening injuries, a new kind of bond is formed between them.
Warnings: Graphic descriptions of injuries. Fear caused by a thunderstorm. Involuntary regression, caused by anxiety.
Note: I usually do three drafts before posting, but I only wrote two of this one because it’s quite long! As such, there may be a few typos: please let me know if you see one so that I can correct it!
Darcy sighed as he began to neaten the shelves for closing time. He had only sold a couple of antique daggers today, and it was the fifth day this week that he had made under forty gold. Business needed to improve, or his beloved shop wouldn’t last much longer.
People liked to come in and browse without buying anything, and Darcy would be lying if he said that he didn’t enjoy the company. Sometimes, folks would be open to chatting, and other times they tried to pocket a few little amulets or scales. Darcy was alright with both: he liked a good conversation, and he didn’t mind using his half-orc size to throw most would-be thieves out onto the street. A person got bored sometimes, dusting off skulls and making deals with travellers. A bit of adventure was good every so often.
The door to the shop burst open, and Darcy snapped to attention with a smile. The rain was coming down in sheets, as it often did in the coastal town, and the figure who stumbled into the shop was hidden by a dark cloak. It might have once been a deep green, but it was now black with rainwater.
The person pushed back their hood and revealed the shining hair and bright eyes of a sun-elf: a familiar face, once Darcy got a proper look. Quest Riddlemaster, an elven adventurer who often found his way back to Darcy’s shop to sell the spoils from his escapades. He was a good business partner, and Darcy had found their relationship to be mutually lucrative. Today, Quest’s skin seemed paler than normal, his shoulders rising and falling with panting breaths.
“I’ve got some new wares for you,” Quest said as soon as he was close enough for his voice to be heard over the storm. He hadn’t closed the door behind him, and rainwater was beginning to run in from the street. Quest stood there for a moment longer and then collapsed, his waterlogged cloak spread around him. A golden circlet rolled out of his backpack and across the floor.
Darcy darted forwards, rolling Quest onto his back as quickly as he could. The elf’s eyes were closed, lips parted. He was still breathing, but Darcy could see what the rain had hidden: the cloak Quest was wearing was dark with both blood and water. He must have walked to the shop with serious injuries.
Darcy pushed Quest’s cloak back, tearing it slightly in the process. Once it was parted, he could see the slash-marks in Quest’s armor. They were deep and the blood was still flowing from the wounds underneath, harsh lines across his shoulder and chest.
Darcy swore under his breath and fumbled for the amulet he kept around his neck, hardly noticing that his hands were covered in Quest’s blood. “I need your help,” Darcy whispered. “I know it’s been a long day, but he’s dying. Please, help me heal him.” He barely dared to breathe until he felt the familiar glow of his god’s attention warming the amulet.
“Thank you,” Darcy breathed, and rested both hands against Quest’s chest as they began to glow. He watched the elf’s blood begin to drip upwards, resisting gravity to flow back into the wounds. The gaps in his armor let Darcy watch Quest’s skin begin to knit together, surrounded by the glow of divine magic.
Quest drew in a shuddering breath as he came back to consciousness, his hands coming up to grab one of Darcy’s wrists.
“I’m a cleric,” Darcy told him quickly. “I’m healing you.” Spells could be misinterpreted, especially in the disorientation of coming back from the brink of death, and adventurers could be jumpy.
“I’m sorry,” Quest whispered, and then his eyes closed again, his hands falling away.
Darcy sat back on his heels and looked at the figure sprawled on the floor of his shop. He hadn’t been able to heal him entirely: it was the end of the day, after all, and Darcy had gotten into the habit of using his spells to sort and organize the shop, to find the million things he misplaced throughout the day. But Quest would live, and that was the important thing. He wasn’t unconscious now, just asleep. His body was rightfully demanding rest as it caught up to the stress of the day.
Darcy let out a long breath and stood up. He had more first aid supplies at his home, and Quest would need to be watched over for the night. It certainly crossed a line of their business relationship, but Quest had proven reliable over the months and Darcy was sure that a stronger debt between them could only be beneficial.
