Grawlix | 24 | hobbyist | purveyor of silly orange guys and evil flunkeys | toon wolf kisser
Hi!
🧨 If it wasn’t already obvious I specialize in drawing furries! Been aware of the fandom since at least 2009, but I’m not deep in it and prefer to stay on the sidelines. I’ve always been more engaged with media that has non-humans as main players.
🧨 I love creature design and speculative evolution.
🧨 My favorite prehistoric animals are entelodonts and gorgonopsids.
frequently used tags:
#my art → what it says on the tin
#criminally attractive → my 65 million years in the making Sonic Underground fanfiction project about those headass dogs
#graw jabbering → where I yap about various things
sideblogs (under construction):
@jungleboogied → for my wildlife artwork and primateposting
@grawlscrawls → for my original fantasy and sci-fi writings
DM for 18+, must have age in bio ⚠️ basic freaky furry stuff beware ⚠️
❌ DNF proship/profic, taboo, feral animal NSFW, zoo, basically if you use the word puriteen routinely you probably don’t want to be following me. I do occasionally check people's profiles if they follow me, mostly just out of curiosity.
Speaking as an aged Skylanders veteran, it’s embarrassing seeing some fans whinge under official Spyro: A Realm Beyond posts about not getting a new game
Took a lil break from writing, one longer than I intended. Gonna go back into the fray this week. But I also started playing Absolum, so that might distract me 😅
i fucking love the hair texture that some of the characters have going on
so often in anthro designs that DO have human like hair its almost ALWAYS straight. its so refreshing to see something that resembles irl black peoples hairstyles in a big budget movie
“Lift might be stuck a while,” Dingo said, jabbing Sleet playfully with an elbow. “Night’s still young.”
Words: 3,700
Characters: Sleet and Dingo, Robotnik mentions
Pairing: Sleet × Dingo
A/N: rated PG-13 - steamy furry makeout sesh
An unexpected sequel to Dancing Fool. Before I get anyone’s hopes up, I must preface: although this event will have aftershocks down the line, it does not mean their relationship is official. Sleet is a messy, messy, denial-ridden individual. His future decisions—well, mine really—may disappoint readers. His walls have cracked, but he’s not quite yet over himself to allow them all the way down.
Fool Squared
True to his word, Dingo minded his manners during the gala. There’d been a few small setbacks, such as the instance when he laid into the freckle-faced parvenu who accidentally scuffed Sleet’s shoe, but those could be forgiven. His eagerness to lay into anyone who so much as looked at Sleet funny was a trait none of the other plus ones possessed. In that respect, having Dingo on his arm made Sleet feel special, superior. Treasured, the way he deserved.
It also got his stomach all fluttery more times than he would’ve liked. He had to make a conscious effort to keep from smiling like some gormless pup on their first date. He couldn’t fault himself fully for his distraction. Dingo cleaned up nicely, and there was a sort of innate la belle et le bete romanticism to the pair they made.
Pesky enteric butterflies aside, Sleet couldn’t have asked for a better soirée: Robotnik had no notable criticisms; the aristocrats left no doubt of their continued loyalty to the empire; and no Freedom Fighter rabble rousers showed up and caused trouble.
There was just this one thing. This one, teeny, infinitesimal thing that gnawed away at Sleet’s brain.
The dance he and Dingo had, while not perfect, was one to remember. There were no spools on the floor to trip Dingo up and foil the angel lift—a move unique to their arrangement, one that none of the bluebloods could dare to compete with. Up there, he felt on top of the world.
Sleet’s feet returned to the ground. The live orchestration hushed.
And then everyone around them shared a chaste kiss.
Instead of a kiss, Sleet and Dingo shared a very long, very awkward, searching stare, like they were both trying to commit every strand of fur on their faces to memory.
So far as Sleet understood, partner dances weren’t inherently romantic. There’d been no indication this ball was to be so amorous in nature. Perhaps this detail conveniently slipped Robotnik’s mind. Sometimes he treated them more like playthings and less like foot soldiers, Sleet especially. It wouldn’t be entirely out of character for him to try his nerves just for kicks. There was a rumor going around that some among the imperial ranks were betting on how long it’d take for Sleet to “fold”.
He had doubts this folding in question had anything to do with leaving the empire . . .
Tonight’s gala sponsor had an affinity for the olden days greater than the average aristocrat. The most giving ratepayers, as well as the Emperor and his right hands, were to take part in and be spoiled with an extravagant horse-drawn procession. Spoiled isn’t the word, Sleet thought. The horses weren’t roboticized, making them smelly and loathesome, and the coachmen drove at a snail’s pace. It was all so antiquated. Naturally, Sleet and Dingo rode together.
The wolf watched his seatmate from the corner of a reproving eye. Just look at him. He doesn’t even realize what he’s done. No idea of the trouble he’s wrought.
Dingo was, like so often, off in his own little world. He’d busied himself with repeatedly, flagrantly, licking his chops and overexcercising his jaw.
“What on Mobius are you doing?” he asked when he couldn’t bear the noise anymore, taking his head out of his hand and facing Dingo.
“Caramel,” Dingo answered after much continued struggle. He prodded at the roof of his mouth with his tongue. “Rehlly gudd cayturming. Etsh stumk. Qualty stumf!”
“Stop it. You’re going to get it on the upholstery.” The command hardly carried any bite, perfunctory and bored. He hadn’t the energy to bother saving face. “Robotnik’ll punish the both of us if you keep damaging his property.”
