First Kiss, Last Kiss, Every Kiss
Copyright© 2026 by SpankLord40k
Chapter 2: The Transformation
Lars Morrison was having the best night of his life.
Devon’s place was packed with people, the music was loud enough to make conversation impossible without shouting, and Lars had already had three beers and two shots of whatever Jake had brought in that suspicious-looking flask. The Halloween party was in full swing, with people in varying levels of costume quality crowding every available space in the small house.
Lars’s vampire costume was minimal at best - plastic fangs from the dollar store that he’d already taken out because they made talking difficult, and some fake blood smeared on his chin and neck. He’d considered buying actual costume pieces, but why bother? He looked good enough without trying, and that’s what mattered. Half the girls here were already eyeing him, costume or no costume.
He stood in the kitchen with Jake, Marcus, and Devon, leaning against the counter with a beer in his hand, laughing about something Marcus had said about his terrible boss. The kitchen was a disaster of empty bottles, discarded plastic cups, and spilled chips. Someone had tried to bob for apples earlier and given up, leaving a large bowl of water on the floor that people kept almost tripping over.
“I’m telling you, man, the guy’s an idiot,” Marcus was saying, his words slightly slurred. He was dressed as a zombie, with gray face paint already smudging and fake blood dripping down his shirt. “He doesn’t know the first thing about actually running a store.”
“None of them do,” Lars agreed, taking a long drink. “My manager keeps threatening to fire me, but she won’t. They need me there. I’m the only one who can actually talk to customers without sounding like a complete moron.”
Jake laughed, adjusting his werewolf mask, which he’d pushed up onto his head so he could drink. “Dude, didn’t you call in sick three times last week?”
“So? I was sick. Sick of that place.” Lars grinned at his own joke, and his friends laughed obligingly.
Devon shook his head, dressed in an elaborate pirate costume complete with a fake sword and eye patch. “Man, I don’t know how you get away with it. If I pulled that at my job, I’d be out on my ass.”
“That’s because you don’t have my charm,” Lars said confidently. He felt good tonight - really good. The alcohol was warming his system, his friends were here, there were attractive women at the party, and he’d successfully avoided any responsibility or consequence for his actions once again. Life was easy when you knew how to work the system.
He thought briefly about Sarah and her stupid broken wand, then dismissed it immediately. She’d get over it. She always did. She was just a kid being overdramatic about nothing. Their parents would buy her another stick or whatever, and she’d forget all about it by tomorrow.
“Hey, Lars!” A girl dressed as a cat - black bodysuit, ears, whiskers painted on her face - approached him with a smile. “Want to dance?”
Lars looked her up and down appreciatively. “Yeah, sure. Why not?”
He set down his beer and followed her into the living room, where someone had pushed all the furniture against the walls to create a makeshift dance floor. The music was some remix of a pop song Lars vaguely recognized, bass thumping through the speakers hard enough to rattle the windows.
They danced for a while, Lars putting in minimal effort but apparently enough to keep the cat-girl interested. She laughed at something he said - he couldn’t even remember what - and touched his arm in that way that suggested she was definitely interested in more than just dancing.
This was what life was about, Lars thought. Having fun, not worrying about consequences, doing what felt good in the moment. Why stress about jobs or responsibility or anyone else’s feelings when you could just ... enjoy yourself?
The song changed to something slower, and the cat-girl pressed closer. Lars was about to suggest they go somewhere quieter when he suddenly felt strange.
It started as a slight dizziness, like the room tilted just a few degrees. He blinked, trying to focus, assuming it was just the alcohol hitting him harder than expected. But the feeling didn’t pass. Instead, it intensified.
His skin felt weird. Tingly, like mild static electricity was running across his entire body. He pulled away from the cat-girl slightly, raising one hand to look at it. In the dim, colored lights of the party, everything looked normal, but the sensation was definitely there.
“You okay?” the girl asked, noticing his distraction.
“Yeah, I just ... I need some air.” Lars’s voice sounded strange to his own ears. Higher pitched? No, that couldn’t be right. Must be the music distorting things.
He made his way through the crowd toward the bathroom, bumping into people as he went. Everyone seemed taller somehow, or maybe he was slouching? His legs felt unsteady, weak in a way that went beyond just being drunk. Something was definitely wrong.
