#any excuse i can get to draw his leopard shoes......

[pineappical]

trent this time with the colorful clothing 😋

[writtenonreceipts]

a prompt?

single parent trope for feysand, pretty please?

more prompts for this would be great, otherwise you get my rambling mind and we all know how that goes...

Find my main masterlist here

#

An Intimate Display of Insecurities and Hopelessness

The air-conditioning was out.  Again.  And Feyre had already stripped down to a tank-top and shorts.  The heat was miserable.  

“Sweet mercy,” she muttered as she stood in front of the large fan she’d bought yesterday to try and keep things cool.  It wasn’t working.

Feyre brushed her hair from her sweaty brow and bit back a curse.  This day was not going at all the way she’d wanted it to.  It had taken her far to long to get anything started, not to mention coordinating with Elain on how she wanted to participate in the shop.

It was only three days to her deadline to get her shop up and running.  Three days to get pallets made, canvases designed, and interior design finished.  All in one-hundred-degree weather and boob sweat.

She turned back to the mess of her shop.  This was going to take more work than she had time for.  Or sanity.

The front door opened behind her with a clatter.  Feyre wasn’t that concerned about it, knowing she was getting some things delivered.

“Just leave the deliveries on the floor,” she said, not looking back.  She was trying to have a vision of what she was going to accomplish, a vision that would be epic and glorious.

“Excuse me?” 

Feyre spun at the smooth voice and nearly stumbled.  The most attractive man she’d ever seen was standing in her shop.  His black pants were crisp and cleanly lined and his black shirt was rolled up to the elbows, displaying his tanned skin.  He was tall, lean, and with his black hair swept neatly back.

Feyre felt sweat roll between her breasts.  Oh hell.

“Feyre Archeron?” He asked and took a step forward while holding out his hand. “Rhysand Avitas.  I’m the new building manager.”

A dozen curses ran through her head as she did her best to wipe her sweaty hand on her shorts inconspicuously.  Because of course she knew who Rhysand Avitas was.  Everyone in their small town did.  He was the son of the police chief and now the youngest elected mayor in Valeris history.

He had also been just a year ahead of Feyre in school.  So she knew the kind of person her was.  At least, she thought she did.

“Rhysand, of course,” she said as she took his hand. The heat didn’t seem to effecting him.  Jackass. “Sorry, I guess I lost track of time.”

Indeed, it was half-past two right when she’d told his assistant that he could come by the shop.  And see that everything was in order for her opening deadline.  Except she hadn’t really expected him to show up.  

“Not a problem.” He smiled in such a charming way that Feyre found herself wanting to hate him.

But Feyre already did hate him.  He had bought the building just two days after her father’s death.  Just two days after the building was up for sale.  She hadn’t even had the time to get funds together to convince the bank that she could buy the lease herself.  Now, she was going to have to open her shop under him.

In school he had been captain of the football team, president of the ASB club.  He had been the kind of person Feyre had never wanted to interact with.  High and mighty, proud and cruel.  He’d worn a mask of indifference to anyone beneath him, she was convinced.

Feyre cleared her throat. “Things are a little messy right now, but it’ll be ready for opening day on Monday.”

Rhysand nodded as he walked around the shop.  Bits of wood crunched under his too fancy shoes and dust clung to his pants when he brushed up against one of the pallets that Feyre was still trying to decide how to convert into a display case.

“You’re a painter, correct?” he asked.  He looked over his shoulder at her and Feyre was taken aback by his eyes.  Bright blue—so bright that she could have sworn they were violet.  And damn her if she didn’t want to at least try and draw them.

“Yes,” she replied. “My sister does some gardening and does floral arrangements and I’m planning on having her sell some of her work here as well.”

“I remember,” he said, “Mrs. Ellis always made sure all of her classes knew about her protegee.”

Feyre rolled her eyes.  The high school art teacher had been someone no one really liked.  Aside from her.  Maybe it was just because Feyre had wanted someone to pay attention to her, but the woman had always been nice to Feyre.