A growl pealed out from Dingo’s throat. “Let ‘im try,” he grumbled darkly, cracking his knuckles. Suddenly the caramel wasn’t an issue anymore. In typical Dingo fashion, he was still convinced they could take Robotnik down. He hated being told the odds. Bold, if not stupid. With Dingo that line was often blurred.
Sleet wasn’t willing to risk such a brazen assault. Dingo was strong, but did he have the stamina to take on armies of SWATbots? And who knew what other war machines Robotnik had in his repertoire? They weren’t privy to everything His Baldness was up to.
“It’s still early days,” Sleet reminded. The pay was good. The power was great. Until those wells ran dry, he was content kowtowing. Sleet returned his attention to the window. “Save that energy for the hedgehogs.”
Dingo voiced his frustration with a snorting grunt, but wisely dropped the subject. He went quiet.
Too quiet.
Sleet, feeling Dingo’s eyes on him, steeled himself for the inevitable. It came soon enough.
“You okay, Sleet?”
Sleet didn’t turn to look at him. “I’m fine. Just tired.”
“Why don’t you sleep?” Dingo asked in that hopeless, guileless way of his. “If there’s an attack, I’ll protect ya.” Sleet saw Dingo’s reflection snap to attention and assume a soldierly air. “Nothin’ gets past me.”
Sleet could readily attest otherwise. “It’s a different type of tired.”
“Oh. Well . . . is there anything I can do about it?”
“Not likely,” Sleet said with a finality, eager to drop the conversation. He shifted away from the window and pointed at Dingo’s tuxedo, a welcome opportunity to change the topic. “Why are you still wearing that?”
Dingo gazed down at himself. “Oh. Huh.” He scratched his head before admitting. “I don’t know.”
Sleet quietly scoffed. Dingo had spent all that time stalling and fretting over the suit only to completely forget he was wearing it.
“It is kinda irritatin’ now that you mention it.” He began undressing, throwing off his suit jacket, not so much unbuttoning his shirt as he was ripping it open. They both cringed at the sound of stitches popping, Dingo stopping after every tear to flash Sleet an apologetic look. Several oops, sorries, and my bads later, he was free from his tux. His nostrils flared wide as he took a huge breath in. Exhaling even bigger, Dingo sank into the cushion and stretched his legs apart in a most ungentlemanly manner. “Oh yeahhh. That’s heaps better. Thanks, Sleet. You’re a lifesaver.”
“Of c-course.” Heat flooded Sleet’s face. He wished he hadn’t mentioned anything at all.
It was going to be a long carriage ride.
“So, did you pick up any hot goss?”
“Hm? Oh, uh, no.”
“I think Lady Guinevere’s preggers. Probably Sir Whiskerton’s.”
“Mhm.”
“Gonna be one ugly baby, hah!”
Sleet replied with a noncommittal mumble, barely parting his mouth. He hastened his pace through the fortress halls. Getting back to base hadn’t given him the relief he had hoped for. Perhaps once he was in bed then. Then he’d stop putting so much thought into something so trivial. Since when did he care about fitting in with the crowd? He was being silly. Bounty hunters weren’t silly, and they didn’t dwell on the past.
Dingo was getting better at realizing when he’d been left behind. It wasn’t long before he caught up. The one-sided conversation turned from ugly babies to scolding Lady Agitha for using her purse to steal the shrimp appetizers. Not because it was selfish and gross, he made sure to emphasize, but because if he did the same he’d get in trouble for it.
On a better day, Sleet would have thought it laudable, maybe even a little sweet, of him to try and engage with his interests. But since Sleet hadn't had the chance to do any eavesdropping himself, too distracted in his thoughts, it just felt like salt in the wound.
Two SWATbots on guard duty saluted them as they entered the elevator lobby. While Sleet fought with a button that didn’t want to be pushed in, Dingo asked the sentinels what they thought about Agitha’s shrimp purse. SWATbots were not conversationalists. Still, Dingo somehow took their dead silence as confirmation that he was right. The sticky button relented at last, and shortly after the doors granted them ingress.
The fortress had several levels. Robotnik had bestowed them a space on one of the uppermost floors. It was a boon he’d promised, one he’d actually delivered on. As emperor, his quarters were obviously more lavish, but for two scoundrelly bounty hunters who’d never had reliable room and board before it was a penthouse.
“Maybe I should get a purse,” Dingo wondered aloud after Sleet punched in the button to their floor.
Sleet closed his eyes, sighing quietly. Soon, he’d have solitude. He tried tunneling his thoughts on that, imagining his bed, velvet slippers, and luxury dressing gown. He thought of his overnight face mask and the cool, crisp smell of cucumbers.
The elevator jerked to a halt, rattling Sleet out of his forced distractions. Turbulence in the lift was unusual, but not altogether unexpected. Robotnik was lousy with handling the fortress’ upkeep. Sleet didn’t dare bring this to his attention. Every time he suggested something he always ended up worse for it. The only time the building saw improvements was after a breach from Freedom Fighters. They had a knack for sneaking inside like rats.
No matter, Sleet decided. The elevator would start up again, and he would be on his merry way.
Then the lights winked out.
“Is that a new feature?” asked Dingo.
Sleet flexed his claws anxiously. “Give it time,” he said, more to himself than to Dingo.
Time was given. The lights didn’t return.
Groaning, Sleet clapped his hand to his brow. “Oh, fan-tastic. Great, just great. Just what I needed.”
