This was made with a local install of Reforge using the model Manticore: https://civitai.com/models/1208658/manticore-v-pred-traditional-artstyle-merge-noobillustrious .

I used Tail Tagger for tagging assistance: https://github.com/renfald/tail-tagger . Along with the JPT-3 model for AI generating tags: https://huggingface.co/RedRocket/JTP-3/tree/main/models?not-for-all-audiences=true

The Velvet Tail Lounge pulsed with the heartbeat of Toontown's underbelly, a smoky den where the air hung heavy with the mingled scents of aged bourbon, sweet cigarillo smoke, and the faint, intoxicating floral perfume that seemed to emanate from every corner, though everyone knew it was her signature—jasmine laced with vanilla, a scent that clung to the velvet curtains and the polished brass fixtures like a lover's whisper. The room was a symphony of low murmurs and clinking glasses, the soft rustle of fur against silk suits and the occasional burst of laughter that cut through the haze like a spotlight. Dim chandeliers dangled overhead, their crystal prisms scattering golden flecks across the mahogany tables, where patrons huddled in anticipation, their eyes gleaming with that cartoonish hunger that only the night's star could ignite. The band—a motley crew of jazz-loving toons, including a saxophone-wielding fox with a sly grin, a piano-playing badger whose claws danced over the keys like rain on a hot tin roof, a upright bass-strumming bear whose deep growls harmonized with the strings, and a drummer rabbit whose foot thumped the pedal with rhythmic fervor—tuned their instruments in a sultry prelude, the notes weaving through the air like threads of silk, building tension that made tails twitch and ears perk.

The crowd was a riot of anthropomorphic life: wolves in pinstripe suits nursing highballs, their ties loosened just enough to hint at the wildness beneath; foxes with sharp features and sharper wits, swirling cognac in crystal snifters; a cluster of rabbits whose long ears flopped forward as they leaned in, whispering excitedly; and a lone burly bulldog at the bar, his jowls quivering as he downed shot after shot of something amber and fiery. The taste of salt from pretzel bowls lingered on fingertips, mixed with the sharp bite of lime from garnishes, while the tactile warmth of the room—heated by bodies pressed close and the glow of stage lights—made fur bristle and skin flush. Conversations buzzed like bees in a hive: "You think she'll do that number again tonight? The one that makes your heart do flips?" one wolf muttered to another, his voice gravelly with excitement. "Oh, man, last time I nearly howled the roof off," his companion replied, chuckling low, the sound rumbling like distant thunder.

Then, the lights dimmed to a intimate crimson glow, the chandeliers fading to mere whispers of light, and a single spotlight pierced the darkness, illuminating the stage like a beacon calling sailors to shore. The band struck up a slow, swinging blues riff, the saxophone wailing a long, languid note that curled through the air, heavy with promise, while the piano rolled out chords that evoked forbidden desires and midnight trysts. Drums brushed softly, like fingers trailing down a spine, and the bass thrummed deep, vibrating through chairs and into bones. From the wings slinked Minerva Mink, her entrance a masterpiece of calculated allure, each step a deliberate sway that commanded every eye in the room. Her white fur shimmered under the light, soft and pristine, like moonlight on fresh snow, contrasting with the golden blonde waves of her hair that cascaded down her back in voluptuous curls, bouncing with hypnotic rhythm. Her massive, fluffy tail trailed behind her, swaying like a pendulum of temptation, brushing against the stage curtains with a whisper-soft whoosh that sent tiny drafts rippling through the front rows.

But oh, her figure—that hyper hourglass form that pushed the limits of cartoon exaggeration into realms of pure, breathless fantasy. Her waist cinched impossibly narrow, a mere suggestion between the dramatic flare of her hips and the generous swell of her bust, all wrapped in a red sequined gown that clung like a second skin, the fabric straining just enough to tease without revealing, its high slit parting with every step to reveal the smooth curve of her furred leg. The strapless neckline dipped low, held up by some defy-gravity toon magic, and the sequins caught the light in a dazzling array, sparkling like a thousand winking stars. She moved barefoot, her paws padding silently on the cool wooden planks, adding a primal, earthy grace to her elegance. Her blue eyes, shadowed with a smoky lavender hue, scanned the crowd with a knowing glint, her full lips painted a deep crimson curving into a sultry smile, and her pink nose twitched as she inhaled the room's heady mix—her own perfume overpowering the smoke, blending with the sharp tang of spilled whiskey and the subtle musk of excited fur.

Minerva reached the microphone stand, a gleaming chrome sentinel in the center of the stage, and she wrapped one gloved hand around it, her fingers tracing its length with a slow, deliberate caress that made several patrons shift uncomfortably in their seats. "Evening, my dears," she purred, her voice a rich, velvety contralto that dripped like warm caramel, wrapping around the words and pulling the audience in closer. It carried that valley girl lilt, twisted into something far more intoxicating, low and breathy, with a hint of playful mischief that made hearts stutter. The spotlight warmed her fur, making it glow, and she leaned in, her breath hitching audibly through the speakers—a soft, intimate exhale that sent shivers racing down spines and tails curling in delight. "You all look positively starved for a little entertainment. How fortunate you are that I'm here to feed you." The band swelled, the saxophone cooing in agreement, and Minerva launched into her song, a reimagined ballad of her theme, "It's Not Pretty Being Me," transformed into a lounge lament of self-adoration and seduction, her hips beginning to sway in time with the beat, the slit in her gown flashing tantalizing glimpses that drew gasps.

