#i forgot to post this. Flops over and cries /lh | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

mellointheory · 3 years ago

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I fucking demand chicken punz angst /lh

// vomit

Punz wasn’t thinking.

And then, all of a sudden, he was.

He dug his fingers into the dew-soaked ground, hauled himself up to his knees, and promptly threw up. It was awful. What the fuck had he been eating?

When he opened his eyes he found that he had, apparently, been eating grass, insects, and corn. He spat bile onto the wet ground and sat back on his heels, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. It was like pulling his mind out of sleep, but worse. He knew that just a few moments ago he hadn’t been thinking, hadn’t been conscious at all. What had happened?

A quiet cluck behind him, and he turned around. There was a chicken perched on the back of an empty chair, its feathers ruffled and eyes closed. He was in an empty schoolhouse, lit only by moonlight coming in from the gaps in the eaves, kneeling on a dirt floor.

He stood to walk over to the chicken and then choked, something tightening around his throat. He put his hand up to find the thin leather of a leash tied around his neck, attached to one of the posts of the blackboard at the front of the room. It snapped when he yanked on it, but the ghost of that tightness still lingered around his neck. What the hell.

He turned around and sat on the desk behind him, reaching a hand out to the chicken on the back of the chair. It opened an eye and regarded him sleepily, then slowly stepped off the wood and onto his arm. He pet the feathers on the back of its head and rested his forearm on his lap while she settled down into sleep again, rustling her feathers. The skin under his hoodie itched, irritated from something, but her claws digging into his skin alleviated that slightly.

Her? Odd. He frowned and glanced around the schoolhouse, wincing at the taste of bile and vomit in his mouth. It was full of empty chairs and desks. There were drawings scribbled on the board, amatuer sketches done in chalk. He noticed his handwriting on one of them.

Me, it said above one of the figures in the drawing, and then above the shorter one: KSI. Then he started to remember.

KSI. Some being Quackity had brought in, some weird-as-hell spirit mildly obsessed with debauchery and a vast degree of inexperience with their world. They had all gone along with the chaos, for some reason. How had every single one of them ended up inside this little schoolhouse, letting a thing with zero knowledge of how the mortal plane worked explain to them what sex was.

That thing had done something to their heads.

He stood up to walk around the classroom. It was mostly empty, just the drawings on the board, a broken leash on the ground, a drowsy hen perched on his arm. Where had everyone gone, and why did they leave him?

A flash of yellow caught his eye and he stepped around one of the desks to see…something, lying limp on the ground. A little bundle of pale feathers. He bent over and reached out with a fingertip to nudge it, then stopped before he could touch it. It was a dead chick, its dark eyes still open, beak slightly parted. Its head was bent back at an odd angle.

Punz still felt unwilling to touch it. It was so…small. Just a little thing of flesh and fragile bones, the yellow down that covered its body wet from dew, tiny nubs of wings half-opened. Its feet were curled up under it. He’d seen dead birds before, fuck, he’d even killed them himself. Karl once had an entire pit of chickens on Punz’s property that were multiplying at an alarming rate until Punz killed them. There should be no reason for this tiny, broken body in the moonlight to be as tragic as it was.

The leash around his neck when he awoke. The…stuff he’d been eating. The strange sadness at seeing that dead chick on the ground. KSI, staring Punz straight in the eyes.

They’d transformed him into a chicken.

Jesus fucking christ.

Punz threw up again.

After he’d finished gagging on the bile in his mouth he turned back to the body of the dead chick. The chick…oh god, he’d fathered that thing. He’d been turned into an animal and they’d tied him to a post and watched him…watched him…

The chicken on his arm opened its eyes and looked at him quizzically. He wanted to throw it. Yeah, he’d been a chicken at the time but holy fuck. Punz averted his eyes and bent to slide a hand, shaking slightly, under the dead chick’s body. Its head flops a little when he picked it up and he steadied it with his thumb. His head was clouded and at some point any sentience in his brain had deteriorated, trapped in the mind of a bird. And he couldn’t have been in his right mind originally, not if he was sitting at a desk playing school while some dark-skinned spirit with purple hair explained what an orgy was to them.

He tries to string together the events as he walks home, quietly praying that no one sees him, and that no one remembers. Quackity showed up with some being that wanted to teach them about sex and couldn’t pronounce his name right. They’d made drawings, as homework, and Punz had called the thing short. And it turned him to a bird.

The chick on the ground couldn’t be his, he realized. It wasn’t old enough, and you had to incubate eggs for a long time before they hatched. Whatever was in the bowels of the chicken on his shoulder at the moment was his, though. Biologically.

He wanted to die. It was humiliating. They’d tied him up and watched him fuck a bird and he still remembered the laughter.

Thank XD, Punz didn’t pass anyone on his way back. And he wondered: would they even remember? He still remembers what happened because of the bile in his throat from throwing up insects and the ghost of a leash around his neck and the itch in his forearms. Maybe the rest of them will wake up with no real recollection of what happened last night. Unless the only reason Punz forgot was because of the time he spent trapped in the head of an animal…

He didn’t go straight to sleep when he reached his tower. Instead he went up to the pumpkin patch beside his house and knelt in the night-wet grass, digging a grave in the earth with his hands. His fingernails were sharper than he remembered, sturdier, and it was easier to make a hole in the dirt than it should have been. He hated how easily the soil crumbled under his fingers. Make it difficult, he cried in his head. Humans weren't built to burrow into the earth, make it hard enough to remind him he didn’t belong on his knees in the grass with a curious hen perched on his shoulder.

He buried the chick in minutes and turned to go inside.

There was rising dread in the back of his head about the irritating prickle on his forearms. It wasn’t until he got into the bedroom in his tower that he could set the hen on the post of his bed and tear his hoodie off, examining his arms in the moonlight.

They looked like they were covered in goosebumps, little bumps bristling all over his arms, but he already knew what it had to be. He could feel similar ones on his shoulders and the back. Feathers. It had to be feathers. Fuck, not even his body could stay the same after that, could it? How long did it even take to grow feathers?

Far, far too long, he found out. He attempted to fall asleep only to be woken less than an hour later by an increasing itch in his skin. He could feel the shafts as they grew, pushing up under his skin. It was agonizing, the slow stretch of skin as feathers attempted to push through. His skin wasn’t fucking built for it; he wasn’t supposed to have any of this happen to him in the first place. Itching at the spots only drew blood with his far-too-sharp nails.

Maybe he fell asleep somewhere in that first nightmarish night, but everything blended together into the itch on his arms and the exhaustion in his head and the soft clucking of the hen on his bedpost.

He wanted to die.

#yes #it's here the angst you've all been waiting for #part two should be slightly more crack-type beat #tw vomit #idk its not a very happy thing #punz #mello writes #long post

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