“Really? You like being stuck in a box and plunged into darkness? It kinda gives me the heebie-jeebies . . .” Dingo said with a shudder. He pressed close to Sleet for protection.
“You can see in the dark,” Sleet groused. They both could, but Dingo’s night vision far outpaced Sleet’s. Seeing in the dark was one of the few things Dingo was better at.
“Spiders like the dark,” Dingo said meekly, barely above a whisper, as if he was afraid just mentioning spiders would summon a whole swarm of them.
Sleet didn’t even bother rolling his eyes. He shoved Dingo off and began pacing. “Agh! That cheapskate! Robotnik has all the riches in the world and can’t bear to spare it on basic facilities! Some emperor.”
“Oo, I know!” Dingo blurted suddenly and approached the doors. “I’ll rip open th—”
“No! Have you lost what little mind you have? That’s Robotnik’s property!”
“Heh, so?”
“So he’ll get mad! We might lose our benefits, o-or worse!”
“Rrrright, right,” said Dingo, obviously still considering property damage. A slow, dragging scritch-scratching followed. Him rubbing his chin, Sleet recognized. “Hm. Ya think I should punch the keypad instead?”
“No! No punching! No ripping or tearing or gouging or any other form of violence!”
“What about—”
“Biting is included in ripping and tearing, Dingo.”
“So we’re just stuck here?”
“For the time being,” Sleet sat against the wall. “Unless you have any better ideas.” There were worse elevators to get stuck in. Because of the size and weight of SWATbots and other members of Robotnik’s robotic retinue who popped in and out the building, the fortress accommodated Dingo’s unconventional frame well, so Sleet didn’t have to worry about jockeying for room.
Dingo took a sharp intake of air, as if about to raise a suggestion, then stopped. He did this two more times before finally accepting defeat and taking a seat beside Sleet. “Good thing we’re together!” he chirped. Even in this darkness, Dingo’s grin was clear as day.
Sleet crossed his legs, propped his head on one hand, and sulked. They were right back where they started: stuck.
No amount of meditation on cucumbers or opulent accessories quell that annoyance gnawing at his brain. What once was a dull ache had flared into a pressure that refused to be ignored. His emotions weighed on him with the heaviness of something material, as though a big alpha guivre had chosen his head as its perch.
“We can play Twenty Questions, or Would You Rather, or—”
“Why didn’t you kiss me?” The words were out of Sleet’s mouth before his mind had time to catch up. He didn’t backtrack though. He didn’t rush to claim he’d misspoke, didn’t stammer through a half-baked excuse. He let the question loom. It was a question worth asking, wasn’t it?
Dingo audibly swallowed. “Er, I don’t think I know that game,” he said through nervous chuckles.
“At the gala,” Sleet pressed. “At the end of the dance, everyone kissed. Everyone but us.”
“My aunts always told me that just cause everyone else is doin’ something, doesn’t mean I should. Though they never did say anything about kissing.” Dingo paused and tilted his head. “Was always about jumping off bridges for some reason. Kinda weird now that I think about it. We didn’t even have a lotta bridges where we lived.”
“But you literally jump off bridges all the time,” Sleet argued. “Why heed that advice now?”
“Not all the time. I mostly jump off buildings or cliffs. So it’s like . . . quarterly or something. I reckon I jump outta things more.”
“That’s not the point,” Sleet said tersely. “You made us look foolish.”
“Well,” said Dingo, “why didn’t you kiss me?” As he said this, he pointed at Sleet, then himself.
Taken by surprise, Sleet narrowly choked on his own saliva. “I-I was the lead!” He tempered his voice before he continued explaining. “You were the follow. The follow initiates.”
“Mm, that doesn’t sound right.”
“You’re a novice,” Sleet said, flustered. “It wouldn’t sound right to you.” He grumbled irritable nothings beneath his breath. Even he wasn’t quite sure what he was angry about anymore, but he was too far in to give up now.
“I did want to kiss you,” Dingo replied, and Sleet’s mutterings came to a crashing halt. The wolf whipped his head towards him. Any faster and his neck might’ve snapped. “But I felt like I’d be pushin’ it. Your comfort levels, I mean. Wasn’t something we rehearsed. Wouldn’t be proper.”
“Oh,” Sleet said, blinking. After a long pause, he shifted uncomfortably, feeling like the biggest fool to ever grace the planet. Sleet had laid his personal boundaries in thick from the very start of their partnership. It only made sense for Dingo to be reluctant.
Why was he blaming him anyway? Because it was easy? Because it was comfortable? There hadn’t been anything stopping him from initiating instead. What’d he been so afraid of? Everyone already thought they were an item, and their lips had technically touched before.
Sighing, Sleet rubbed along the bridge of his snout—a sort of habit he’d developed whenever nervous or stressed. Whether this genuinely calmed him or not was debatable, but a habit was a habit. “I’m sorry. That was a stupid question.”
Dingo seemed struck by this admission. He was quiet for a moment, as if he’d not heard Sleet and was weighing how to respond without revealing so, before saying, “Oh, uh, no worries. I ask stupid questions plenty.”
“I just felt . . . out-of-place. I don’t need validation from aristocrats, of course, I never want to be one of them, but . . . ” Sleet sighed again and shook his head. “It’s hard to explain. Forget it.” That was enough of that.
For a while, neither of them spoke up again. Sleet was listening for any signs of rescue when Dingo addressed him out of the blue. He thought he’d follow up with another idea that would have to be promptly shut down. But Dingo wasn’t done surprising him.
“Night’s still young.”
Sleet’s ear twitched. “What?”
