Johnny awoke to the feeling of lace.
His eyes blinked open slowly, only to be met with soft pink satin brushing against his cheek and something unnervingly poofy cocooning his legs. He shifted under the blankets, and the crisp rustle of fabric accompanied every movement. Confused and already a little uneasy, he sat up—and instantly felt an unfamiliar weight tug at his scalp as soft curls bounced around his face.
He reached up and touched his hair. It had been styled. Elaborately.
With mounting dread, Johnny threw off the covers. The blanket slid to the floor, revealing the full horror: he was dressed head to toe in Princess Peach’s unmistakable gown. It hugged his torso with terrifying precision—pink satin bodice snug around his slim frame, puffed sleeves rounding out his shoulders, and a high collar resting daintily at the base of his neck. The skirt flared dramatically from his waist, layers of tulle and silk rustling like whispers every time he moved. It didn’t just fit—it flattered. Perfectly.
Even worse was how natural it felt. Beneath the dress, he could feel the delicate outline of a lacy bralette snugly hugging his chest and matching panties brushing against his skin with every movement. The fabric was light, silky, and undeniably feminine, the way it clung to his body only making his awareness of it worse. The cinched waist didn’t squeeze; it shaped. The gloves slid snugly up his arms like a second skin. The low heels on his feet balanced him with bizarre ease, and a sapphire brooch gleamed just above his chest like it belonged there.
His styled brown hair had been twisted into voluminous curls, with two perfect loops resting beside his cheeks, just like the Mushroom Kingdom princess. A golden crown perched atop his head, perfectly symmetrical, its weight subtle but constant—like it didn’t want him to forget it was there.
"What the—?" he croaked, voice a little higher, a little sweeter.
He stumbled toward the mirror, his hands brushing down the front of the dress automatically to smooth it, just as Peach might before greeting her subjects. He froze.
Why did that feel right?
He tried pulling off the gloves. No dice. The fabric clung tight, refusing to budge. The same went for the crown—it was stuck fast, no matter how he twisted or tugged. The dress’s zipper wouldn’t even twitch. Panic started rising in his throat.
The curse.
He remembered the girl in the park. The shimmer. The rhyme. It wasn’t a joke. It wasn’t cosplay. This was happening.
A knock at the bedroom door startled him.
"Johnny?" came Stacy’s voice, thick with amusement already. "You up yet?"
"Uh—yeah! Just—hold on!" he yelped, fumbling to grab the blanket again, but the massive skirt wouldn’t cooperate. The fabric pooled and puffed around him like he was preparing for a royal ball.
The door creaked open.
Stacy stepped in, took one look at him, and lost it.
She dropped to her knees, wheezing with laughter, tears forming in her eyes. "Oh my God! You’re Peach! You’re actually Princess Peach!"
Johnny turned bright red. "This isn’t funny, Stacy! I can’t take it off. I’m stuck like this!"
She wiped her eyes and stood, walking around him slowly. "Wait, seriously? Like—stuck stuck?"
"Yes!" he hissed, flaring his arms out in frustration. The movement made the skirt flare with an elegant swish, and he instinctively caught the hem with one hand to keep it from fluttering too high—like he’d done it before.
Stacy’s eyes narrowed. "Okay... Are you curtsying at me right now?"
"What? No! I—wait—ugh!"
He spun toward the mirror again, but instead of angry stomping, his feet took tiny, precise steps, the kind you’d expect from someone used to high heels and ballroom floors. His posture had subtly shifted, back straight, shoulders slightly drawn back. He looked every bit the princess he’d never wanted to be.
"Oh wow," Stacy said, sounding way too delighted. "It’s not just the outfit. You’re starting to act like her."
"I’m not," Johnny protested, but the way he planted a gloved hand on his hip and tilted his head undercut the argument.
Stacy pulled out her phone. "Sorry, royal decree. I have to document this. Now give me a little spin, Princess."
"Stacy, I swear—"
But even as he protested, Johnny felt a tug in his muscles, a strange, gentle push from inside that guided his limbs. He turned, the skirt twirling gracefully as if on cue, and posed slightly at the end—chin up, shoulders back, one foot turned just so.
He caught himself too late.
Stacy’s grin was pure evil. "Oh. My. God. This is going to be the best week of my life."
Johnny groaned, cheeks burning as he sank into the frilly chaos of his skirt.
This was only day one.   indicates the next chapter needs to be written. |
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