One of my very first stories for one of my very first collabs with  plushgrin! It's been sitting in the "high security document storage containment facility" gathering dust, so I thought for a belated Halloween, it would be good to post! It gives me scary vibes, at least. Who would want to be a chicken?! (Don't answer that, you chicken people!) A BIG thank you, (as always) to Plush for their proofreading and permission to post. Go check them out for more TF hijinks and plushie mania!

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The old book creaked open like a relic exhaling its age, pages rustling softly under the candlelight. Milo flipped through entries of mythical beasts and cryptid oddities, each illustrated with detailed sketches and poetic descriptions. 

Minotaurs - a towering beast of muscle and rage.

Goblins - mischief and trickery wrapped in skinny sinew.

The world of monsters was entertaining, sure, but hardly believable.

He wasn’t cut out for that life, anyways. Even if he wanted to believe that devilish creatures roamed the countryside. 

Still, something about the Monsterpedia’s charm kept him flipping forward, deeper into the alphabetized bestiary.

His finger paused on the edge of a new page, one that stood out with odd clarity. It was marked simply: 

Common Chickens - a clucky evolution of uselessness in fighting.

Fighting? Monsterpedia? Who would put chickens in here? The illustration was on point to what a chicken really stood for. Round belly, beady eyes, tiny wings tucked against plump sides, and a single goofy leg raised in the middle of a strut.

Milo snorted. “Why’s this in here?”

He flipped to the next page, expecting more nonsense, but instead was met with the shadowy sprawl of a Wraith, its icy form barely clinging to this plane.

Then a Wyvern, all leathery wings and teeth.

A Yeti followed. Shaggy, fierce, regal in its solitude. Page after page, creature after creature, each had that monstrous danger, hence the Monsterpedia’s name, Milo assumed.

Kraken, Hydra, Gelatinous Slime, everything sounded like it belonged in a quest or some annoying knight’s tale.

Gods.

Milo did really hate knights.

Yet when Milo flipped back, the chicken page remained just as proudly nestled between monstrous giants, as if it deserved to be there.

That plump, round belly... It was as if the artist had lovingly detailed every feather with the same time and effort you would give a fire breathing dragon.

Milo frowned slightly. “Did the author really think this deserved its own page?”

Before he could ponder any more about the validity of the author, blue light began to leak from the edges of the parchment, pooling around their fingers. The air felt warm and ticklish, like laughter in light-from-a-book-reading-form.

Then, in a voice somewhere between a lullaby and a teasing giggle, the book whispered, “Just a silly little chicken, aren’t you?”

Milo squealed and instinctively flung the book from their lap, scrambling backward on their reading chair as it spun through the air. Instead of thudding to the ground, the Monsterpedia hovered, suspended as if cradled by invisible hands.

Its pages fluttered wildly, flipping with a storm of rustling paper and flashes of faint blue light, until it settled once more on the same illustration…

Common Chicken, the page glowing brighter than before, pulsing gently.

Milo watched with wide eyes as glowing blue words began to scrawl themselves onto the page, curling out from the margins like vines.

The letters shimmered for a moment before sinking into the paper, turning matte black as if they'd always been part of the text. 

"Though lacking in claws or magic, the Common Chicken is prized for its reliability," the new sentence read.

"Often found on peaceful farms, it lives a simple life… providing eggs, meat, and the occasional moment of reprieve for adventurers between battles."

A new line faded in beneath it, swirling around the page almost playfully.

"Every hero needs something soft and silly to come home to... or to eat before charging into danger." 

With a frustrated grunt, Milo lunged forward and slapped at the floating book, aiming to knock it down, but it bobbed out of reach like a balloon on a string, pages fluttering around.

The blue aura pulsed brighter, and more glowing script began to scrawl itself across the bottom of the page. Milo froze as the letters twisted into a bold new heading:

Fowl Form - A spell designed to turn even the bravest soul into a plucky, peckish poultry.

Effects include: fluffiness, clucking, diminished stature, and an irresistible urge to strut.

Milo’s brow furrowed in growing confusion.

“Why are you writing this? What’s the point? Nobody even uses magic anymore!” he asked aloud, voice trembling somewhere between a laugh and genuine concern.

But the book offered no answer, only a soft glow from the page, like it was quietly delighted. 

Then, Milo noticed something odd. The cushion on the wooden seat where he’d just been sitting, looked… bigger. A lot bigger.

His heart skipped a beat.