“My work wasn’t that good back then,” she said.  And it was true, it had taken years of study and experimentation to get to where she was now.  Ten years after those miserable high school years and here she was, finally maybe a little bit confident with what she could do.

Rhysand said nothing, only observed.  “And you’re sure you’ll be ready by Monday?  No offense Miss Archeron, but it seems like a lot needs to be taken care of.  You assured the bank, and my assistant, that your shop was worth allowing in the complex.”

Feyre’s mouth pursed as she watched his man before her.  With his impeccable clothing, that silver watch on his wrist, it was hard to imagine that he’d had any hardships in his life.

“Yes, and I keep my word,” she said, her voice cold enough to rival any a/c.  “What I would like to know is why the air conditioning still isn’t fixed.  It’s been this way for a week now.”

“It’s being looked into,” Rhysand said. 

His gaze turned sharp as he looked her over again.  Something passed over his face that Feyre didn’t care to try and understand.  She just wanted this man out of her shop so she could get back to work.

“Was there something in specific that you wanted to discuss?” she asked, “or were just interested in questioning my ability to run a shop?”

He smirked at her and shook his head. “You always did have that fire in you, didn’t you?”

Feyre was ready to tell him to get out when a soft cry caught her attention.  She held up a finger to silence him as she listened.  Maybe she’d imagined it.  Hell, she hoped he’d imagined it.  Unfortunately the cry came again.

“Just a minute,” she said.

She hurried to the back of the shop where a door led into what would be used for the breakroom.  It was a few degrees cooler back there, which was why she’d set it up for it’s current use.

Sitting up in the pack-and-play was her daughter.  Seren with her golden hair and large blue eyes looked up at her and cried again.

“Momma!” 

Immediately, Feyre scooped her daughter up.  Seren latched on with a snake-like grip.  Her arms wound around Feyre’s neck tightly.

“Hi baby,” Feyre murmured.  “Why are you awake?”

It had only been a half hour since Feyre’d put her down, she’d been hoping for at least one hour of uninterrupted work.

Seren said nothing and only whimpered into Feyre’s neck.  As Feyre whispered to her daughter to sooth her, she went back out into the main part of the store to find the diaper bag she’d packed that morning.  In one of the insulated pockets, she found a bottle of apple juice.

“Here, honey,” Feyre said.  Seren snatched the bottle and began drinking, tears still rolling down her cheeks. “Okay, there we go.  Momma need to talk to Mr. Avitas okay, can you let me do that?”

Seren nodded and the almost two-year-old tucked herself right against Feyre’s neck.

Pressing a kiss to her daughter’s forehead, Feyre turned back to Rhysand who stood right where she’d left him.  The hard look in his eyes was gone and whatever hard-ass talk he was no doubt going to deliver evaporated.

“It seems I was wrong,” Rhysand said, “you do have some help, don’t you?”

Seren wiggled in Feyre’s arms to get a better look at the man, her bottle sticking in one cheek.

“Momma,” Seren said, her voice just slightly muffled.

“Yes, you are my big helper,” Feyre agreed, “even when you get into my paints.”

Seren beamed up at her. “I help.”

Feyre snorted a bit of laughter.  Help.  Sure.  There were some painted handprints on the wall that aid otherwise.

“Did you have any other concerns you needed to address, Mr. Avitas?” Feyre asked.

He seemed so taken aback that Feyre had had her daughter in the back room napping that it took him a moment to speak again.  It would have been amusing if the man hadn’t been so annoying to begin with.

“She looks just like you,” Rhysand said.

That was the last thing Feyre’d expected.  She quirked a brow at the man.  She knew it was true.  Seren, thank the heavens, looked like an Archeron.  There was barely a trace of her father.  Something Feyre would give thanks for every day.

Feyre heart gave a painful squeeze.  Of course that was what he meant.

She met his gaze, holding it for a long moment.  Her hold on Seren tightened automatically, something she always did when she remembered her baby’s father. 

