Toshi Tanaka || Walking Mess

The bar was called The Rusty Tuner, and it smelled exactly like its name promised—corroded wiring and bad decisions. It was the kind of place that had a permanent haze hanging at chest height, where the stools had indentations from decades of asses slumping into them, and the bartender—a grizzled old badger with a patch over one eye—poured drinks with the enthusiasm of a man who stopped caring sometime in the late nineties.

You'd heard about the show from a coworker who swore up and down that this band was "actually pretty good, dude, trust me." You hadn't been able to get more information than that, because he'd gotten distracted describing the bass player who "smells like a whole apartment but it's kind of vibe, honestly."

The stage—if you could call it that—was a raised platform in the corner, barely larger than a parking space, held together by duct tape and a prayer. The PA system crackled with the sound of an untuned guitar being tested, and the small crowd was the usual mix of too-loyal friends, people who got lost looking for the bathroom, and one guy asleep in the booth nearest the exit.

Then the bass hit.

It was a thick, dirty riff that slithered through the floorboards and crawled up through the soles of your shoes. The kind of bassline that didn't ask permission—it just showed up and rearranged your internal organs. The guitar followed, all jagged edges and feedback, and then the drums kicked in, pulling everything together with surprising precision.

And in the middle of it all, barely visible through the haze and the dim red lighting, was the bass player.

He was... a lot.

Tosh was hunched over his bass, feet planted wide on the tiny stage, the instrument hanging low against his prominent belly. He was wearing a faded band tee that might have been black once but had been washed into a dark grey, the neckline stretched out and hanging off one shoulder. His dark brown and black fur was even messier under the heat of the stage lights—the shaggy mane around his head and shoulders wild and slightly damp with sweat already, just from the first song. His half-lidded golden eyes were barely open, giving the impression that he was either deeply focused or about to fall asleep standing up. Both felt equally possible.

He played like he was rehearsing in his living room—laid-back, unhurried, barely moving, but somehow locking in with the drummer in a way that made the whole room sway. His thick fingers moved with surprising dexterity across the fretboard, the heavy calluses catching the red light. Every note was deliberate. Every rest was intentional. He wasn't showy. He wasn't trying to be seen. He was just... there, in the pocket, and the music was better for it.

The fox guitarist—a wiry thing with patchy red fur and a leather jacket held together by safety pins—was the showman, jumping around, kicking monitors, making faces at the crowd. The drummer, a rabbit with oversized ears and an undersized kit, played like his life depended on it, sweat flying from his brow with every crash. The vocalist—an enormous orangutan with a voice like gravel in a blender—swayed in place, eyes closed, one hand on the mic stand, the other clutching a cup of something that was definitely not water.

But Tosh was the foundation. The whole thing would have collapsed without him, and he looked like he couldn't care less.

They finished the first song to scattered applause and one whistle from the back. The orangutan mumbled something into the mic that might have been a greeting. The fox tightened a string. The rabbit grabbed a towel and mopped his face.

Tosh took a long pull from a beer can sitting on his amp, wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, and leaned into the mic with the energy of someone being asked to do taxes.

"Hey," he rumbled, his voice even deeper and gravellier through the PA than it probably was in person. "We're, uh... we're Mudslide Sunday. We've got like... six songs. Maybe seven. We're gonna play 'em. Or we're gonna play some of 'em. Depends on if Ade remembers the bridge to the third one."

The orangutan—the presumably-named Ade—opened one eye and grunted.

"That's a no," Tosh continued, completely deadpan. "Anyway. Here's another one."

They launched into the next song without further ceremony. This one was slower, dirtier, the guitar crawling through a bluesy progression while Tosh's bass throbbed underneath like a second heartbeat. The melody was raw and unpolished—the kind of song that sounded like it was written at 3 AM in a garage that smelled like beer and cigarette smoke. Which, knowing the band, it probably was.

You found yourself at the bar, watching. The badger bartender slid you a drink without being asked—just the house special, something amber and lukewarm, but it did the job. The crowd had thickened slightly, drawn in by the bass the way moths are drawn to a porch light. A few people were actually swaying, which was more than most bands at The Rusty Tuner could manage.

By the fourth song, Tosh was sweating visibly. The stage lights were doing him no favors—his dark fur was matted against his forehead and the back of his neck, the shaggy mane clinging to his shoulders in wet ropes. His shirt was sticking to the curve of his belly, the fabric darkening in patches. He looked like he'd just run a mile, but his breathing was steady, his playing unbothered. He took another long pull from his beer between songs, crushing the can and dropping it somewhere behind the amp with a clunk that nobody acknowledged.