Slowly, he looked down and gasped, his shirt had slumped down around his waist like a saggy tent, sleeves now far too long, collar gaping loose. His legs had sunk deeper into the fabric of his pants, socks bunched where shoes used to be.

He was shrinking.

Panic surged through Milo like a jolt of cold water.

“No no no no- stop that!” he shouted, swatting at the book again.

But the Monsterpedia danced just out of reach, flipping lazily through its pages before circling around his head like a smug little bat.

Milo stumbled after it, now half swimming in his own clothes, his balance already starting to feel... off.

The book hovered still for a moment, then with a flicker of blue, underlined a line of text in neat, curling strokes: Side Effects: Clucking.

He blinked. “Whuhu- what does that even mea-” He coughed suddenly, throat catching on something strange and feathery in his breath. “A-hurk- CLUuuHHUCK!”

The sound escaped him, echoing in the quiet room with embarrassing clarity. Milo clapped both hands over his mouth in horror.

“Clu- cluhuck?! I did not just- buhkaaAAW!”

Another squawk burst from his lips, this one even louder, wobbling up into a high, chirpy pitch. His eyes widened in disbelief. The book sparkled smugly.

Milo stumbled back, hands still clamped over his mouth as the sounds kept forcing their way out, each one chirpier and more uncontrollable than the last.

He squeezed his eyes shut, willing it to stop, only for a powerful sneeze to burst out of him - “Clu-HATCHOO!” knocking him off balance. For a moment, everything went still.

No clucks.

Just quiet.

He sighed in relief... until the book glowed again, drawing a fresh underline under the next word.

Fluffiness.

“Fluffiness?” Milo muttered, squinting.

“Chickens don’t even have-”

He didn’t get to finish.

A sudden tickling sensation crawled up his arms and across his back. He looked down to see tiny white puffs prickling through his skin like little dandelion fluffs, soft and bright, poking through one by one.

“Wha- no! No no no!” he yelped, waving his arms in a panic. But every flail only seemed to encourage the transformation, feathers poofing out faster, trailing down his arms and tickling across his collarbones.

His sleeves flopped around uselessly, his body now a size too small for them and growing fuzzier by the second.

He spun in a slow circle, shaking like a soaked cat, trying in vain to dislodge the ever growing patches of fluff.

“Stop! Quit it! I’m noooot- caaAAW- not fluffy!” But a soft downy poof sprouted at the tip of his nose, as if to mock him.

The feathers continued to burst out elsewhere in gentle flurries across Milo’s shoulders and chest, soft and weightless like little pillows, brushing against his shrinking frame.

His collar sagged entirely off one shoulder now, revealing a patch of snowy fluff where smooth skin used to be.

“This isn’t real- this can’t be real!” he whined, backing up unsteadily.

Then his heel caught on something. He looked down… his jeans were pooling like a collapsed tent around his ankles. But more pressingly, more alarmingly… his feet didn’t look quite right.

He gasped, lifting one leg for a better view. His toes were shorter now, stubbier, fatter, and a yellow hue had overtaken his skin, glossy and smooth like polished eggshell.

His pinky toe, big toe included, curled inward and vanished, the remaining three repositioning themselves in a neat, tri pronged layout. Tiny claws slid into place at the end of each toe, nothing sharp or dangerous, but smooth and rounded like gentle hooks for scratching through straw.

The ball of his foot thickened, forming a soft, rubbery pad that made standing feel oddly springy. As he lowered his foot again, it landed with a light thud, almost too light, too avian.

His other foot followed suit, squishing and stretching into an identical yellow talon, his stance already shifting into a wide, awkward strut.

The glowing text underlined the next phrase with a teasing sparkle: Irresistible urge to strut. 

Milo’s eyes darted down to his feet, now perfectly suited for a confident chicken’s proud walk, and a strange, fluttery feeling tickled the backs of his arms.

Suddenly, soft feathers sprouted there too, quickly covering his forearms and creeping up toward his elbows.

His sleeves ballooned around the growing fluff, the fabric bunching awkwardly as the feathers thickened, forming delicate, downy wings tucked snugly under his shirt.

He raised his hands, desperate to swat at the floating book again, but his arms didn’t obey like they used to. They felt heavier, less flexible, like wings rather than limbs.

“Hey! Hey- get back here, book!” is what Milo tried to snap out, but all that came out was a surprised buk-kaw! instead of the people words he meant.

His mouth opened again, but only clucks and soft squawks escaped as the urge to strut grew stronger, urging his legs forward in a silly, exaggerated chicken dance.