The bathroom was occupied, of course. Lars stood in the hallway, leaning against the wall, trying to steady himself. The tingling sensation was getting stronger, spreading from his skin deeper into his body. It felt like his bones were vibrating, like his muscles were twitching under his skin.
“Move it!” someone shouted, pushing past him. Lars stumbled, catching himself against the wall. His hand looked ... wrong. Smaller? The lighting was terrible in this hallway, all shadows and flickering bulbs. He couldn’t tell what he was seeing.
Finally, the bathroom door opened and someone stumbled out. Lars pushed his way in quickly and locked the door behind him, grateful for the sudden quiet and relative brightness. The bathroom was typical college-house disgusting - toothpaste-splattered mirror, towels on the floor, questionable stains on everything - but at least it had decent lighting and he was alone.
He leaned over the sink and splashed cold water on his face, trying to clear his head. The water was shockingly cold, almost painful against his skin. He looked up at the mirror, expecting to see his normal reflection - maybe a little drunk, maybe a little pale, but fundamentally himself.
What he saw made his heart stop.
His face was different. Not dramatically, not obviously, but definitely different. His features looked ... softer somehow. His jawline wasn’t as sharp. His cheekbones seemed higher. His stubble - the perpetual five o’clock shadow he’d been sporting for years - was fading, the dark hair disappearing even as he watched.
“What the fuck?” Lars leaned closer to the mirror, his hands gripping the edge of the sink. His voice definitely sounded higher. That wasn’t his imagination. That wasn’t the alcohol.
His hands.
He looked down at his hands gripping the white porcelain sink and felt ice flood his veins. They were smaller. Noticeably, undeniably smaller. His fingers were shorter, more delicate. His knuckles less pronounced. The veins that usually stood out on the backs of his hands were barely visible.
“No. No, this isn’t real. I’m just really drunk.” Lars’s voice came out high and almost childish, and that terrified him more than anything else. He cleared his throat and tried again. “This isn’t real.”
But it was real. As he stood there, frozen in horror and disbelief, he felt his body changing. It wasn’t painful - not exactly - but it was deeply, fundamentally wrong. His perspective was shifting downward as his height decreased. His shoulders were narrowing. His chest was flattening. His hips were ... changing shape in ways that made no sense.
Lars backed away from the sink, his eyes locked on his reflection. He was shrinking. Actually, physically shrinking. Losing inches of height with every passing second. His jeans were getting longer, the hem pooling around his shoes. His shirt was hanging looser on his diminishing frame.
“This isn’t happening. This isn’t happening.” But his voice kept getting higher with each word, moving from a man’s voice to something ambiguous to something undeniably childlike.
His face in the mirror was transforming rapidly now. His jaw was softening, rounding out into the gentle curve of a child’s face. His nose was shrinking, becoming small and button-like. His eyebrows were thinning, becoming delicate arches. His eyes - they seemed huge now in his changing face, taking on an innocent, wide-eyed quality that was nothing like his usual sharp gaze.
His hair was changing too. The dark brown was lightening to a soft chestnut color, and it was growing, falling past his shoulders in gentle waves. He reached up with trembling hands - such small hands now - and touched the lengthening strands. They were soft, silky, nothing like the short, coarse hair he’d had minutes ago.
“Stop. Make it stop.” Lars’s voice was completely childish now, high and thin and desperate. He barely recognized it as coming from himself.
His body continued to shrink and reshape. All his muscle definition was disappearing, melting away into the soft, undeveloped form of a child. His legs were getting shorter, thinner. His arms were losing all their strength. His whole body was becoming smaller, more delicate, more vulnerable with each passing second.
The bathroom mirror was showing less and less of him as he shrank. What had been a reflection of a six-foot-tall man was now showing a progressively smaller figure. Five foot nine. Five foot six. Five feet tall. Four foot six.
And still shrinking.
Lars tried to step toward the mirror but his shoes were far too big now, and he tripped, catching himself against the sink. The counter that had been at his waist was now at his chest. Everything in the bathroom was getting bigger - or rather, he was getting smaller. The toilet looked massive. The towel rack was way above his head. The doorknob seemed impossibly high.
His clothes were transforming too, he realized with mounting horror. His jeans were shimmering, the denim flowing and changing. The dark blue was brightening, shifting to pink. The fabric was reshaping itself, the legs merging and spreading into a skirt. A puffy, sparkly skirt with layers of tulle underneath.