“Lift might be stuck a while,” Dingo said, jabbing Sleet playfully with an elbow. “Night’s still young.” He paused. “A-am I not sayin’ that right? Speech figures are tricky.”
Sleet squinted. “What are you getting at?” Is he suggesting what I think he’s suggesting?
“Kissing.” Sleet’s stomach flipped. “We could practice. Y’know, for the next go round. Maybe I can help your nerves the way you helped mine before the dance.”
“My nerves are fine,” Sleet said. It was a claim that wasn’t nearly as convincing as he’d hoped; his voice shook and threatened to break. He cleared his throat, speaking only when he was sure he wouldn’t embarrass himself anymore than he already had. “But since you're offering, yes, I’d appreciate that very much.” Dingo offered his hands. Sleet went to accept them, then hesitated. “Just practice?”
“Just practice,” Dingo affirmed. A sly smile entered his voice. “Unless you beg for more.” He made a flirty, faux snarly noise that was equal parts ridiculous and endearing.
Sleet snorted his amusement. Rising to Dingo’s challenge, he called upon his seduction spy jobs from yesteryears. “I don’t beg,” he said sultrily. “I don’t have to.” He closed his eyes, puckered his lips, and—
“Aughhh. Shoot,” Dingo complained, patting his person, “I don’t have any gum. Got any gum on you? Mints? Breath spray?”
Sleet gawked openly at him. He couldn’t believe what he was hearing. This was the same Mobian he’d seen use a salad fork to scratch behind his ear just hours before. Now he was worried about presentation? Once again, it was up to Sleet to take the lead.
He shot out his arms and cupped Dingo’s face with both hands, catching him in the middle of his orthodontic rambling. Impatience getting the better of him, he held him more firmly than he had in the bridal chamber, fingers pinching into and squeezing the great lummox’s cheeks. Then he pulled him forward and practically crashed his lips into Dingo’s own. A hitched squeak of surprise came from Dingo’s throat. It melted away into a soft moan and he pressed back. Sleet’s eyes fluttered before shutting.
Confections Dingo had eaten throughout the day lingered sweet on his warm, plush lips. Sleet usually didn’t care for sugary flavors, but tasting it this way lit a hunger within him. He moved one hand down to Dingo’s mane and splayed his fingers through the bristly fur there, making Dingo purr against his mouth.
One moment longer, and they broke apart, retreating back to their places.
Sleet whisked a tongue over his top lip, further smearing the gloss he’d diligently applied before the festivities. It’d been mussed by Sleet’s enthusiasm. He didn’t care. As he breathed in the echo of Apotan chocolate, a warmth beyond warmth coursed through every inch of his body. What was once a mere fluttering was now a soaring, surging murmuration. Sleet struggled to convince himself he wouldn’t float away.
“I . . . ” he said, finally finding his voice.
“I . . . ” Dingo said at the same time.
They turned to each other and chorused. “I think I might need more practice.”
Before Sleet knew it he was straddling Dingo’s lap. Practicing.
It was Sleet who officially introduced tongue. There’d been an instance on their first round where Dingo’s tongue had crossed the threshold, but, from the way it’d flailed, Sleet gathered this wasn’t on purpose. Uncoordination was Dingo’s specialty, and he didn’t strike Sleet as someone well-versed with kissing. Kissing another person and not his own biceps, that is. Sleet, while a bit out of practice, had experience to spare.
Dingo flinched a little when Sleet’s tongue met his, but he didn’t pull away. The exchange was awkward at first, like the tongue equivalent of two mannerly pedestrians trying to sidestep and juke out of one another’s path.
A few more unsure jousts, and Dingo’s contributions became something more purposeful, more heated. They fell into a rhythm, Sleet setting their pace, Dingo matching Sleet’s strokes.
With a low, rumbly growl, Dingo cupped the back of Sleet’s head and deepened the kiss. Tasting turned into devouring. Electric thrills played up Sleet’s nape as Dingo familiarized himself with the inside of his mouth. Sleet quickly discovered Dingo was more skilled with his tongue than he’d let on. Broader and sloppier than Sleet’s own, it teased all the right areas in record time. Well-saturated smacking, sucking, and lapping filled the elevator’s space. Kissing someone with jowls and an underbite would never be a tidy experience. After all the perfectly manicured pomp and circumstance of the gala, a bit of disorder was appreciated.
There was a certain danger inherent to allowing someone with four-inch tusks to suck your face, and it was that danger that made everything all the more intoxicating. Every now and again, the tips of Dingo’s teeth would catch on and nip Sleet’s lips, stealing a needy sound from him. The peaks grazed pleasantly against his skin.
Thin hands roved down the swell of Dingo’s chest, trailing, unhurried, savoring, until they found purchase around his waist. Sleet squeezed him covetously. Getting back to their quarters was only the vaguest of memories now. Here, in the safety of the dark, he felt truly free for the first time in what felt like ages. And by the Gaias, Sleet was going to make it last.
So he realized too late that he didn’t just feel like he was ascending. He was.
The elevator chime went unheard. It was the draft and the bitter industrial odor it carried that made Sleet freeze on the spot. A round shape loomed large in the open doorway.
He panicked, hands leaving Dingo’s belt.
THUD!
The janitorbot dropped backward. It spasmed twice, electricity jumping from its chassis, before going still and giving an expiring bwoooo. Its lights flickered off.