“Yes, she does,” she whispered.  Feyre wondered what Rhysand could possibly know.  When she’d moved back to Valeris two years ago, just after she’d found out she was pregnant, she scrubbed her life clean of that man.  Rhysand couldn’t possibly know who the father was.  Even if he did, he shouldn’t care.

“Right,” he muttered and ran a hand through his hair. Once again, an un definable look flashed over his features, and disappeared just as quickly.  “I’ll see what I can do about the air-conditioning.”

“Good,” Feyre said, “I’d hate to have to delay opening.”

And much to her surprise, Rhysand laughed.  “Of course not.  That would be rather inconvenient, wouldn’t it?”

He turned back to the door and looked as though he would leave without saying anything else, until he paused. He seemed to be having an internal dilemma when he looked back to Feyre.

“If there is anything I can help with, let me know.”

The words were halting and careful.  Feyre wasn’t sure how to read them, how to respond.  So she only nodded.

#

i wanted to add more to this for the first part, but well here we are...

tags

@aelinchocolatelover // @more-espresso-less-depresso-xx // @bamchickawowow // @ireallyshouldsleeprn // @courtofjurdan // @sassys-world // @sleeping-and-books // @superspiritfestival // @chieflemming // @julemmaes // @lysandra-ghost-leopard // @firestarsandseneschals // @emikadreams // @rapunzel1523 // @booksofthemoon // @highladysith // @fangirlprincess09 // @rowaelinismyotp // @vanzetanze // @jlinez // @cassianscool // @stardelia // @my-fan-side // @sjmships // @tillyrubes10 // @acourtofsjmtrash // @hellasblessed // @rhysandswhore  //  @story-scribbler  // @post-it-notes33 // @live-the-fangirl-life // @strangevil321 // @whythefuckdoiexist // @pastasiren // @beanco8 // @lemonade-coolattas @foreverfallingforthestars // @surielandiareendgame // @feysand-loml

[perpetually-jungshook]

Jungkook: Bunny Boy

Genre: AU, fantasy, street fighter Jungkook, featuring Jimin and Taehyung

Warning: violence, anxiety

Word Count: 4.4k

Summary: This offshoot of A Very Tragic Boy with Enormous Wings follows a homo-oryctolagus, a boy with antlers, and a boy with wings. They get into a bit of trouble and only one of the three can get them out of it.

photo credit: merimask on etsy (go look their masks are super cool)

✩✩✩♔✩✩✩

As the bottom tip of the sun dips below the tops of office buildings, casting the street around me in a golden haze, I pull the hem of the beanie down lower over my ears. It muffles everything and makes me slightly uncomfortable, but it helps to not draw attention. I have to get to the wharf before the sun goes down.

My hands push deeper into my pockets, hiding the dark symbols inked onto my palms as a group of humans walks by. I can just make out their voices. Stocks and gas prices, Janice at the office, bad coffee, and other mundane things. I scoff, tuning out. Wouldn’t it be nice if my biggest problem was “running out of the good creamer.”

I find Hoseok on his boat just before he usually shuts down and I can see his familiar horse ears flick toward me. Hopefully he’s willing to make one more trip.

“Take me across?” I keep my voice low, soft. It’s natural for my fauna species, but it’s also common sense to not startle a homo-equus.

“Tattoos please?” he arches an eyebrow warily.

“Oh c’mon, you’ve ferried me at least like ten times-”

“Tattoos please,” his tone gets firmer. I pull my hands from my pockets and splay my palms face up. Hoseok nods, probably less for my benefit than his. “Alright hop on.”

Hop. I can’t tell if he’s being ironic.

“So what brings you to the Hive huh?” Hoseok starts untethering the small speed boat. There’s only a small bit of humor in his voice, “How’d Namjoon indoctrinate you?”

I shrug, stepping onto the boat beside him, feeling it sway with my momentum. I hate water, namely because I never really learned how to swim.

“He didn’t do anything. I haven’t met him yet.”