Thinking over the best way to proceed, Darcy closed the door to stop the rain from coming into his shop. He collected the golden circlet from the floor and tucked it back into the adventurer’s rucksack, noting the number of other precious objects inside with a raised eyebrow. Quest had certainly returned with a great hoard of treasures, though if he hadn’t made it to Darcy’s shop, he would have given his life for it. If he had collapsed on the street, there was a very good chance he would have been robbed and left within minutes.
Darcy repacked the backpack and leaned it against the front of the counter, still hesitating. He could wake Quest up now, but the sun-elf was a proud one, and might refuse Darcy’s help. On the other hand, Darcy could carry him easily. But the wind and rain outside was sure to wake him, and it wouldn’t be a pleasant experience. It would be better if he woke Quest up here, and offered him a place to spend the night. He might be too tired to protest.
Just as Darcy made his decision and stepped forwards, a burst of thunder rolled over the shop, rattling the windows and the items on the shelves. It was a common enough occurrence in the sea-side town, but Quest woke to the sound and came to his feet almost too quickly to see.
“I’m awake!” he shouted at the windows, fists clenched. Darcy noted with alarm that the abrupt movement had re-opened the wounds on Quest’s chest, and blood was dripping down his armour. “I’m awake, I’m awake!” Even as he shouted, the thunder rolled again, and Quest dropped to his knees with a soft gasp.
Darcy was frozen in place where he stood, one hand outstretched in preparation to shake Quest awake. The elf was clearly rattled by the experiences of the night, acting erratically. In Darcy’s experience, Quest was a rash character who could hit first and ask questions later. Darcy wore no armour, and although he was surrounded by a shop full of weapons that he could wield fairly well, he didn’t like his chances against a seasoned adventurer like Quest if he was disoriented enough to turn on Darcy.
As Darcy debated whether to speak, he watched Quest fold over on himself, sinking forwards onto his elbows as if in worship. His shoulders were shaking, and he was muttering something in a language that Darcy didn’t speak, the same phrase over and over. Whenever his voice broke on one of the words, he started over from the beginning.
“Riddlemaster?” Darcy tried. Quest’s shoulders tensed even further, his spine curling defensively. The litany of foreign words didn’t stop, and Darcy knelt down beside the elf. He was clearly in distress, and Darcy had just saved his life. Surely, he could help with this as well. “Quest? Are you alright?”
“I am stone. I am steady. I am unafraid,” Quest said in Common. “I am stone. I am steady. I am unafraid.” The mantra continued, unbroken by the switching languages.
Darcy was stumped once more. He had no idea how to proceed, no idea how to stop the helpless flood of words coming from this near-stranger’s mouth. He hadn’t comforted someone in years, and he barely remembered what to do.
“It’s okay,” Darcy managed, placing a hand on Quest’s shoulder. Quest flinched, but didn’t move away from the touch. He was rocking slightly in time to the mantra, a subtle movement that Darcy hadn’t noticed until his palm was against Quest’s shoulder. “You’re going to be okay, I can help you.” As Darcy spoke, Quest’s words became quieter, as if he was trying to listen to what Darcy was saying. He pressed on. “I have some stuff at my house, to wrap your wounds. I can help you get there. You’re going to be okay. In the morning, I can heal you all the way. It’s just one night.”
“I can’t-” Quest started, and broke off the sentence with a sharp gasp. “I am stone. I am steady. I am-” The thunder came again, rumbling through the store, and Quest cried out against the sound, grabbing Darcy’s wrist and pulling him down onto the ground with Quest. Quest was shaking now, small scared sounds coming from his chest.
Darcy pulled Quest to his chest by instinct, wrapping his arms around the elf’s smaller frame. Quest clutched at his vest, at his wrists, gasping for breath. Darcy rocked him back and forth, slow calming movements.
“Shhh,” Darcy whispered. “You’re safe, I promise. It’s only the thunder. I’m staying with you.”
“No, no, no!” Quest struggled against Darcy’s grip. “I’m going to- she’s going to- I don’t want the pain anymore!” Darcy’s heart broke at the confusion in Quest’s voice, the childish fear and disorientation that filled his shouts.
“No pain,” Darcy promised, gently restraining Quest to protect his chest. “I can help the pain. No one will hurt you here. I swear by my god and my divine abilities.”