Sleet released a tense breath before he lowered his gun. While the oil pool spread, he cursed and ran a hand over his face. That must’ve been the third janitorbot this week. He cut a look over at Dingo, who was giggling. Sleet expected him to make some remark about property damage. Instead, the mutant was too kiss-delirious to even notice the smoking husk inches away from him, head and tongue lolled in a blissful, trance-like manner. If not for said smoking husk, Sleet might have reveled in knowing he still had the it factor.
“And now,” Sleet grabbed him by the skin of his chest and pulled, bringing Dingo to his feet with relative ease and snapping him from his daze, “we practice fleeing the scene!”
“Lift might be stuck a while,” Dingo said, jabbing Sleet playfully with an elbow. “Night’s still young.”
Words: 3,700
Characters: Sleet and Dingo, Robotnik mentions
Pairing: Sleet × Dingo
A/N: rated PG-13 - steamy furry makeout sesh
An unexpected sequel to Dancing Fool. Before I get anyone’s hopes up, I must preface: although this event will have aftershocks down the line, it does not mean their relationship is official. Sleet is a messy, messy, denial-ridden individual. His future decisions—well, mine really—may disappoint readers. His walls have cracked, but he’s not quite yet over himself to allow them all the way down.
Fool Squared
True to his word, Dingo minded his manners during the gala. There’d been a few small setbacks, such as the instance when he laid into the freckle-faced parvenu who accidentally scuffed Sleet’s shoe, but those could be forgiven. His eagerness to lay into anyone who so much as looked at Sleet funny was a trait none of the other plus ones possessed. In that respect, having Dingo on his arm made Sleet feel special, superior. Treasured, the way he deserved.
It also got his stomach all fluttery more times than he would’ve liked. He had to make a conscious effort to keep from smiling like some gormless pup on their first date. He couldn’t fault himself fully for his distraction. Dingo cleaned up nicely, and there was a sort of innate la belle et le bete romanticism to the pair they made.
Pesky enteric butterflies aside, Sleet couldn’t have asked for a better soirée: Robotnik had no notable criticisms; the aristocrats left no doubt of their continued loyalty to the empire; and no Freedom Fighter rabble rousers showed up and caused trouble.
There was just this one thing. This one, teeny, infinitesimal thing that gnawed away at Sleet’s brain.
The dance he and Dingo had, while not perfect, was one to remember. There were no spools on the floor to trip Dingo up and foil the angel lift—a move unique to their arrangement, one that none of the bluebloods could dare to compete with. Up there, he felt on top of the world.
Sleet’s feet returned to the ground. The live orchestration hushed.
And then everyone around them shared a chaste kiss.
Instead of a kiss, Sleet and Dingo shared a very long, very awkward, searching stare, like they were both trying to commit every strand of fur on their faces to memory.
So far as Sleet understood, partner dances weren’t inherently romantic. There’d been no indication this ball was to be so amorous in nature. Perhaps this detail conveniently slipped Robotnik’s mind. Sometimes he treated them more like playthings and less like foot soldiers, Sleet especially. It wouldn’t be entirely out of character for him to try his nerves just for kicks. There was a rumor going around that some among the imperial ranks were betting on how long it’d take for Sleet to “fold”.
He had doubts this folding in question had anything to do with leaving the empire . . .
Tonight’s gala sponsor had an affinity for the olden days greater than the average aristocrat. The most giving ratepayers, as well as the Emperor and his right hands, were to take part in and be spoiled with an extravagant horse-drawn procession. Spoiled isn’t the word, Sleet thought. The horses weren’t roboticized, making them smelly and loathesome, and the coachmen drove at a snail’s pace. It was all so antiquated. Naturally, Sleet and Dingo rode together.
The wolf watched his seatmate from the corner of a reproving eye. Just look at him. He doesn’t even realize what he’s done. No idea of the trouble he’s wrought.
Dingo was, like so often, off in his own little world. He’d busied himself with repeatedly, flagrantly, licking his chops and overexcercising his jaw.
“What on Mobius are you doing?” he asked when he couldn’t bear the noise anymore, taking his head out of his hand and facing Dingo.
“Caramel,” Dingo answered after much continued struggle. He prodded at the roof of his mouth with his tongue. “Rehlly gudd cayturming. Etsh stumk. Qualty stumf!”
“Stop it. You’re going to get it on the upholstery.” The command hardly carried any bite, perfunctory and bored. He hadn’t the energy to bother saving face. “Robotnik’ll punish the both of us if you keep damaging his property.”
A growl pealed out from Dingo’s throat. “Let ‘im try,” he grumbled darkly, cracking his knuckles. Suddenly the caramel wasn’t an issue anymore. In typical Dingo fashion, he was still convinced they could take Robotnik down. He hated being told the odds. Bold, if not stupid. With Dingo that line was often blurred.
Sleet wasn’t willing to risk such a brazen assault. Dingo was strong, but did he have the stamina to take on armies of SWATbots? And who knew what other war machines Robotnik had in his repertoire? They weren’t privy to everything His Baldness was up to.
“It’s still early days,” Sleet reminded. The pay was good. The power was great. Until those wells ran dry, he was content kowtowing. Sleet returned his attention to the window. “Save that energy for the hedgehogs.”
Dingo voiced his frustration with a snorting grunt, but wisely dropped the subject. He went quiet.
Too quiet.
Sleet, feeling Dingo’s eyes on him, steeled himself for the inevitable. It came soon enough.
“You okay, Sleet?”
Sleet didn’t turn to look at him. “I’m fine. Just tired.”