“Then how did you get in?”

I take a seat, gripping the edge of the plastic chair with white knuckles. I’ve done this before. There’s nothing to be afraid of. I clear my throat, responding as quietly as the muffled warm wind and lapping of waves allow, “A friend.”

“Fauna?”

“Yeah. Homo-cervidae.”

Hoseok pauses as he reaches for the key in the ignition, “Would his name happen to be Taehyung?”

“Yeah, why?”

“Is your name Jungkook?”

“Yeah… why?” I repeat.

“Let me see them,” Hoseok turns around, leaning against the wheel, a glint in his eyes.

I sigh and lift the beanie from my head, feeling the sounds of the world flood back into my senses as my ears unfold, perking up.

“They are so-”

“Don’t you dare say ‘cute.’”

Hoseok’s eyes get large as he swallows the rest of his sentence. He coughs before continuing, “I was going to say… rabbity.”

“Nice save,” I laugh lightly, but the sound is cut short.

“So, bad news is I can’t take you across now.”

My whole body tenses with mild anxiety. Deep breaths. I bite the inside of my cheek to ground myself, make my heartbeat stop hammering in all of my pulse points. At times like these, being a homo-oryctolagus is very off-putting. Everything frightens me, even just minor inconveniences like when things don’t go according to plan.

“Why not?”

“Taehyung wanted me to tell you he found another one.”

“Another what?”

“Opponent. For a fight. The warehouse. Tonight.”

My throat pinches, limbs suddenly a bit heavy, “But I just-”

Hoseok raises his arms in mock surrender, “Don’t shoot the messenger, brother. But I’m gonna have to ask you to get off the boat.”

As the sun dips below the horizon, I backtrack, away from the wharf. It’s a shame. I’d been looking forward to sleeping on a mattress. My feet take me toward my destination on auto pilot, hands clenching and unclenching to get rid of the nerves.

“It’ll be fine. You’ll be fine,” I tell myself. “You know what you’re doing. How many times have you done this?”

Too many.

I find Taehyung outside with a few other fauna species and some humans, his still rounded antlers sticking out above the small crowd. He’s holding a notebook, likely taking bets. He spots me easily, even with the beanie carefully replaced on my head.

“My boy! Get over here,” he waves animatedly. “The star of my show. How are you?”

I weave my way to him, fighting a frown, “How do you think I am?”

“Right. I’m sorry it’s last minute, but Namjoon needs the money. We’re running out of food- okay I know. I heard you and I’ve got it written down- which as you know, is kinda important,” my friend swings around, almost smacking a human as he confirms the total for a bet. A bet on me.

I cringe.

“So head on inside- yes this is him, Bunny Boy himself. Yes! He is very big. So bet on him- Jimin is waiting for you on the far side of the ring.”

Bunny Boy.

I used to like Taehyung. I used to trust him blindly, put him on a pedestal for his “innocence” and loyalty. I used to believe in Namjoon’s cause too. Now all I see is someone who abuses his friends for the “greater good” and a place that traps people who have nowhere else to go. At least we’re making our money less illegally.

Shouts and conversations are muffled through my beanie, though I vaguely register the calling of my stage name coupled with friendly, familiar pats on the back. Usually, I would try to reciprocate the warm welcome, but today I’m too tired for this.

Tired of secrets, of sneaking around when I’m only trying to better my life, and especially of being shunned for past mistakes. I want to leave the Hive. But I just can’t seem to get out. The hope is there though, and it always will be. I subconsciously reach up and touch the place where I know it sits, the yellow tag. I can feel the plastic poking against my head and the soft, sensitive skin of my ear, especially with the beanie sitting on top of it.

The memories flash behind my eyelids. A family, somewhere in the most distant reaches of my mind. A truck, big arms that wrapped around such a little body. Claws. I cried. I was so, so afraid. The mill, the shop, the cages. A beautiful homo-felis, white ears and a white tail, probably a Siberian breed, a fellow commodity. He shared his food with me, at least, the parts I could eat. I had been so young then. He was older and he promised that if he was bought first, he would come back for me. He did.

