For Old Times' Sake

The recycled air of the Great Fox was always a little too sterile, a little too perfect. It tasted of metal and humming machinery and the ghost of a thousand shared meals. But tonight, as Fox McCloud padded down the quiet corridor, that sterile air felt different. It felt charged, heavy with a memory that had been simmering for years, hidden beneath layers of professionalism, friendship, and the shared trauma of battle.
His bare feet made no sound on the cool plating of the floor. He’d left his flight suit in a heap on the floor of his own quarters, the fabric still smelling faintly of coolant and sweat from the day’s simulation. Now he wore only a thin gray tank top and a pair of loose-fitting shorts, a uniform meant for sleeping, not for the nervous, electric energy that was making his tail twitch and his heart thud a restless rhythm against his ribs.
He paused outside Slippy's door, a simple gray panel like all the others, unremarkable. But behind it, Fox knew, was something more. Something he’d only ever glimpsed once, a chaotic, primal flash of truth beneath Slippy’s usual nervous, amiable exterior.
The memory hit him then, not like a gentle wave but like a sudden jolt to the system, as vivid and immediate as if it were happening right now. They’d been at the Cornerian Flight Academy, years ago, both of them still raw and unpolished, still figuring out who they were. They’d snuck a bottle of something cheap and potent into the dorms, some vile amber liquid that burned all the way down. They’d been laughing, leaning into each other, the room spinning just a little. Slippy’s glasses were crooked on his snout, and he’d been talking in a loud, confident slur about some new engine schematic, his webbed hands gesticulating wildly in the air.
And then, somehow, they were kissing. It was clumsy, all teeth and inexperience, the taste of cheap booze and the strange, slightly salty flavor of a toad’s skin. Fox remembered the surprising strength in Slippy’s grip, the way those webbed hands had felt on the back of his neck, pulling him closer. He remembered the clumsy fumbling with clothes, the tumble onto the narrow cot, the heat of Slippy’s body against his, slick and unfamiliar.
The sex itself had been a frantic, desperate mess. A tangle of limbs and mismatched parts, a desperate seeking of friction and warmth. And then, in the middle of it all, when Slippy had been on top of him, panting, his eyes wide and unfocused behind those smudged lenses, it had happened.
A sudden, sharp pressure against Fox’s stomach, followed by a wet, squelching sound. A wave of intense, immediate, and utterly shocking warmth had spread across Fox’s lower body. He’d frozen, his mind trying to catch up, to process the sensation. It wasn’t unpleasant. It was… visceral. Real. So much more real than the simulated encounters and sanitized fantasies he’d entertained.
Slippy had stopped moving, a look of pure, unadulterated horror dawning on his face. "Oh gods, Fox, I— I’m so sorry, I couldn’t hold it, the booze—"
But Fox hadn't wanted an apology. He’d felt a surge of something dark and thrilling coil in his gut, something potent and forbidden. The sheer pungency of it, the deep, earthy smell, the warm, yielding weight of it… it was a violation, a degradation, and in that moment, it was the most erotic thing he had ever experienced. He’d reached down, not to push Slippy away, but to pull him closer, to feel the mess spreading between them, to ground himself in its filth.
His reaction had confused Slippy, but the toad, ever the pragmatist, had simply rolled with the moment, a flicker of something new and hungry in his eyes.
Back in the silent corridor of the Great Fox, Fox felt a flush of heat creep up his neck. His cock was hard, straining against the thin fabric of his shorts, a living testament to the power of that long-ago night. All these years, he’d buried it, filed it away as a weird, one-time anomaly. But now, with the quiet hum of the ship around him, it was all he could think about. He wanted it again. No, he needed it. He needed that feeling of utter defilement, the complete surrender to something primal and base.
He raised a hand, his knuckles hovering just over the chime panel. His throat was dry. This was Slippy. His friend. His wingman. The brilliant, if sometimes flustered, engineer who kept them all flying. To ask this… it was insane. It was a risk that could shatter everything.
But the memory of that warmth, that smell, that profound and shocking release… it was a siren song, and he was helpless to resist.
He pressed the chime.
A moment of silence, then a cheerful, slightly tinny voice came through the speaker. "Come on in, Fox! Door's open."
The door slid aside with a soft whoosh, revealing Slippy’s domain. It was exactly as Fox expected it to be: a chaotic wonderland of technology. Wires snaked across the floor like metallic vines, connecting half-dismantled gadgets to diagnostic screens that flickered with lines of code. The air was thick with the scent of solder and hot metal, a smell Fox usually associated with comfort and safety. But tonight, it was just the backdrop.
Slippy was hunched over a workbench, a pair of magnifying goggles pushed up onto his forehead. He was wearing a stained jumpsuit, a smudge of grease on one of his cheek pads. He turned, a wide, welcoming smile on his face, which faltered slightly when he saw the look on Fox’s face.