“Why don’t you sleep?” Dingo asked in that hopeless, guileless way of his. “If there’s an attack, I’ll protect ya.” Sleet saw Dingo’s reflection snap to attention and assume a soldierly air. “Nothin’ gets past me.”
Sleet could readily attest otherwise. “It’s a different type of tired.”
“Oh. Well . . . is there anything I can do about it?”
“Not likely,” Sleet said with a finality, eager to drop the conversation. He shifted away from the window and pointed at Dingo’s tuxedo, a welcome opportunity to change the topic. “Why are you still wearing that?”
Dingo gazed down at himself. “Oh. Huh.” He scratched his head before admitting. “I don’t know.”
Sleet quietly scoffed. Dingo had spent all that time stalling and fretting over the suit only to completely forget he was wearing it.
“It is kinda irritatin’ now that you mention it.” He began undressing, throwing off his suit jacket, not so much unbuttoning his shirt as he was ripping it open. They both cringed at the sound of stitches popping, Dingo stopping after every tear to flash Sleet an apologetic look. Several oops, sorries, and my bads later, he was free from his tux. His nostrils flared wide as he took a huge breath in. Exhaling even bigger, Dingo sank into the cushion and stretched his legs apart in a most ungentlemanly manner. “Oh yeahhh. That’s heaps better. Thanks, Sleet. You’re a lifesaver.”
“Of c-course.” Heat flooded Sleet’s face. He wished he hadn’t mentioned anything at all.
It was going to be a long carriage ride.
“So, did you pick up any hot goss?”
“Hm? Oh, uh, no.”
“I think Lady Guinevere’s preggers. Probably Sir Whiskerton’s.”
“Mhm.”
“Gonna be one ugly baby, hah!”
Sleet replied with a noncommittal mumble, barely parting his mouth. He hastened his pace through the fortress halls. Getting back to base hadn’t given him the relief he had hoped for. Perhaps once he was in bed then. Then he’d stop putting so much thought into something so trivial. Since when did he care about fitting in with the crowd? He was being silly. Bounty hunters weren’t silly, and they didn’t dwell on the past.
Dingo was getting better at realizing when he’d been left behind. It wasn’t long before he caught up. The one-sided conversation turned from ugly babies to scolding Lady Agitha for using her purse to steal the shrimp appetizers. Not because it was selfish and gross, he made sure to emphasize, but because if he did the same he’d get in trouble for it.
On a better day, Sleet would have thought it laudable, maybe even a little sweet, of him to try and engage with his interests. But since Sleet hadn't had the chance to do any eavesdropping himself, too distracted in his thoughts, it just felt like salt in the wound.
Two SWATbots on guard duty saluted them as they entered the elevator lobby. While Sleet fought with a button that didn’t want to be pushed in, Dingo asked the sentinels what they thought about Agitha’s shrimp purse. SWATbots were not conversationalists. Still, Dingo somehow took their dead silence as confirmation that he was right. The sticky button relented at last, and shortly after the doors granted them ingress.
The fortress had several levels. Robotnik had bestowed them a space on one of the uppermost floors. It was a boon he’d promised, one he’d actually delivered on. As emperor, his quarters were obviously more lavish, but for two scoundrelly bounty hunters who’d never had reliable room and board before it was a penthouse.
“Maybe I should get a purse,” Dingo wondered aloud after Sleet punched in the button to their floor.
Sleet closed his eyes, sighing quietly. Soon, he’d have solitude. He tried tunneling his thoughts on that, imagining his bed, velvet slippers, and luxury dressing gown. He thought of his overnight face mask and the cool, crisp smell of cucumbers.
The elevator jerked to a halt, rattling Sleet out of his forced distractions. Turbulence in the lift was unusual, but not altogether unexpected. Robotnik was lousy with handling the fortress’ upkeep. Sleet didn’t dare bring this to his attention. Every time he suggested something he always ended up worse for it. The only time the building saw improvements was after a breach from Freedom Fighters. They had a knack for sneaking inside like rats.
No matter, Sleet decided. The elevator would start up again, and he would be on his merry way.
Then the lights winked out.
“Is that a new feature?” asked Dingo.
Sleet flexed his claws anxiously. “Give it time,” he said, more to himself than to Dingo.
Time was given. The lights didn’t return.
Groaning, Sleet clapped his hand to his brow. “Oh, fan-tastic. Great, just great. Just what I needed.”
“Really? You like being stuck in a box and plunged into darkness? It kinda gives me the heebie-jeebies . . .” Dingo said with a shudder. He pressed close to Sleet for protection.
“You can see in the dark,” Sleet groused. They both could, but Dingo’s night vision far outpaced Sleet’s. Seeing in the dark was one of the few things Dingo was better at.
“Spiders like the dark,” Dingo said meekly, barely above a whisper, as if he was afraid just mentioning spiders would summon a whole swarm of them.
Sleet didn’t even bother rolling his eyes. He shoved Dingo off and began pacing. “Agh! That cheapskate! Robotnik has all the riches in the world and can’t bear to spare it on basic facilities! Some emperor.”
“Oo, I know!” Dingo blurted suddenly and approached the doors. “I’ll rip open th—”
“No! Have you lost what little mind you have? That’s Robotnik’s property!”
“Heh, so?”
“So he’ll get mad! We might lose our benefits, o-or worse!”
“Rrrright, right,” said Dingo, obviously still considering property damage. A slow, dragging scritch-scratching followed. Him rubbing his chin, Sleet recognized. “Hm. Ya think I should punch the keypad instead?”