Quest subsided into tears, relaxing into Darcy’s arms.
“There you go,” Darcy murmured, relieved. “You’re safe.” Quest continued to sob in his arms, quiet but steady. “You’re not going to be hurt anymore,” Darcy told him, cautiously loosening his grip to see if Quest would try to wriggle free again. Quest caught at his arms as he lifted them, pulling them back around his body. “I’m not going anywhere,” Darcy told him, amused by the clingy gesture.
“Hurts,” Quest whispered in an unfamiliar voice. “Loud.”
“I know.” Darcy could hear the sympathetic pain in his own voice. “I’m sorry I can’t heal you all the way. I’m sorry I can’t stop the thunder. I wish I could.”
“Not ‘sposed to be scared.” Quest’s quiet voice was more fragile than Darcy could process.
“It’s okay to be scared once you’re safe,” Darcy told him. “Everyone gets scared.”
“Not everyone,” Quest said, but his tears were starting to let up.
“Well, everyone that I know gets scared.” Darcy pushed Quest’s hair back, an automatic gesture that he paused awkwardly in the middle of doing. Quest didn’t seem angry, just exhausted and overwhelmed. He leaned his head into the touch, and Darcy carried on petting his hair absent-mindedly. “I know that I get scared a lot.”
“Really?” Quest pulled free of Darcy’s arms to look at him, eyes still glassy with tears.
“Absolutely.” It wasn’t really true. Darcy didn’t see much dangerous combat these days, but he had spent his fair share of time scared before he settled down into his shop. Scared of the storms on the open water, scared of the monsters that came out of nowhere, scared of death. And Quest looked so amazed by his revelation that Darcy repeated it, more confidently. “It’s normal to get scared.”
Quest thought about this for a moment, and then his face screwed up. “Everything hurts,” he mumbled.
“Stop sitting up,” Darcy said, guiding Quest back to rest against his chest. He resumed the petting of Quest’s hair, careful to avoid his ears. Most elves that he’d known didn’t like their ears touched, too sensitive to register direct touch as anything other than painful overstimulation. “You took some pretty hard hits. I’m glad that I could heal you, but I couldn’t do everything. I can patch you up better at my house, if you’d like.”
“I can come to your house?” There was that same amazed wonder in Quest’s voice as when Darcy told him it was normal to be scared.
“Sure.” Darcy risked a little hair-mussing, and Quest pulled away with a whine. Fair enough, nobody liked having their hair messed up. “I have enough space to host a friend for a night.”
Quest smiled at that, a bright smile that Darcy had never seen before. “I want to see your house.”
“Alright.” Darcy started to untangle himself from the elf to stand, but Quest clung to him when he tried to move. Darcy laughed awkwardly, subsiding back to the floor. “You’re going to need to let me up if you want to see my house.”
“Don’t leave me.” Quest’s voice had changed again, harsher and urgent. “Don’t leave me here.”
Darcy wrapped his arms back around Quest, careful of the wounds that covered his chest. “Quest, I need to get your pack and then lead you to my house. I’m not trying to leave you.”
“Stay,” Quest demanded, tightening his grip on Darcy’s shirt.
“We need to get you to my house so that I can wrap your injuries,” Darcy protested. “The sooner we sleep, the sooner the pain will ease.”
“Don’t leave me!” The urgency in Quest’s voice hadn’t eased with Darcy’s explanations, and Darcy stifled a sigh. It was becoming clearer that he wasn’t dealing with a creature of logic right now, and that the adventurer had been severely discombobulated by the events of the evening. Resuming the gentle caresses to Quest’s head, he quieted his tone to something more calming than reasoning, the same way he would talk to a child.
“Quest, it’s alright. Hush, I’m not going anywhere.” Sure enough, the elf relaxed into Darcy’s arms and eased his desperate grip on Darcy’s shirt. “I’m going to take care of you, and make sure it doesn’t hurt as much, but I want to get your pack before we leave. I’ll only be gone for ten seconds, you can count them if you like.”
“Okay,” Quest said into Darcy’s shoulder reluctantly.