Not knowing even vaguely in what direction my family and home were, we ran together until we couldn’t run any more. I had gotten sick. And that’s when Taehyung had found us and promised a safe haven. I haven’t seen the homo-felis since. I can hardly remember what he looks like. I can’t even remember his name, but we share the yellow tag. And it gives me the courage I need to face the ring and to eventually leave the Hive, which is just another prison, another cage- only with a little more legroom.

I drop my hand, but I can still feel the plastic there. I don’t need to be afraid. I am strong now and I’ll never let it happen again.

I shoulder my way through the crowd until I spot another familiar face. Well, not a face, but a set of mite infested, shaggy wings. They’re peppered gray and are the only set in the warehouse. I would bet my life on it.

“Jimin,” I call out and he immediately turns around, a smile brightening his expression.

“Jungkookie!” he waves me over and greets me with a headlock, pulling off my beanie and ruffling the hair between my ears as I struggle. His wings feebly yet playfully beat, sending a few feathers floating into the crowd. He lets me go. “How are you feeling?”

“Nervous,” I admit, not seeing why I should lie to the one person I still consider to be my friend.

“Just do your best,” Jimin says as he unzips my jacket carefully and pushes it off my shoulders. He throws it on a bench, along with my beanie. “Alright, you know the drill. Shirt and shoes off. Get yourself warmed up.”

I excuse myself and step off to the side to stretch and limber up. I can’t help but idly search for my competition, but no one sticks out in the crowd. Taehyung is the one who comes to retrieve me.

He gives me a fervently excited smile, “Okay Bunny Boy-”

“Don’t call me that.”

He talks over my comment, “So don’t be scared, it’s just some kind of homo-felis, a leopard species I think. Don’t know the exact term…”

My chest clenches slightly, “You want me to fight a felis?”

“Yeah, I know you can do it,” Taehyung gives my shoulder a solid punch, making my fists instinctively shoot into a ready position. He just laughs. “See? Reflexes like lightening. Easy knock out.”

“Is he throwing it?”

Taehyung snorts, clearly amused, “No, but you’re gonna kick her ass.”

Her? A girl? They want me to fight a girl? I glance over at the ring again, but no one sticks out from the mixed throng of humans and fauna.

“Am I throwing it?”

“What did I just say? No you’re not throwing the fight,” he says as he drops his backpack from one shoulder, pulling out my knuckle guards. It’s a thin layer of foam meant more to protect my fingers than my opponent. He also retrieves worn bandages for my hands and wrists.

He continues as he wraps, “Just remember to be light on your feet and don’t let her get in your head. You’re stronger so rely on that-”

“I know,” I roll my shoulders as he switches hands, wrapping and then strapping on the guard.

“Power behind those punches, knocker her out quick so we can give Namjoon some cash, and I’ll take you and Jiminie out for ice cream later.”

“Can we afford that?”

“If you win, absolutely. And no pressure, but I’ve got a lot of money on you.”

Excitement outweighs the fear for a moment. It’s been so long since I’ve had something fun to eat. As I’m one of the main sources of income for the Hive, I’m unfortunately one of the first priorities when being fed, which means it’s always nutritional and purposeful. Coupled with the fact that my only responsibilities are working out and participating fights, it’s made me a tank physically. I hate it. I hate fighting. But it’s the only thing I know how to do.

“Oh ew, is that a flea?” Taehyung backs away with a grimace. “Make sure you do something about that. My rack is almost ready to start peeling so I’ll have to go in soon and I’m not letting them put that awful medicine on me again.”

Right, he’s getting them removed- no, not “removed.” He sheds them. Taehyung is one of the lucky ones. He can sell his antlers for a sum of money and those grow back. I’d once seen a homo-oryctolagus, a fauna like me, that had donated his ears. All that was left were stubs.