“No! No punching! No ripping or tearing or gouging or any other form of violence!”
“What about—”
“Biting is included in ripping and tearing, Dingo.”
“So we’re just stuck here?”
“For the time being,” Sleet sat against the wall. “Unless you have any better ideas.” There were worse elevators to get stuck in. Because of the size and weight of SWATbots and other members of Robotnik’s robotic retinue who popped in and out the building, the fortress accommodated Dingo’s unconventional frame well, so Sleet didn’t have to worry about jockeying for room.
Dingo took a sharp intake of air, as if about to raise a suggestion, then stopped. He did this two more times before finally accepting defeat and taking a seat beside Sleet. “Good thing we’re together!” he chirped. Even in this darkness, Dingo’s grin was clear as day.
Sleet crossed his legs, propped his head on one hand, and sulked. They were right back where they started: stuck.
No amount of meditation on cucumbers or opulent accessories quell that annoyance gnawing at his brain. What once was a dull ache had flared into a pressure that refused to be ignored. His emotions weighed on him with the heaviness of something material, as though a big alpha guivre had chosen his head as its perch.
“We can play Twenty Questions, or Would You Rather, or—”
“Why didn’t you kiss me?” The words were out of Sleet’s mouth before his mind had time to catch up. He didn’t backtrack though. He didn’t rush to claim he’d misspoke, didn’t stammer through a half-baked excuse. He let the question loom. It was a question worth asking, wasn’t it?
Dingo audibly swallowed. “Er, I don’t think I know that game,” he said through nervous chuckles.
“At the gala,” Sleet pressed. “At the end of the dance, everyone kissed. Everyone but us.”
“My aunts always told me that just cause everyone else is doin’ something, doesn’t mean I should. Though they never did say anything about kissing.” Dingo paused and tilted his head. “Was always about jumping off bridges for some reason. Kinda weird now that I think about it. We didn’t even have a lotta bridges where we lived.”
“But you literally jump off bridges all the time,” Sleet argued. “Why heed that advice now?”
“Not all the time. I mostly jump off buildings or cliffs. So it’s like . . . quarterly or something. I reckon I jump outta things more.”
“That’s not the point,” Sleet said tersely. “You made us look foolish.”
“Well,” said Dingo, “why didn’t you kiss me?” As he said this, he pointed at Sleet, then himself.
Taken by surprise, Sleet narrowly choked on his own saliva. “I-I was the lead!” He tempered his voice before he continued explaining. “You were the follow. The follow initiates.”
“Mm, that doesn’t sound right.”
“You’re a novice,” Sleet said, flustered. “It wouldn’t sound right to you.” He grumbled irritable nothings beneath his breath. Even he wasn’t quite sure what he was angry about anymore, but he was too far in to give up now.
“I did want to kiss you,” Dingo replied, and Sleet’s mutterings came to a crashing halt. The wolf whipped his head towards him. Any faster and his neck might’ve snapped. “But I felt like I’d be pushin’ it. Your comfort levels, I mean. Wasn’t something we rehearsed. Wouldn’t be proper.”
“Oh,” Sleet said, blinking. After a long pause, he shifted uncomfortably, feeling like the biggest fool to ever grace the planet. Sleet had laid his personal boundaries in thick from the very start of their partnership. It only made sense for Dingo to be reluctant.
Why was he blaming him anyway? Because it was easy? Because it was comfortable? There hadn’t been anything stopping him from initiating instead. What’d he been so afraid of? Everyone already thought they were an item, and their lips had technically touched before.
Sighing, Sleet rubbed along the bridge of his snout—a sort of habit he’d developed whenever nervous or stressed. Whether this genuinely calmed him or not was debatable, but a habit was a habit. “I’m sorry. That was a stupid question.”
Dingo seemed struck by this admission. He was quiet for a moment, as if he’d not heard Sleet and was weighing how to respond without revealing so, before saying, “Oh, uh, no worries. I ask stupid questions plenty.”
“I just felt . . . out-of-place. I don’t need validation from aristocrats, of course, I never want to be one of them, but . . . ” Sleet sighed again and shook his head. “It’s hard to explain. Forget it.” That was enough of that.
For a while, neither of them spoke up again. Sleet was listening for any signs of rescue when Dingo addressed him out of the blue. He thought he’d follow up with another idea that would have to be promptly shut down. But Dingo wasn’t done surprising him.
“Night’s still young.”
Sleet’s ear twitched. “What?”
“Lift might be stuck a while,” Dingo said, jabbing Sleet playfully with an elbow. “Night’s still young.” He paused. “A-am I not sayin’ that right? Speech figures are tricky.”
Sleet squinted. “What are you getting at?” Is he suggesting what I think he’s suggesting?
“Kissing.” Sleet’s stomach flipped. “We could practice. Y’know, for the next go round. Maybe I can help your nerves the way you helped mine before the dance.”
“My nerves are fine,” Sleet said. It was a claim that wasn’t nearly as convincing as he’d hoped; his voice shook and threatened to break. He cleared his throat, speaking only when he was sure he wouldn’t embarrass himself anymore than he already had. “But since you're offering, yes, I’d appreciate that very much.” Dingo offered his hands. Sleet went to accept them, then hesitated. “Just practice?”
“Just practice,” Dingo affirmed. A sly smile entered his voice. “Unless you beg for more.” He made a flirty, faux snarly noise that was equal parts ridiculous and endearing.
