Johnny stirred, groaning softly as morning light crept through the curtains. The blankets felt wrong—heavier in some places, lighter in others. There was a tug around his waist, a cool breeze along his legs, and a pressure against his hips that most definitely hadn’t been there the night before.
He cracked one eye open.
The ceiling was the same.
But the soft rustling sound as he moved? Definitely not pajama fabric.
He sat up—and immediately froze.
Gone were his cotton sleep pants and oversized tee. In their place was an outfit that absolutely did not belong in his wardrobe. A tiny orange bikini top with blue swirl patterns clung to his chest awkwardly, lying flat against his skin with no curves to support it. It hugged his slim frame uncomfortably close, the straps digging faintly into his shoulders.
Below that, a pair of tight low-slung jeans clung to his hips, flared at the bottom and shredded at the thighs. A thick blue belt with a chunky gold buckle wrapped around his waist. Bangles jangled from his wrists. The pants were so low-rise that his hip bones were practically out to say good morning—and worse still, beneath them he could feel the unmistakable tug of a string.
He shifted and winced.
A g-string. A tiny triangle of fabric in front, and little more than floss in the back. The thin strip of material nestled uncomfortably between his cheeks, forcing him to become acutely aware of every movement below the waist. Every step, every shift of his hips sent a reminder that his cursed wardrobe had zero regard for comfort.
His brown hair, normally just sort of hanging loose around his shoulders, now felt different—wavy, layered, and styled with a kind of casual glamour. He reached up and tugged a lock. Still brown, thankfully. But unmistakably Nami’s style.
Johnny swallowed. "No. No no no no—"
The door creaked open.
Stacy stood in the doorway, groggy, her hair a mess from sleep. She rubbed one eye and blinked at him.
Then blinked again.
Johnny raised his hands as if to explain—but the bangles gave a cheerful jingle that totally undercut the seriousness of the situation.
"Okay," Stacy said slowly, stepping into the room. "Either I’m dreaming, or you are currently wearing Nami’s outfit from One Piece."
"It’s the curse," Johnny groaned. "It’s real. It’s actually real."
He shifted again, biting back a hiss as the g-string reminded him of its existence. The jeans hugged his hips with a skin-tight grip, and the bikini top, while technically covering him, left him feeling oddly exposed.
Stacy finally let out a low whistle and walked a slow circle around him. "You even got the hairstyle right. Damn."
"Can you please help me get out of this?"
She raised an eyebrow. "You really think the magic fashion curse that adjusted your outfit to fit a pirate navigator is going to let you just take it off?"
Johnny stood and immediately had to grab the edge of the bed to steady himself as the jeans constricted his movement and the string rode up uncomfortably high. The movement made the gold bangles jingle again.
"I feel like I’m cosplaying for a con I didn’t agree to attend."
Stacy snorted. "You look good, though. I mean, disturbingly good. Like, ‘I’d totally follow you onto a pirate ship’ good."
Johnny groaned.
Stacy threw open the closet. "Alright, Nami. You’re going out for breakfast."
"Like hell I am!"
"You’re cursed. You’re Nami now. That outfit’s not coming off, and reality probably already thinks it’s normal. Let’s go see if you start yelling about treasure maps halfway through your omelette."
Johnny stared at her. "You’re way too excited about this."
She smirked and tossed him a pair of sandals. "Come on. We’ll stop by the comic shop after. You might get a discount."
As Johnny reluctantly shuffled toward the door—jeans tight, g-string merciless, and hair bouncing in styled waves—he muttered, "At least it’s not pink and frilly."
But deep down, he knew it was only a matter of time.  indicates the next chapter needs to be written. |
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