“Alright, let’s get you in the ring and I’ll find the announcer.”

“The ring” is everyone’s over glorified term for a tight circle in the middle of the warehouse’s concrete floor, marked off by tape. There are still bloodstains from the last time I fought. Shelves, barrels, and crates that might be empty block the immediate view from any entrance and flickering florescent lights give the area a grossly cliched atmosphere. I step beyond the tape line, still stretching my arms, still eyeing the crowd for my opponent. All I know is that she’s a girl and a homo-felis. Very helpf- I know immediately when I see her.

She’s small, barely coming up to my shoulders, and lean, yet probably weighs little over half of what I do. She’s also a high percent fauna, probably in the upper eighties, even low nineties. She is unmistakably feline with whiskers protruding from the skin near her lips and above her eyebrows, a wide pink nose pressed close to her face, fangs poking from between her thin, black lips, and flat furry ears flicking around in a mop of short, fur like hair. Spots pepper the skin that I can see, stark black on pale cream that visibly cover her back, legs, arms, and neck. The most uncanny thing is her eyes, they are too human and pierce through me like needles.

Like those of us that are less than fifty percent fauna, she would generally be rejected by society. It’s probably why she ended up here.

I do note that she is not wearing knuckle guards, which tells me she probably won’t be using her fists. Smart. She wouldn’t have the stopping power to knock me out that way. My attention travels back to her fangs and I briefly wonder if she has claws.

The girl stalks forward into the ring, barely three meters away, the tip of her long tail twitching.

My fauna prey instincts have me on high alert, nerves frayed, fight or flight instinct itching. We haven’t even started and she’s already in my head. The world around me fades, the chattering of the crowd dims to a whisper until all I can hear is the thundering of my heart.

Deep breaths. Deep breaths…

My fists clench around the bandages and the straps of the pads. Don’t succumb to your prey instincts. You are above them.

I almost go rigid and sprint when I feel the hands on me, but then I realize they’re only patting me down and checking for mods. They’ll be doing the same thing to her. Between my fingers and toes, over my sweatpants, in my hair and ears- which feel hot and sensitive from stress.

“…Bunny Boy from the Hive- much deadlier than his name makes it seem, I promise. He’s got a knockout count of thirty seven with a kill count of one,” the announcer’s familiar voice breaches the fog of fear in my mind. It’s my brain recognizing something familiar and knowing it’s leading to a fight. It knows I have to pay attention. “And Bengie from… where are you from, sweetie?”

The announcer, a homo-taurus, towers over the leopard girl, bulky build even making me look small in comparison. His bull horns are long, voice booming, and while he has a gentle temperament most of the time I know from personal experience that one kick from his hooves can knock someone out cold.

“Up north a bit,” the girl practically purrs, voice soft, almost childlike. I suddenly wonder how old she is. “We call ourselves the Pride and are more of a nomadic group than a… well built establishment like your infamous Hive. Knockout count two.”

She stares directly at me and a chill runs down my spine.

“Kill count seventeen.”

Those numbers mean nothing. That’s what I tell myself. What if she’d been in fifty fights? A hundred? I’ve only lost three times. Those numbers mean nothing. But then I see it in her eyes, the glint of murder.

It’s not uncommon for fauna to enter fight rings, publicly, legally, or illegally. Humans and other species find it entertaining and so it is fairly lucrative. I, however, dislike the thought of having people tear each other limb from limb for a show. Yet here I am. Ironic and so terribly hypocritical.

Deep breaths.

“Okay rules are simple,” the announcer’s voice booms, causing me to spook. I can usually control trembling here, in the ring. But this girl, Bengie, she sees right through me. “Stay inside the lines and stop if I say so. Because you came here knowing the stakes, all fighting tactics are fair game. On my count.”

I get into a defensive stance, arms up, ready to block, not quite knowing how she’ll try to attack but knowing she will.

“Three.”

I glance at Taehyung with his velvety antlers. This better pay for everything. So last minute and against a homo-felis, a predator. I feel bitter, but not resentful. He was my friend- is my friend, but I’ll never trust him the way I did before.