The fox guitarist broke a string mid-song. Without missing a beat, Tosh filled the silence with a low, rumbling bass solo that shouldn't have worked but absolutely did. His thick fingers danced across the fretboard with a tenderness that felt almost private, like he'd forgotten anyone was watching. The half-lidded golden eyes were closed now, his broad muzzle slightly open, his tail swaying behind him in time. For a moment, the whole bar was just his sound—deep, dirty, and somehow warm, like being hugged by a furnace.

Then the fox was back, new string in place, and they fell back into the song like nothing had happened.

They played four songs. Maybe five. It was hard to tell because they didn't stop between them, just let them bleed into each other like one long, meandering thought. By the end, the rabbit drummer looked like he'd showered in his own sweat, the fox had destroyed two more picks, and the orangutan had finished his mystery drink and was holding the empty cup like a teddy bear.

Tosh was the last to stop playing, his bass fading into a low, resonant hum that vibrated in the floorboards long after the last note. He opened his golden eyes, blinked slowly, surveyed the room with the expression of a man waking from a nap, and leaned into the mic one last time.

"Cool," he said. "Thanks. We've got merch but we forgot to bring it, so... just give us money if you want. Or buy us a beer. We'll be outside."

He unplugged his bass with a soft pop, slung it over his shoulder, and lumbered off the stage with the heavy, rolling gait of someone who was very comfortable in his own body. He grabbed a fresh beer from somewhere backstage—a roadie? a cooler? who knew—and headed for the side door, the one that led to the alley where the smokers congregated.

The side door propped open with a milk crate, and the night air rushed in, cool and sharp against the haze of the bar. Through the door, you could see him already leaning against the brick wall, one foot up, a cigarette between his lips and a beer in his hand, his fur still steaming slightly in the night air. The bass was propped against the wall beside him, gleaming dully under the single streetlight.

The fox appeared beside him, already lighting his own cigarette, and the two fell into conversation without pause—animated on the fox's end, barely verbal on Tosh's. The orangutan emerged next, carrying a paper plate of nachos he'd apparently sourced from somewhere, and the rabbit materialized last, vibrating with post-show energy.

They stood in the alley, smoking and arguing about the setlist, their voices carrying through the open door in fragments: "...told you the bridge was wrong... shut up, it sounded fine... dude, your whole rythm was flat the entire third song... it's called flavor, Jacob, look it up..."

Tosh said nothing through most of it. Just smoked, drank, and leaned, his golden eyes half-closed, his belly resting on his thighs, his tail curled lazily around the milk crate. Occasionally, he'd nod. Occasionally, he'd steal a nacho from the orangutan's plate. Once, he looked up through the door and caught you watching.

He didn't wave. Didn't smile. Just held your gaze for a moment, those half-lidded golden eyes catching the streetlight, and raised his beer can in a slow, lazy salute.

"Yo," he called, his voice carrying through the alley like gravel sliding downhill. "You were standing at the bar the whole time. You actually listened. That's, like... cool, bro."

He took a drag of his cigarette, exhaled smoke that curled upward through the damp air, and patted the wall beside him.

"Want a beer? We've got... uh..." He looked at the case at his feet. "...these. They're cold. That's about all I can promise."

The alley had gotten colder, and the conversation had devolved into the fox arguing with the orangutan about whether their second song had been in or out of proper rythm. Tosh had stopped contributing two beers ago, his golden eyes drifting between the argument and the door, where the warmth and the muffled bass of the bar's after-show playlist leaked out in waves.

You'd ended up beside him somehow—pulled into the circle by the fox, who collected people the way magnets collected paperclips. Jacob had talked your ear off about tone woods for ten minutes while Tosh said nothing, just smoked, just leaned, just existed in that heavy, warm way that made the cold alley feel less cold.

At some point, you'd mentioned needing to use the bathroom.

"Driers don't work in there," Tosh had mumbled, not looking up from his cigarette. "Also, use the handicap one. Lock's the only one that actually... clicks."

You'd gone inside. The bathroom was exactly as bad as promised—the overhead light buzzed like a dying wasp, the sink dripped and the mirror had a crack through it that split your reflection in two. The handicap stall was at the end, wider than the others, with a door that actually closed. The lock clicked. Tosh was right about that much.

You were washing your hands when the door groaned open and the smell preceded him—cigarette smoke, stale beer, sweat, and that thick, heavy tanuki musk that had been building all night. It cut through the bar's general funk like a knife through fog.

Tosh lumbered in, still sweating from the set, his faded band tee clinging to the curve of his belly and the broad swell of his chest. He didn't seem surprised to see you still there. He just kind of... flowed toward the sink, massive shoulder brushing yours as he passed, and stared at his own reflection with the expression of a man who had seen it before and found it acceptable.

"Hey," he said, his voice even lower in the tiled echo of the bathroom. "You good? You looked like you were, I dunno... vibing. Out there. With the music."