His black t-shirt was changing color too, morphing from black to a bright, glittery purple. The fabric was restructuring, the neckline rising, the sleeves puffing out into princess-style sleeves. The material became silky, decorated with sequins that caught the bathroom light.
“No, no, no!” Lars grabbed at the transforming clothes, trying to stop it, but his small hands couldn’t do anything. The magic was too strong, too inevitable.
A bodice formed around his flattened chest, covered in more glitter and sequins. The skirt grew fuller, more elaborate, with multiple layers creating that classic princess silhouette. The fabric shimmered with colors - pink, purple, silver - all blending together in a costume that would make any little girl squeal with delight and made Lars want to scream.
His shoes were changing too. His sneakers were melting away, reforming into shiny black Mary Jane shoes with a small buckle. The size was shrinking along with his feet, until they fit his new, tiny feet perfectly.
Lars stared down at himself in complete horror. He was wearing a princess costume. A full, elaborate, sparkly princess costume. The kind worn by little girls on Halloween.
He looked back up at the mirror and felt his reality fracturing.
The face staring back at him was that of a ten-year-old girl. Completely, undeniably, a little girl. Big hazel eyes - when had they changed from brown? - looked back at him with an expression of shock and fear. A small, delicate nose. Rosy cheeks. A soft, rounded chin. Long chestnut hair falling in waves past narrow shoulders.
But the face was still bare, still unmarked.
Then the makeup began to appear, and with it came memories that weren’t his.
It started as faint swirls of pink on the cheeks, but rapidly intensified. Bold, bright princess makeup materialized across the child’s face as if applied by an invisible, expert hand - except Lars suddenly remembered it wasn’t invisible. He remembered sitting at the kitchen table at home, remembered Mommy carefully applying the face paint with a small brush, remembered how long they’d worked to get it just right.
No. That wasn’t his memory. He didn’t have a “Mommy.” He had a mother, Linda, who he called “Mom” when he bothered to acknowledge her at all.
But he could remember it so clearly. Sitting still while Mommy painted his face, feeling so excited about his princess costume, wanting the makeup to be perfect. They’d spent almost an hour on it, and Mommy had been so patient, letting him look in her hand mirror after each addition, asking “Is this pretty enough, sweetie?” and her - no, HIM - nodding enthusiastically.
Swirls of violet and pink spread across her cheeks and forehead, painted not with restraint but with the kind of boldness only a carnival face painter could bring. The colors were vivid, glowing, giving her face an almost porcelain brightness, and tiny flecks of silver glitter scattered across her skin like stardust.
Lars remembered requesting the glitter specifically. “Can we add sparkles, Mommy? Please? I want to sparkle like a real princess!” And Mommy had laughed and said, “Of course, baby. Every princess needs to sparkle.”
But that wasn’t him. That was someone else. That was ... Emmy?
The eyes were drenched in shimmering purple, sweeping upward in dramatic arcs toward the temples. A haze of blue softened the edges, fading outward into lighter shades, and white highlights brightened the inner corners until his eyes looked impossibly wide and luminous. Rhinestones dotted the design here and there, catching the light like frozen drops of dew.
He remembered sitting very still while Mommy applied the eyeshadow, telling her - no, him - to close his eyes, to hold still, to be patient. “You’re doing so well, sweetie. This is going to look so beautiful.”
A tiara appeared in the long chestnut hair, sitting perfectly positioned as if someone had carefully placed it there. It was plastic but ornate, silver with pink gems that matched the costume perfectly.
Lars remembered the moment Mommy had placed it on his head. The gentle touch as she adjusted it, making sure it sat just right. “There we go. Now you look like a real princess, Emmy.”
Emmy. That name. It felt right and wrong at the same time.
Blue appeared on the eyelids, layered over the purple in a gradient that went from deep blue at the lash line to lighter blue in the crease. White highlights appeared in the inner corners of the eyes, making them look even bigger, even more innocent. The effect was dramatic, theatrical - exactly the kind of bold face paint a little girl would beg for at a Halloween festival.
“I want blue too,” she remembered saying - no, he remembered saying. “Like the sky! Can we add blue, Mommy?”
“Of course, princess. Let me blend it with the purple. It’ll look magical.”
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