The book swooped down suddenly and bonked Milo right on the nose with a soft thwack.

He staggered back, rubbing at his face, but froze as his fingers brushed over something unfamiliar, something firm and smooth where his nose had been.

His heart raced as he realized it wasn’t just a strange sensation. His nose had transformed into a gentle, curved beak, soft and warm to the touch, perfectly shaped like a chicken’s. The edges were smooth, with a faint sheen that caught the light like polished ivory.

Blinking, Milo’s eyes widened further when a fluttering movement caught his attention.

Hanging just below his chin was a bright red wattle, bobbing lightly with every breath and adding a strange new weight to his face.

It swayed gently, brushing against his chest feathers, soft but unmistakably real.

Then, above his forehead, a big red comb unfurled, a floppy, velvety crest that draped sideways, its rich crimson color vivid against the growing fluff on his head.

The comb seemed almost alive, bobbing with his every nervous movement, making him feel even more absurd.

Milo tried to speak, to shout, or at least protest, but all that came out were a series of awkward clucks and soft squawks, his new beak shaping his voice in ways he didn’t expect.

He had to really concentrate to form words, and that was difficult - when every part of your body was morphing into parts of bodies… that weren’t - well… your original body.

His cheeks puffed with the effort, his fingers brushing nervously over the wattle as he realized the full extent of the change, this wasn’t just a silly bit of illusion magic anymore.

He was becoming the very chicken the book had teased him about, right down to the proud strut he couldn’t help but feel bubbling inside.

That wasn’t his only problem… the incessant urge to peck with his newly formed beak was eating away at him as much as the need to flex his new chicken feet but then - a new problem had risen… and risen it had.

In the depths of his belly.

It began as a peculiar pressure low in Milo's abdomen, like he'd swallowed a rising loaf of bread.

He doubled over slightly, clutching his feathered sides with what remained of his arms, now half converted into fluffy wings.

A low groan escaped him, barely masked by a trailing “bwaawk…” as his belly let out a gurgling glorp, a deep and rubbery sound like wet dough kneading itself from the inside.

Milo’s shirt began to ride higher, unable to keep up with the sudden outward swell of his middle. His once modest stomach, already softened by comfort snacks and lazy weekends, now began to round out in earnest.

It bulged forward with each passing second, inflating slowly like a balloon of pudding beneath his ribs.

Not tight or muscular, but plump, soft, yielding, and undeniably heavy. A fleshy dome began to wobble outward with a life of its own, the feathers over it puffing up like foam over a mug of hot cider.

“Wh-whuhh…” he whimpered, clutching at his thickening middle with wings that bent awkwardly. Each time he moved, his belly gave a gentle jiggle, like gelatin wobbling on a plate

His skin stretched beneath the new mass, cushioned by an ever deepening layer of down. The feeling wasn’t painful, strangely, it was cozy.

Embarrassing, sure, and thoroughly chickenish in every way, but Milo couldn’t deny the odd, nesting comfort blooming in his gut.

The spell, ever playful, seemed to take a sort of gleeful pride in its craftsmanship.

His belly rounded wider, curving outward in a pillowy arc that shifted his center of gravity.

Milo had to spread his legs into a wider stance to compensate, talons scraping gently against the floor as his fluffy tailfeathers wiggled in mild distress.

The weight of his belly pulled him slightly forward, forcing his body into a slow, exaggerated waddle. Each step made his now exaggerated gut sway with comedic effect, bouncing lightly with every little shift.

His fluffy thighs brushed softly against the sides of his plump middle, and a soft squeak escaped him, he wasn’t used to being this cushy.

“B-Baawk!!” he cried again, stumbling, his navel, now round and deep, peeked out between soft feathers and warm, plush skin. The swell extended under his chest, smoothing into the curve of his hips and pressing against his thick, feathery thighs.

A faint magical glow hovered around his rotund middle, like moonlight caught in cotton. The book twirled again overhead, pages whispering, “Every hero needs a soft place to land...”

Milo whimpered in reply, cradling his newfound belly with both wings.

It was squishy.

Bouncy.

Absolutely, comically round. He felt like a walking cushion, every breath causing his feathery gut to expand just a little more.

Even now, Milo could hear the faint scribble of magical ink adding more nonsense to the page:

“Side Effect: Fat, floofy tummy. Perfect for preening, pecking, or panicking.”

The problem was?

He couldn’t even see it anymore.