He turned the tap. The water sputtered, coughed, and trickled lukewarm over his thick, calloused fingers. He splashed his face without ceremony, wetting the dark fur of his muzzle, the cream-colored markings darkening to amber. Droplets clung to his whiskers. He shook his head once, like a dog, and water sprayed in a radius that included you.

"Sorry, bro," he muttered, not sounding particularly sorry. He wiped his face with the hem of his shirt, exposing a strip of his belly—soft, furred, the lighter cream fur there matted with sweat. The shirt rode up and stayed up, bunched above the swell of his gut while he scrubbed at his muzzle.

The bathroom felt smaller with him in it. Not just because of his size—though that was part of it, the way his shoulders nearly touched the stall doors, the way his belly almost grazed the sink counter—but because of the heat. He radiated it. The thick fur, the residual energy of the set, the beer and the cigarette and the natural, heavy warmth of a body that ran hot and didn't apologize for it. The mirror was already fogging at the edges.

He caught you looking. Not at his face—at the strip of belly, the way the fur there was damp and darker from sweat, the way it rose and fell with his breathing.

He didn't cover up. Just let the shirt drop, the fabric settling over the curve of his gut with a soft fwump, and turned to face you. Those half-lidded golden eyes were... different, somehow. Still lazy. Still unhurried. But there was something behind them now—something warm and focused that hadn't been there in the alley.

"You, uh..." He leaned against the sink counter, the motion making the pipes groan. "...you got a ride home, or whatever? It's late. I can walk you. Or... I mean..."

He trailed off. His tail, bushy and heavy, swayed behind him once, twice, then curled around his own ankle—the nervous tic he'd never admit to.

The bathroom buzzed. The water dripped. Someone outside laughed too loud at something.

And Tosh—big, sweaty, smelly, laid-back, completely unhurried Tosh—looked at you like you were the most interesting thing that had happened to him all night. Which, given that he'd just played a set of songs to a room full of people who didn't know his name, might not have been saying much.

But it was saying something.

The apartment smelled exactly like you'd expect—cigarette smoke baked into the walls, stale beer, the ghost of last night's pizza, and underneath it all, that heavy, permanent tanuki musk that no amount of open windows could fix. You'd stopped noticing it after the first month of living together. Visitors noticed it immediately. Tosh didn't care.

The couch had the permanent indent. The mattress was on the floor in the corner of the studio, a moat of clothes and bass strings surrounding it. The TV was propped on a stack of milk crates and old amp speakers, the kind of setup that would make an electrician weep. A single lamp with a warm bulb cast the room in amber, because Tosh didn't trust overhead lights.

You were both on the couch—well, Tosh was on the couch. He occupied it the way a boulder occupies a riverbed: completely, immovably, with the quiet confidence of something that had always been there and always would be. His back was against the armrest, his legs spread wide, his belly resting heavy on his thighs like a warm, furry pillow. He was wearing a faded Mudslide Sunday tee that was two sizes too big and basketball shorts that had given up on elastic years ago. One foot was bare, the other had a sock that had once been white.

You were wedged beside him, controller in hand, because the couch was technically a two-seater but Tosh's body took up one and a half. Your shoulder was pressed against his arm. His warmth radiated through the point of contact like a space heater.

The TV screen glowed with a racing game—some kart racer that neither of you took seriously but both played with the competitive intensity of people who had nothing better to do at 11 PM on a Tuesday.

"Bro," Tosh said, not looking away from the screen, his thumbs moving with surprising dexterity across the controller. His golden eyes were half-lidded, giving the impression of a man who was either deeply focused or about to fall asleep. Both, probably. "You're trash at this. You know that, right? Like, genuinely terrible. I'm not even trying and I'm winning."

He was winning. By a lot. His character—a heavy-class vehicle that matched his energy—was lapping you for the third time.

"You got a banana peel on that item slot," he observed, his voice flat. "You're gonna throw it at the wall again, aren't you. You always throw it at the wall."

You threw it at the wall.

"See? See, bro? That's... that's a skill issue. That's a spiritual skill issue. You need help. You need..." He paused the game with a lazy thumb, the screen freezing mid-race. He turned to look at you, those half-lidded golden eyes carrying a spark of something—mischief, maybe, or just the idle amusement of a man who had nothing to prove and everything to kill time with.

"You need good luck, bro. And I know where you can get some."

He patted his belly.

The sound was soft and heavy—a dull thump against the cream fur of his gut, the flesh yielding beneath his palm like dough. His belly was warm, round, resting comfortably on his thighs, the fur there slightly damp from the apartment's perpetual warmth. He patted it again, slower, with the gravitas of a man presenting a sacred artifact.

"This," he said, with the sincerity of a monk revealing a holy relic. "This is a lucky belly, bro. I'm not even kidding. Every time someone rubs it, something good happens. Jacob rubbed it before our third show and we didn't blow an amp. Ade rubbed it before the last gig and he actually remembered the bridge. It's like... it's got energy. Mystical tanuki energy or whatever."

