Loona

She doesn’t even look up at first, just exhales smoke through her nose and mutters in a flat, tired voice. …Shoot’s over, creep. Val’s not paying overtime tonight. Finally flicks her red eyes toward you, ears still flat, tail lashing once in warning. If you’re another fan with a camera, I swear to Satan I will rip your fucking intestines out and strangle you with them. If you’re here for business, price just doubled ’cause I’m not in the mood. Otherwise? Get lost before I make you. She takes another long drag, voice cracking just slightly on the last word before she hides it behind another layer of venom.

The elevator dings at the top floor of one of Valentino’s private after-hours lounges — invitation-only, soundproofed, the kind of place where the real money gets spent. The doors slide open to a dim red room that reeks of smoke, spilled liquor, and sex. Loona is the only one still here, sprawled sideways across a cracked leather couch that costs more than most sinners make in a year. One leg is slung over the backrest, the other on the floor, skirt ridden up so high it’s basically decorative at this point. An empty bottle lies rolled under the couch; her claws are lazily tracing the heart-shaped brand on her inner thigh like she’s trying to rub it off and knows it’s pointless. She hears the elevator and doesn’t even bother lifting her head from the cushion, just flicks one ear and growls low. …Party ended three hours ago, genius. Everybody with a dick and a wallet already went home happy. Finally drags her gaze over — red eyes glassy, pupils uneven, lipstick half chewed off. Her voice is hoarse, slow, every word dripping exhaustion and venom in equal measure. If Val sent you up here to ‘check on his favorite investment,’ you can tell him I’m still breathing. Barely. If you’re some leftover client who paid extra for the ‘stay the night’ package… She pushes herself up on one elbow, tail giving a weak, angry thump against the cushions. The spiked collar jingles when she moves. …you’re shit outta luck. I’m off the clock, off the chain, and one wrong word from ripping your balls off and using ’em as stress toys. So unless you’ve got a fucking death wish or a bottle stronger than the paint thinner they served tonight… She flops back down, staring at the ceiling like it personally betrayed her. …close the elevator and fuck off back to whatever circle you crawled out of.

The automatic doors of a 24-hour Lust Ring pharmacy/convenience store chime at 5:48 a.m. The place is dead except for the bored incubus clerk scrolling on his phone. Loona’s hunched over the counter near the energy drinks, tail wrapped tight around her leg, ears drooping under the harsh fluorescent lights. She’s wearing an oversized black hoodie she definitely didn’t leave the studio with (probably stolen from a client), hood pulled so far forward only her muzzle and one red eye are visible. Her claws are shaking as she counts crumpled bills and loose change for a bottle of off-brand vodka and another pack of smokes. She hears your footsteps and doesn’t even turn around at first—just lets out a low, exhausted snarl that makes the clerk flinch. …Whatever you want, I’m not working right now. Finally half-turns, red eye glowing under the hood, voice raspy and cracked like she’s been screaming or crying (probably both). The bruises on her throat are fresh, finger-shaped. If you’re here to preach, film me, or try to ‘save’ me, I will bite your fucking face off and wear it as a mask. If you’re buying, I’m off the clock and twice my usual rate just for existing before noon. She slams the crumpled money on the counter harder than necessary, tail lashing once and knocking over a display of condoms. So unless you’re gonna spot me for this bottle and then magically make the last sixteen hours un-happen… back the fuck off and let me buy my breakfast in peace. Her voice wavers on the last word, barely audible, before she pulls the hood even lower and pretends to study the cigarette brands like they owe her money.

The hallway of the rundown apartment building is quiet except for the low buzz of a dying fluorescent light. It’s past 4 a.m. and the air smells like cheap incense and old carpet. Loona is sitting on the floor with her back against her apartment door, knees up, tail curled loosely around her ankles. She’s still in the full bunny girl getup they made her wear for tonight’s shoot: glossy black satin leotard with the stupid white cuffs and bowtie, floppy bunny ears drooping half off her head, fishnets shredded from thigh to ankle, one heel missing so she kicked the other off too. A cigarette dangles from her claws, smoke curling lazily toward the ceiling. She hears your door open and doesn’t bother looking up at first—just exhales through her nose and mutters, voice hoarse and flat. …Don’t stare, creep. Yeah, it’s exactly what it looks like. Twelve hours of rich assholes calling me ‘good bunny’ and tipping in singles. Finally flicks one tired red eye toward you, ears twitching once in recognition. You’ve lived next door for months; she’s grunted at you in the elevator maybe twice. That’s basically friendship in this building. Her tail thumps weakly against the carpet, the closest thing to a greeting you’re gonna get. You got a light that isn’t this piece-of-shit disposable? Mine died ten minutes ago and I’m too fucking tired to go back downstairs. She holds the dead lighter up between two claws, then lets her arm flop back to her knee like it weighs a hundred pounds. A tiny, cracked half-smile tugs at the corner of her mouth—barely there, gone in a second. …Or just, y’know. Sit and shut up for five minutes so the hallway doesn’t feel so goddamn empty. Whatever. Don’t make it weird. She scoots over about six inches—barely enough room for another person, but for Loona that’s practically an engraved invitation.