“Two.”

I glance at Jimin with his peppered gray wings, down feathers plucked to sell for pillows and flight feathers tattered from lack of use and proper care. I wish I could do something to help him. He’s a kind person who shouldn’t be here either.

“One.”

It’ll be fine. I’ll be fine.

“Fight!”

My mind processes everything in a second, all in one look. Bengie’s position, footing, the tightening of her muscles. I can visualize her movements. She’s going to jump left. My prey instincts kick in and I dodge right. Her movements are fluid and she lands without a misstep.

“C’mon, Bunny Boy, where are those punches I’ve heard so much about?” she purrs. “Come hit me.”

I’m not conflicted about hitting a girl. She chose to be here. She knows the consequences of stepping into the ring. Really, I’m hesitating because I don’t want to get close. I’d be willing to bet she’s going to rely on teeth and claws and with seventeen deaths to her name, I’m not willing to take chances and mess around.

I don’t respond, blood roaring in my ears. She pounces again, and again. Gotta think on my feet. I have to be appreciative for that extra homo-oryctolagus bounce in my step. Still, Bengie is fast. It’s almost as if we’re dancing- though this waltz sends pins and needles of fear into all of my nerves.

“Hit me,” she hisses as the crowd starts to boo. “Or are you a coward?”

With this, I get sloppy. I punch left with the same strength I used to knock out a homo-equus last week. I figure if I can take down a person that’s seventy percent solid-muscled work horse, I can fight a little girl. At least, that’s what I keep telling myself.

Deep breaths.

She ducks under my fist and pain blossoms on my side. I stagger backwards, clutching the skin where it stings. I draw my hand away to find lines of blood on my bandage covered palm. She scratched me.

My attention immediately flicks up, expecting to see Bengie attacking again, but she’s only standing still, watching me with a cruel smile. She’s toying with me. I need a strategy. As she pounces again, my mind begins to flip through my options. I bounce on the balls of my feet, side stepping her quick claws. I can see them, wedged between her fingers, short but thick and sharp. It sends chills and goose bumps across my skin.

She’s too nimble to land a direct hit and I can’t fake a punch at the risk of loosing my footing and or concentration, allowing her to fillet me. I need to think but my heartbeat thunders above any strategies my brain tries to shout at me.

Usually, I would let my body handle this, move naturally with hardly any thought. But if I took away my thoughts now, I would be relying on pure instinct and I would be running out of this ring, out of the warehouse, away from Bengie. And this means no money.

I strike out again, earning me another set of scratches, this time on my cheek. Not wanting to lose momentum, I continue punching with provenly effective form, but all I hit is air. Wound after wound, I can feel her opening skin with every strike. Never too deep, just enough to draw small amounts of blood.

My whole body starts to sting, throb. I won’t die from these minor injuries, but my vision is starting to blur from the pain and I can tell I’ve lost a step in speed. Blood has gotten into my left eye. I can taste it too. It’s everywhere, beading along my skin. She’s doing this to get me weak so she can latch on and go for the kill. I need to think.

What wouldn’t she expect? Someone Bengie’s size relies on outlasting her opponent, turning their own size and strength against them. She plays a fight of attrition. So, what if I make her think I’m wearing out? Then what? I don’t know, but at least I’ll have a proverbial ace up my sleeve.

I don’t slow my next movement for fear of alerting her perceptive eyes, but I let my punch hang for a moment too long. She takes the bait, retractable claws stretching out, digging into my arm as she uses it as leverage to literally climb my body. Before I can even stumble with the additional weight, Bengie is on my back and the sting of her claws is nothing compared to her fangs in my neck.

An inhuman sound tears up my throat, panic spreading through my system faster than wildfire. My hands automatically shoot back, trying to get rid of the thing causing me pain, but I can’t get a grip on her. The fur on Bengie’s head isn’t long enough to grab and as I spin around and around, I learn that her hold is too strong to simply throw off. My body starts to lock up in fear, blind panic making my ears ring. I can’t pull her away. I can’t shake her off. I can’t do anything. I’m going to die.

