Frobisher was not entirely sure why it was he was a little boy at the moment, but now that he was he had no particular interest in altering that fact.
Part of this was that he had so much trouble with the humanoid form that he didn’t want to dismiss this attempt to blithely, and part of this was that he felt slightly… stuck, not so much Monomorphia as the feeling of having your foot on chewing gum. You could pull away with some effort, and at that moment he didn’t want to exert that much effort just to change into a different alien form. With Whifferdils, the concept of “if you keep doing that, your face will stick that way” was less a way to tease children and more a cold reality.
And, as humanoid forms went, this wasn’t a bad one. True, he did look something like the two humanoids he’d first grown attached to, but not really like either of them. For one thing, he was all of four feet tall, with an impish little face and a mess of curly brown hair, and an apparent age closer to ten or twelve than his actual forty-five years.
It was rare anyone got a second chance at childhood in any body, and Frobisher wasn’t about to get offended by his chance.
((This is me remembering I never posted a starter.))