“Thank you,” Darcy said, in the softest voice he could manage. “Ten seconds.” He disentangled himself from Quest’s limbs and the elf allowed it listlessly, dropping his arms to his lap and his gaze to the floor. Darcy scrambled to his feet and put the elf’s backpack over his shoulders, tugging at the straps until it fit his larger frame. He threw his cloak on top of it, raising the hood in preparation to go out in the storm.
Once he was dressed, Darcy returned to Quest and knelt in front of him, waiting the long moment it took for Quest to look up and focus on Darcy’s face. “Can you walk?”
“Uh-huh,” Quest nodded, and accepted Darcy’s hand to pull himself to his feet. As soon as he was up, he wavered and seemed about to faint again.
Darcy reacted on instinct, scooping Quest up into his arms with ease. He was even lighter than he appeared, gangly but easy to hold. Quest melted in his grasp, leaning his head against Darcy’s chest and even closing his eyes.
“Okay,” Darcy muttered, mostly to himself. “This works.” He folded Quest’s torn cloak around him, protecting his body from the storm outside.
The thunder rolled again as Darcy started for the door, and Quest drew in a sharp breath, pressing himself close enough to Darcy’s chest that the half-orc’s cloak fell around both of them.
“It’s okay,” Darcy murmured to him. “It’s okay to be scared, but it won’t hurt you. I’ve got you. We’re going out in the rain now, but it won’t be for too long. I’ve got you.”
Quest didn’t reply, but he kept his eyes closed and his cheek pressed to Darcy’s shirt. Darcy nodded, steeled himself for the wind, and opened the door with his elbow, careful of Quest’s limbs. Locking the store was more of a production with the elf in his arms, but Darcy managed it, and soon he was making his way home. The storm and the path were both familiar, the cobblestones slippery with rain. It wasn’t long down the street until they reached his little house, and he pushed the door open with a grateful sigh, closing it behind them with a well-aimed kick.
The room was cluttered with a lifetime as a collector of oddities, relics from his seafaring days mounted on the walls and magical items scattered across the bookshelves. Darcy carried Quest to the pile of furs in front of his unlit fireplace, kneeling down to release the elf. “I’m going to stay beside you, but I’m going to let go to take off my cloak,” he told Quest as he let go, and Quest didn’t cling to him as he sunk into the soft furs beneath him.
True to his word, Darcy shrugged out of his rain-soaked cloak and tossed it over a nearby chair. Gently, he unclasped Quest’s cloak as well and extracted it from his form, adding it to the pile with his own.
“Are you alright with a fire?” Darcy asked, gesturing to the fireplace. Quest nodded, so Darcy began to assemble the tinder and logs in his usual pattern before grabbling the tinderbox from the mantle and casting sparks into the centre. The flames were slow to rise, but soon they were curling the tinder into ash and licking at the sticks around them.
Darcy sat back on his heels and Quest reached a hand towards him, tugging at his sleeve. “One more second,” Darcy said, catching the hand and holding it. “Would you like some better clothes for sleeping in?”
Quest hesitated, his free hand going to the slashed armor across his chest.
“This house is safe,” Darcy reminded him. “As safe as anywhere can be.”
“Soft clothes,” Quest managed. “Would be nice.”
“My thoughts exactly. I’ll be gone for a second, but the fire will be nice and warm.” Darcy let go of Quest’s hand with a last squeeze. “Keep an eye on it, but don’t get too close.”
“Safe,” Quest said with a nod.
“Yes, stay safe.” Darcy got to his feet with a huff and went to leave the room, hesitating at the doorway. Quest was shivering by the fireplace, his arms lying listlessly at his sides. He would be fine for a moment, surely? They both needed clothes, and Darcy could get his medical supplies. Darcy tore his eyes away and hurried into the next room, intent on getting back as quickly as he could.
Darcy changed with record speed, stripping off the cravat, the jacket, the elegantly laced leather boots, leaving them scattered on the bed in a way he would normally never consider. He replaced them with looser clothing that were more suited for comfort, collecting some for Quest as well. They would be a bit big on the elf, but not large enough to be impractical. Darcy snagged a soft blanket from the bed and the chest of medical supplies that he kept on his carved wooden dresser, and then returned.
