Try to Get Home

You stumble out of the alleyway, unsteady from a combination of the unexpectedly potent **** and your unwieldy new form. You've got to get home, get some clothes on... if any of your clothes can fit over your hips, that is.

Your car is parked in a lot just down the street, although you haven't quite worked out how you will actually drive it. Your wings make most chairs unusable.

Theoretically you could fly, but you don't have any knowledge of how to. So you continue to walk down the street towards your car, hoping that nobody sees you and ducking into shadowy alleys to dodge the notice of the few people around.

It goes quite well until a door opens suddenly as you pass by. Your body is illuminated by warm light, and you stare at the couple leaving the restaurant. They stare back, unsure what they're seeing.

Reality snaps, like resetting a broken bone.

The couple walk past with brief polite acknowledgement, but you're distracted by your tattered clothes reforming. The fabric stitches itself back together, new material forming from nothing to repair your outfit around your new body. Your shirt has large slots in the back for your wings, and your jeans are sized to fit your hips snugly, with a hole for your cottontail to slip through the back.

Your ears are flat against your back, pressing down between your wings. You break into an awkward run, reaching the parking ramp quickly. You hit a wing against the door, pain flaring through your new limb. The stairwell is a tight fit for your wider frame, and another wave of panic washes over you when you hear a door open a couple floors above.

"Pardon me," you have to press yourself against the wall, feeling the contact through your wings as the man passes you down the stairs. You can hear him continue down the stairs, your ears picking up the "Taking up the whole stairway like he couldn't just fly..." That he mutters to himself before the door slams shut at the bottom.

You could fly... actually you could. Now that you think about it, memories are filtering in. You learned to fly as a kid, you can remember launching yourself off your grandparents' roof until you could catch an updraft. You started flying to school in middle school, and only learned to drive after you decided to go to college away from your hometown.

The click of your car's locks brings you out of your thoughts. It's still the same sedan, with the same ding on the door from a runaway shopping cart. But when you open the door, you find it's been heavily modified to fit your body.

The driver's seat is pushed back, slots cut in from the top the seat is pushed back, and wider than it used to be. You lower yourself in, finding a comfortable position as fresh muscle memory makes the new feel regular.