"Oh, it's not pretty being me," she crooned, drawing out the notes low and husky, her voice vibrating through the air like a physical touch, making the wolves' ears flatten back in ecstasy. "With a figure that turns heads and breaks hearts, and a smile that starts the sparks." She glided across the stage, her movements fluid and teasing—a slow, sinuous twist that sent her hair whipping around in a golden arc, the scent of her perfume wafting stronger now, enveloping the front tables in a cloud of jasmine sweetness that mixed with the bitter bite of cigar ash. Her tail flicked playfully, brushing against the mic stand with a soft thump, and she arched her back just so, accentuating every curve, the sequins on her gown shimmering like fireflies in the night. The audience erupted in waves of wild takes, cartoon exaggerations that turned the lounge into a frenzy of comedic chaos. The front-row wolf's eyes bulged out on coiled springs, boinging forward with a sproing that nearly touched the stage before snapping back, his tongue lolling out in a long, red ribbon patterned with throbbing hearts, unrolling to the floor with a slap. "Hubba hubba hubba!" he howled, his voice cracking like thunder, paws slamming the table so hard his glass jumped, spilling cool liquor that soaked into the napkin with a fizz.

Beside him, the fox's jaw unhinged completely, dropping to the tabletop with a resonant clunk, his eyes morphing into spinning slot machine reels that landed on cherries—jackpot!—as steam whistled from his ears in high-pitched toots. "She's... she's perfection incarnate!" he stammered, his fur standing on end like he'd been zapped, heart pounding visibly through his vest, thump-thump-thumping in rhythm with the bass, the tactile vibration making his chair rattle. Further back, the bulldog at the bar clutched his chest, his jowls inflating like balloons as his eyes turned into fireworks exploding in bursts of color, a low growl escaping his throat that blended with the saxophone's wail. "That voice—it's like velvet wrapped around a dagger, straight to the soul!" he bellowed, his massive paws sweating, leaving damp prints on the bar top, the cool wood contrasting the heat flushing his face. The rabbits in the corner thumped their feet involuntarily, creating a staccato percussion that echoed the drums, one rabbit's eyes popping out on stalks, orbiting his head like planets before reeling back in with a dizzy whirl. "Did you catch that sway? And the smell—oh, that perfume's got me spinning!" another rabbit whispered hoarsely, fanning himself with a menu, beads of cartoon sweat flying off in arcs that evaporated into little love-hearts rising toward the ceiling.

Minerva thrived on it, her performance building like a crescendo, descending the short steps from the stage to weave among the tables, her presence a tangible force—the brush of her tail against a chair back sending a soft, tickling sensation through fur, her perfume enveloping patrons in waves that made nostrils flare and mouths water. She paused at the wolf's table, leaning down close enough that her warm breath tickled his ear, scented with the faint mint of a backstage lozenge. "Enjoying the show, big boy? Don't let your heart run away with you now," she murmured, her voice a private serenade that made his fur frizz out in electric spikes, his tail wagging so furiously it knocked over a neighboring vase, water splashing cool and refreshing across the floor, mingling with the sticky residue of spilled drinks. Back on stage for the bridge, she spun slowly, her gown flaring out in a whirl of red sparkle, the air displaced by her tail gusting lightly over the crowd, ruffling napkins and fur alike. "It's tough when every glance your way makes 'em lose their minds," she sang, her tone rising to a breathy high note that pierced the haze, "but darling, that's the price for being divine."

The sensations peaked in a whirlwind: the visual feast of her form in perpetual motion, curves undulating like waves on a stormy sea; the auditory bliss of her melody, rich and resonant, echoing in chests and stirring souls; the olfactory assault of her scent overpowering the lounge's smoky veil, sweet and heady; the phantom touch of her energy, making skin prickle and pulses race; even the taste of anticipation, salty on lips as patrons bit down to stifle moans. A collective wild take swept the room—the rabbits' ears twisting into pretzels, the fox's tongue tying itself in knots, the bulldog's entire body inflating like a parade balloon before deflating with a whoosh. As the song climaxed, Minerva threw her head back, her hair cascading like a waterfall, hitting the final note with a power that vibrated the glasses on tables, a lingering vibrato that hung in the air like unspoken promises.

With the last echoes fading, she blew a exaggerated kiss, her lips puckering in a pout that sent invisible hearts fluttering out, popping like bubbles over the crowd. "Thank you, my adoring fans. Dream of me tonight—and every night." The applause thundered, mixed with whistles and howls, chairs scraping as toons stood, the room alive with the afterglow of her magic. Minerva sauntered offstage, her hips swaying one final, tantalizing time, leaving the Velvet Tail forever changed, the air still humming with her essence, the patrons left in a daze of desire and delight, their wild takes subsiding into contented sighs as the band played on into the night. But in their minds, the performance replayed endlessly, her voice, her scent, her touch—a siren song that called them back for more.