Quest was exactly where Darcy had left him, staring into the flickering flames that were starting to creep over the larger pieces of wood in the fireplace.
“I’m back,” Darcy said as he approached, not wanting to startle the elf.
Quest looked up and offered a miserable smile. His long hair was dripping with rainwater, his expression tight with pain. The tears in his armor were stained with dried blood, and there was still fresh scarlet staining the furs that he laid on. He looked like a mess, and Darcy’s heart clenched.
“I’m sorry I was gone,” Darcy added, coming forward to settle beside his guest. “Should we get you cleaned up?”
Quest nodded, seemingly out of words, but his smile became a little more genuine.
Darcy used the blanket to dry Quest’s hair and clean his dirty face, then turned his attention to the ruined armor. “Do you want to get this off, or can I help?” Instead of answering, Quest lifted his arms to give Darcy better access to the buckles on the sides of the breastplate. Darcy nodded and started on the fastenings, nimble fingers making quick work of them and lifting the layers of armor away from Quest’s chest. His white undershirt was soaked through with blood, and the harsh claw-marks were worse up close, lit with the wavering firelight.
Quest kept his arms up, blinking at Darcy with distant eyes.
“Alright.” Darcy started on the shirt, trying to be gentle. The wounds had started to heal around the fabric, and it was slow work to pull it free. Quest made small pained sounds but stayed still as the shirt came off, finally free to slip over his head.
“I’m sorry,” Darcy said, laying aside the shirt and resting a hand on Quest’s uninjured shoulder.
“S’okay,” Quest managed, but his eyes were full of tears.
“Just a little more and we can sleep,” Darcy soothed, opening his chest of medical supplies. There was a balm for pain and swelling that he applied first, keeping his touches gentle. Quest didn’t flinch, didn’t complain, but sat perfectly still with tears dripping down his cheeks as Darcy’s fingers traced the lines of his injury. “Doing so well,” Darcy praised again and again. “Almost done.”
Lastly, he wrapped a bandage around Quest’s torso, grateful to hide the ragged marks from sight. Blood spotted the bandages but didn’t soak through all the way, and Darcy breathed a sigh of relief. The bleeding was stopping, finally.
“It’s better?” Quest said doubtfully, bringing his hands towards his chest.
“Don’t touch,” Darcy told him, catching his hands and holding them in his own. “Best to let it heal overnight without poking it.”
“Thank you.” The words were quiet and overwhelmed.
“Of course.” Darcy squeezed Quest’s hands in his own, always gentle. Quest’s hands were so small in his grasp, the golden skin even brighter against the blue-green of his own fingers. “It should be mostly healed in the morning, and I can finish whatever remains. You’ll be free to go wherever you need to.”
“Don’t want to go,” Quest whispered, staring down at their hands.
Darcy hesitated, unsure what he should say. The two of them didn’t know each other that well, and there wasn’t space in Darcy’s house for another person. Quest probably didn’t mean it, overwhelmed by pain and gratitude. But any response seemed cruel, to such a quiet and heartfelt confession.
“I’m here,” Darcy said finally, releasing Quest’s hands and opening his arms in an offer. Quest immediately crawled into the embrace, settling against Darcy’s chest with a low purr of contentment. Darcy smiled at the sound, something that elves only did when they were very young or very comfortable. “You can stay as long as you need to.”
Darcy helped Quest change into the comfortable clothes, hiding his laughter at the way they hung on Quest’s slimmer frame. Once they were both dry and clothed, Darcy leaned against the furs and Quest curled up against him, purring in the firelight. Darcy smiled down at the elf, as the thunder rumbled outside and he hardly even flinched, his purr continuing unbroken. The warmth of the fire and the stress of the evening caught up to Darcy all at once, drawing his eyelids down.
With the pressure of Quest curled against his chest, and the steady sound of rain on the street outside, Darcy drifted off to sleep.
--
When he woke up in the morning, the fire had burned down to ashes and Quest was gone.
There was a golden circlet on his mantelpiece, and nothing missing from the house. Darcy smiled as he walked to the shop that morning, sure that he would see Quest again soon.