The book towered over him! High up in the sky. And now - now? He could hear the book in his head.

Our reader is a chicken.

A fat, feathery, soft bellied chicken.

It circled lazily overhead, glowing brighter with every second Milo waddled and stumbled in his now overly soft, round body.

It tilted in midair like it was laughing, flipping its pages with the flick.

Blue ink spiraled across the open parchment, scrawling new lines that seemed to pulse then turn into average run of the mill black ink.

“Look at you now, you plump poultry,” the words shimmered, curling at the edges with teasing flair.

“So brave! So bold! So... bouncy.”

“Bwuh- bwuhk-kawk!!” Milo clucked in protest, wings flapping helplessly at his sides.

They weren’t arms anymore, not even close.

What had begun as subtle changes were now fully realized wings.

Long, feathered, and clumsy. Where his fingers once flexed with dexterity, now stubbier, jointed wing bones flared under a thick coat of white feathers, ending in soft, curved tips.

The feathers were plush and immaculately layered, rippling with each anxious motion he made. He tried to gesture angrily at the book again, but his wings only fluffed outward like a nervous hen.

Another scribble echoed through the air as the book twisted gleefully.

“Can’t wave those fancy fingers now, can you?” it cooed.

“Just a couple of fluffy flappers for a frightened fowl!”

He staggered backward, his oversized belly swinging heavily, nearly tipping him. His center of gravity was all wrong, his torso was absurdly front heavy, rounded and soft, while behind him…

Fwump.

His eyes darted back.

Tailfeathers.

MORE tailfeathers?!

MORE vibrant plumes burst from just above his rear, a fan of fluffy tailfeathers spreading as they fanned and twitched with every step, fully formed and completely out of place on what was, moments ago, a human backside.

Milo reached instinctively toward them, stumbling slightly as he tried to examine his new rear appendages, only to feel his hips shift, a deep, popping flex that rolled through his core.

His thighs thickened further, rounding out with a powerful puff, padding out beneath the sagging hem of his shirt.

His hips had grown wide, plush, and exaggerated, a cushiony base to his now waddling walk.

The transformation had clearly taken creative liberties with anatomy, Milo’s new form was built for warmth, nesting… and comedy.

Comedy?! What else would it be? He was a chubby, clucking - chicken.

SWELL - the word seemed to echo audibly from the magic around him.

“H-h-help…” Milo whimpered, only for his voice to crack mid sentence.

His beak had adjusted, narrowing slightly, his tongue feeling unfamiliar inside the new shape of his mouth. What had once been a panicked human voice now came out soft and musical, with a rising trill that ended in a chirp. “I-I’m not a- clu-buhkaaawk!”

“Not a chicken?” the book finished for him, ink curling smugly.

“Tell that to your rump, waddle waggle.”

“Buh-kaawk!” he clucked again involuntarily, his voice now entirely overtaken by his new form, bouncing between squawks and helpless coos. His tongue simply couldn’t shape the syllables like before, and worse, every word now carried a soft trill, as if even his tone was… happy?

The book twirled with mock celebration, musical notes scribbling out around its edges. It danced in circles, raining down tiny paper scraps that read things like:

“Chick- chick chick!”

“Egg-cellent form!”

“Certified chicken!”

Milo’s eyes welled with frustration.

His body was now completely transformed: winged, round bellied, short, and soft. His head bobbed with every emotional outburst, his red comb flopping lightly atop his head.

He couldn’t help but let his face twitch involuntarily, cheeks puffing as his wattle swayed against his chest. His thighs brushed with every step, tailfeathers twitching indignantly with his flustered clucks.

But worst of all, he could feel the spell had settled.

Had it?

No.

The book had one last trick to play.

“A silly little chicken, through and through.”

And with that, it gave him a nudge.

Right in the belly.

Milo squawked, stumbled, and fell backward onto his plush rear with a “pomf!” his oversized chicken belly jiggling audibly.

He let out one last defiant cluck!… and the book closed itself with a satisfied snap.

Then, just as Milo started to catch his breath, a second snap echoed through the room.

He flinched, eyes darting wildly, only to freeze when he spotted something smooth and pale nestled between his feet.

An egg.

Round, glossy, and unmistakably real.

Milo stared at it in dumbfounded silence, as the realization dawned with slow, horrifying clarity: he hadn’t just become a chicken… he’d laid an egg. And he hadn’t even noticed…

He was fluffy.

He was round.

And by all magical accounts, he was now… a very silly chicken indeed.