Sleet snorted his amusement. Rising to Dingo’s challenge, he called upon his seduction spy jobs from yesteryears. “I don’t beg,” he said sultrily. “I don’t have to.” He closed his eyes, puckered his lips, and—
“Aughhh. Shoot,” Dingo complained, patting his person, “I don’t have any gum. Got any gum on you? Mints? Breath spray?”
Sleet gawked openly at him. He couldn’t believe what he was hearing. This was the same Mobian he’d seen use a salad fork to scratch behind his ear just hours before. Now he was worried about presentation? Once again, it was up to Sleet to take the lead.
He shot out his arms and cupped Dingo’s face with both hands, catching him in the middle of his orthodontic rambling. Impatience getting the better of him, he held him more firmly than he had in the bridal chamber, fingers pinching into and squeezing the great lummox’s cheeks. Then he pulled him forward and practically crashed his lips into Dingo’s own. A hitched squeak of surprise came from Dingo’s throat. It melted away into a soft moan and he pressed back. Sleet’s eyes fluttered before shutting.
Confections Dingo had eaten throughout the day lingered sweet on his warm, plush lips. Sleet usually didn’t care for sugary flavors, but tasting it this way lit a hunger within him. He moved one hand down to Dingo’s mane and splayed his fingers through the bristly fur there, making Dingo purr against his mouth.
One moment longer, and they broke apart, retreating back to their places.
Sleet whisked a tongue over his top lip, further smearing the gloss he’d diligently applied before the festivities. It’d been mussed by Sleet’s enthusiasm. He didn’t care. As he breathed in the echo of Apotan chocolate, a warmth beyond warmth coursed through every inch of his body. What was once a mere fluttering was now a soaring, surging murmuration. Sleet struggled to convince himself he wouldn’t float away.
“I . . . ” he said, finally finding his voice.
“I . . . ” Dingo said at the same time.
They turned to each other and chorused. “I think I might need more practice.”
Before Sleet knew it he was straddling Dingo’s lap. Practicing.
It was Sleet who officially introduced tongue. There’d been an instance on their first round where Dingo’s tongue had crossed the threshold, but, from the way it’d flailed, Sleet gathered this wasn’t on purpose. Uncoordination was Dingo’s specialty, and he didn’t strike Sleet as someone well-versed with kissing. Kissing another person and not his own biceps, that is. Sleet, while a bit out of practice, had experience to spare.
Dingo flinched a little when Sleet’s tongue met his, but he didn’t pull away. The exchange was awkward at first, like the tongue equivalent of two mannerly pedestrians trying to sidestep and juke out of one another’s path.
A few more unsure jousts, and Dingo’s contributions became something more purposeful, more heated. They fell into a rhythm, Sleet setting their pace, Dingo matching Sleet’s strokes.
With a low, rumbly growl, Dingo cupped the back of Sleet’s head and deepened the kiss. Tasting turned into devouring. Electric thrills played up Sleet’s nape as Dingo familiarized himself with the inside of his mouth. Sleet quickly discovered Dingo was more skilled with his tongue than he’d let on. Broader and sloppier than Sleet’s own, it teased all the right areas in record time. Well-saturated smacking, sucking, and lapping filled the elevator’s space. Kissing someone with jowls and an underbite would never be a tidy experience. After all the perfectly manicured pomp and circumstance of the gala, a bit of disorder was appreciated.
There was a certain danger inherent to allowing someone with four-inch tusks to suck your face, and it was that danger that made everything all the more intoxicating. Every now and again, the tips of Dingo’s teeth would catch on and nip Sleet’s lips, stealing a needy sound from him. The peaks grazed pleasantly against his skin.
Thin hands roved down the swell of Dingo’s chest, trailing, unhurried, savoring, until they found purchase around his waist. Sleet squeezed him covetously. Getting back to their quarters was only the vaguest of memories now. Here, in the safety of the dark, he felt truly free for the first time in what felt like ages. And by the Gaias, Sleet was going to make it last.
So he realized too late that he didn’t just feel like he was ascending. He was.
The elevator chime went unheard. It was the draft and the bitter industrial odor it carried that made Sleet freeze on the spot. A round shape loomed large in the open doorway.
He panicked, hands leaving Dingo’s belt.
THUD!
The janitorbot dropped backward. It spasmed twice, electricity jumping from its chassis, before going still and giving an expiring bwoooo. Its lights flickered off.
Sleet released a tense breath before he lowered his gun. While the oil pool spread, he cursed and ran a hand over his face. That must’ve been the third janitorbot this week. He cut a look over at Dingo, who was giggling. Sleet expected him to make some remark about property damage. Instead, the mutant was too kiss-delirious to even notice the smoking husk inches away from him, head and tongue lolled in a blissful, trance-like manner. If not for said smoking husk, Sleet might have reveled in knowing he still had the it factor.
“And now,” Sleet grabbed him by the skin of his chest and pulled, bringing Dingo to his feet with relative ease and snapping him from his daze, “we practice fleeing the scene!”
- Ahsoka should have hit the bricks. I felt her story wrapped up nicely in Twilight of the Apprentice (Part 2), tragic as it was.
- Zeb and Kallus’ relationship is rushed, and it almost feels like Filoni backpedaled the whole “being responsible for and actively boasting about the near-extermination of a race” because David Oyelowo’s performance was too good to waste on an Imp jobber. If redemption and Kallus not being as involved in Lasan’s destruction as he once claimed was always in the cards, I needed to see more of him earning that redemption. I needed to see more about the Lasat in general honestly, though a peek at life on Lasan and Lira San was probably absent for budget purposes.