Then I feel it, the brush of the plastic tag against my arm as I reach back. A face flashes to the front of my memory, a friendly smile, implicit trust.

Deep breaths.

I pull my hands up to cover the back of my head and drop, rag-dolling. My full, dead weight collapses directly on top of Bengie and I can feel the air get knocked out of her, hear the sickening crack as her head hits the concrete floor. While Bengie’s fangs don’t dislodge, she does go limp, not moving as I lie on top of her.

A few seconds pass- my own body feeling like lead, still throbbing and stinging- before I reach back, pry her teeth out of me, roll off of her, and shakily get to my feet.

The homo-taurus announcer calls it when Bengie doesn’t move. I can see the subtle rise and fall of her abdomen as she breathes, but it’s shallow, the opposite of my heavy panting. My vision blurs as I watch the announcer examine her, but I can see a small tendril of blood uncurling. Yes, specks of crimson from my scratches pepper the ring, but this is different. It’s still spreading.

I less listen than watch the homo-taurus say that I’ve won.

Hands.

In my peripheries, I can see peppered gray wings and feel the press of something to my neck, likely gauze. I also register a quiet “don’t move.” Still, the majority of my attention is dedicated to another homo-felis. He looks like a tiger with the orange, black, and white markings on his face and pricing yellow eyes, narrowed in hate… which are staring, fixated, predatorily at me.

“Okay while Taetae collects the money, let’s get you out of here and patched up,” Jimin’s voice is firm but gentle as he guides me away from the ring where there will probably be one more fight tonight. We step outside into the cool night air, onto an empty street before he continues. “This bite is pretty deep. We’ll have to bandage it before we go back to the Hive tomorrow. Hoseok probably knows we’ll be at the wharf bright and early-”

“Bunny Boy, where the fuck you think you’re going?” a voice that’s deep and raspy, almost a growl stops us.

Jimin glances backward, an action made difficult by my arm over his shoulders. His voice is curt, but not disrespectful, “We’ve left the ring. It’s not your business.”

“It is very much my business,” the speaker grabs my collar, spinning the both of us around, and I immediately recognize the pattern on his face. It’s the tiger man from inside. “He hurt Bengie.”

“That’s the point,” I mutter, barely able to catch a breath, less breaking away than stumbling out of his reach. “It’s fighting.”

“No one ever hurts Bengie,” he rasps, raising his fists and unsheathing his retractable claws.

I can feel Jimin go rigid, one of his wings brushing my back as he grabs my arm to support me, “My friend needs medical attention. We can settle this later.”

“No. I’ll be needing that money to… cover her medical expenses.”

And that’s when I realize it was all a setup. Taehyung had found me a fight alright, but what neither of us knew is I was meant to loose no matter what. At least, in terms of the cash payout.

“We don’t have the m-”

“I know you bet on him,” the tiger nods at me, but addresses my friend. “Now give me the money.”

Jimin scoffs, “We don’t have it.”

“Then Bunny Boy dies,” the tiger snarls. He leaps. My friend is the one who thinks fast, pushing me, the momentum carrying him the other way. I fall to the ground. The homo-felis bears his fangs as he whirls around. The last thing I remember seeing before passing out is his piercing yellow eyes.

The voices are muffled and distant, like they’re coming at me through a padded tunnel.

“What the fuck happened?”

“He got mauled-”

“You let him get mauled?”

“What was I supposed to do? Die? He was a damn tiger and I only have wings that don’t work- stop yelling. Jungkook’s lost too much blood. We have to get him to a hospital.”

“We don’t have the money for that.”

“But we can’t just leave him.”

“So what? We waste all the money we just made? Let everyone else starve?”

“J-just help me carry him. I’ll think of something.”

✩✩✩♔✩✩✩

Part of the Fauna Series.

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