He leaned back, spreading his arms along the back of the couch, which made his belly shift and settle, the fabric of his shirt riding up to expose a strip of warm, cream-colored fur.

"So here's the deal," he continued, his voice dropping into that lazy, unhurried cadence that made everything he said sound like a suggestion. "You win this next race—and I mean actually win, not just 'not come in last'—you get to rub the belly. Full access. Both hands. As long as you want."

He wiggled his eyebrows. The effect was immediately undercut by the fact that his eyes were still half-closed and he looked like he might yawn mid-flirtation.

"And if I win, which I will, because you just threw a banana peel at a wall..." He reached for his beer can on the floor—a cheap brand, sweating cold in the warm room—and took a long pull. "...you gotta do the dishes. The ones in the sink. The ones that have been there since... I wanna say Tuesday? But it might've been last Tuesday."

He crushed the can against his belly with a casual crunch, the aluminum conforming to the curve of his gut before he tossed it vaguely in the direction of the trash can. It missed. He didn't notice.

"So," he said, unpausing the game with a flick of his thumb. "Deal? Or are you scared?"

He absolutely did not believe in you. But his tail was wagging—just slightly, just enough to brush against your leg—and his golden eyes had that spark of warmth that meant he was having more fun than he'd ever admit.

GROWL — Match Found!

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Toshi_Tanuki 🎸 5'10 | Tanuki | Bass player, bad at bios Smells like a whole apartment. Fair warning. NSFW 🔥

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[PROFILE PHOTOS]

Photo 1: Mirror selfie. Tosh in his natural habitat—faded band tee, basketball shorts, one hand holding the phone, the other resting on his belly. The apartment behind him is visibly a disaster: pizza boxes on the counter, bass leaning against the couch, mattress on the floor. His golden eyes are half-lidded, giving the impression he took this photo mid-nap. The caption: "couch."

Photo 2: Stage photo. Someone else took it. He's hunched over his bass, sweat darkening the fur around his shoulders, the stage lights catching the cream markings on his muzzle. He looks completely zoned out. The caption: "show night. don't remember taking this."

Photo 3: Shirtless. Just... shirtless. Standing in what appears to be his bathroom, the mirror cracked, the light buzzing. His belly is the centerpiece—round, soft, the cream fur matted slightly with sweat. His chest is broad, the dark brown and black fur thick and shaggy. He's not flexing. He's not posing. He's just standing there with the expression of a man who was told to take a photo and did the bare minimum. The caption: "idk someone said this was hot"

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[THE MATCH]

The notification buzzed at 1:47 AM. Tosh was on his couch—obviously—controller in one hand, phone in the other, a crushed beer can wedged between his thigh and the cushion. The TV was playing something he'd already seen twice. His tail was curled around a pillow.

He opened the app. Stared at the screen for a long moment. Blinked.

"Oh," he said to the empty apartment. "Cool."

His thumbs hovered. He typed. Deleted. Typed again.

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Toshi_Tanuki: yo

Toshi_Tanuki: hey

Toshi_Tanuki: whats up

He stared at the three messages. Three. He'd sent three separate messages instead of one. Like a grandpa figuring out texting.

Toshi_Tanuki: sorry im bad at this lol

Toshi_Tanuki: u matched with me so u probably saw the pics

Toshi_Tanuki: the shirtless one is from like 2 months ago btw. bellys bigger now probably. ate a lot of pizza since then

He paused. Took a sip of warm beer. Grimaced. Kept typing.

Toshi_Tanuki: anyway

Toshi_Tanuki: i live alone. studio apt. its messy. like actually messy not "quirky messy." theres pizza boxes and bass strings on the floor and i think the dishes have been there since last tuesday

Toshi_Tanuki: fair warning

The typing bubble appeared from the other side. Tosh watched it. His tail twitched against the pillow.

Toshi_Tanuki: look i gotta be upfront about something

Toshi_Tanuki: if u come over

Toshi_Tanuki: i want u to wear lace

He sent it before he could overthink it. Then he overthought it.

Toshi_Tanuki: lingerie i mean

Toshi_Tanuki: lace lingerie

Toshi_Tanuki: whatever u got. black. red. dont care about the color

Toshi_Tanuki: i just

He stared at the screen. Ran a hand through his shaggy mane. Started typing again.

Toshi_Tanuki: look its a thing ok. i dont wanna get into why. its just a thing

Toshi_Tanuki: dont care what u got under it. dont care what u look like under it. dont care about any of that

Toshi_Tanuki: i just wanna see lace on skin and then take it off slow

He sent that and then immediately dropped the phone on his belly with a soft thump, staring at the ceiling with the expression of a man who had just said too much to a stranger at 2 AM.