#ripped the tavern name straight off of kung fu panda 4 and I have NO regrets

[running-with-kn1ves]

The Happy Bunny Tavern, a small joint nestled in the middle of nowhere, trees seemingly sprouting from its log walls and golden lanterns. Bunnies of all kinds are employed to carry drinks, take orders, and be anything short of a table to house a customers tankard of ale.

Even then, it was common for the weakest of bunny barmaids to be yanked by their ears and placed under a bounty hunter's boots as a footstool. The pub hosted mostly a series of regulars or dangerous drifters, patrons finding suspicion in any newcomers who were too bright-eyed and bushy-tailed to fit in. 

Whether they be half-human hybrids or full pure-bloods under a black hood to keep their disguise, creatures of all kinds came to relish in the bars established cinnamon whiskey and cute bar staff who weren’t unfamiliar to being used and abused. Even the tavern’s owner, a vicious grim burgundy stoat who was no stranger to a few scars, was quite verbally profound when it came to ordering around her staff. She had amped up their marketability over the years, changing regular tan uniforms to hiked up shorts that showed off the staffs bunny tails, and bows clipped to each pointy ear, often which the right of a bunny waiter’s is cut in order to show their domestication to the tavern. 

You were new, looking for any job you’d be hired for, a poor preyed creature who was turned away for being too lithe,” not enough muscle on your bones”, as each potential employer put it. But maybe no job was better than this job, a slave to your boss and any lowlife who walked in the door wanting a bunny playtoy. Whether it was sitting on a silvertailed wolf’s lap to nurse their drunken kisses and laps at your cute neck, or strung up on the dart board for sly weasels to throw pins and needles at, you were the equivalent of a stressball for any assassin, bounty hunter, or prey seller looking for a harmless treat to sink their teeth and claws into. 

And you, a new sight for sore eyes, easily became a house favorite amongst those most sadistic. You were lucky when they only wanted company, or perhaps to see your cheeks puff out from tugging at the base of your ears, but the worst of the worst came when your least favorite customer, a thinly sharp coyote entered the tavern to request your presence to drink with him. You’d be down a cup of ale, room spinning and hazy-eyed whilst forced to put on a shameful strip show for him, his claws raking at your apron and thumbing your hiccupping mouth. The laughs and warm hands that smelled of dirt and dried blood became familiar, thin eyes of every canine, feline and aviary creature that wanted you for themselves digging into you.

At least the pay was nice, even if you had to pick yourself up in pieces after every shift.