"Whoa, buddy. You look like you've seen a ghost. Or maybe a space amoeba. Those things are nasty." He pulled off the goggles, setting them down gently. "Everything okay?"
Fox couldn't find the words. He stepped into the room, the door sliding shut behind him, sealing them in. He just stood there, his tail giving a slow, nervous swish behind him.
Slippy’s smile faded completely, replaced by an expression of genuine concern. He hopped off his stool and waddled closer, his webbed feet making soft sounds on the floor. "Fox? Seriously. What's wrong? Did Pepper call? Are we in trouble again?"
Fox finally found his voice, but it was a rough, cracked thing. "Slippy… do you… do you remember that night at the academy?"
Slippy blinked, his large, golden eyes widening slightly. A faint green tinge rose on his cheeks. "The… the night with the… uh… the engine fuel we were drinking?" He looked down, fidgeting with a loose wire on the floor. "Yeah. I… I remember."
"We were drunk," Fox continued, his voice gaining a little strength. "And we… you know."
"Yeah," Slippy said, his voice barely a whisper. He wouldn't meet Fox's gaze. "I'm… I'm still so sorry about that, Fox. I don't know what happened. I lost control. It was disgusting. I wouldn't blame you if you hated me for it."
That was the opening. The moment of truth. Fox took a deep breath, the recycled air of the room tasting suddenly of possibility.
"I don't hate you for it, Slippy," he said, his tone steady, deliberate. "In fact… that’s why I’m here."
Slippy finally looked up, confusion and apprehension warring in his expression. "What do you mean?"
Fox’s gaze was intense, pinning the toad in place. He took another step forward, closing the distance between them. His erection was obvious now, a thick ridge straining the front of his shorts. He didn't try to hide it.
"I mean," Fox said, his voice dropping to a low, husky murmur, "that it was the hottest thing that's ever happened to me. And I want you to do it again. Right now."
The silence in the room was absolute, broken only by the faint hum of a distant cooling fan. Slippy’s jaw hung slack, his mind clearly struggling to process the words. He stared at Fox, then down at the obvious bulge in his shorts, then back up to Fox’s face. The confusion was slowly, visibly being replaced by something else. A flicker of understanding, then a spark of surprise, and then, something darker. Something predatory. A slow, sly grin spread across Slippy's face, a grin Fox had never seen before. It transformed him from the nervous, eager-to-please engineer into something else entirely.
"Is that so, *Foxy*?" Slippy's voice was different too. The usual high-pitched, rapid-fire cadence was gone, replaced by a low, confident drawl that sent a shiver down Fox’s spine. "You liked it, huh? Liked when I made a mess of you?"
Fox could only nod, his throat tight, his heart pounding.
Slippy stepped forward, closing the last inch of space between them. He was shorter, but in that moment, he seemed to tower over Fox. He reached out with one webbed hand and placed it flat on Fox’s chest, right over his racing heart. The contact was electric.
"Well, well," Slippy purred, leaning in closer, his breath warm and strangely sweet against Fox’s ear. "The great hero of the Lylat system, the ace pilot… wants to be my personal toilet." He let out a low, throaty chuckle that vibrated through Fox’s entire body. "Who would have guessed? I knew there was something different about you that night. I saw the look in your eyes. The look of a pig who'd just found his trough."
Fox moaned softly, a sound of pure, unadulterated need. He was completely under Slippy’s spell, helpless to do anything but submit.
Slippy’s other hand came up and tangled in the fur at the back of Fox’s neck, his grip firm and possessive. "On your knees, McCloud," he commanded, his voice leaving no room for argument. "Right here. On the floor."
Fox dropped instantly, his knees hitting the hard metal floor with a dull thud. He looked up at Slippy, his eyes wide with worship and anticipation. This was it. The moment he had been craving for a decade.
"Good boy," Slippy cooed, releasing his grip on Fox's neck to pat him condescendingly on the head. "Now, you asked for this. So you're going to get exactly what you want." He began to slowly, theatrically, unzip the front of his grease-stained jumpsuit. The sound of the teeth parting was impossibly loud in the quiet room. "I've been saving up for you, Foxy. Had a big lunch of protein paste and nutrient gunk. Very high fiber. I think you'll be… impressed."
He peeled the top of the jumpsuit down, revealing his pale, slightly damp, toad-like chest and belly. He shuffled forward, positioning himself directly over Fox’s upturned face. The familiar, earthy scent of Slippy’s body, mixed with the metallic tang of the workshop, filled Fox's lungs. He closed his eyes, his mouth open, his whole body trembling with anticipation.
"You're going to eat it all," Slippy said, his voice a harsh whisper. "You're going to wear it, and you're going to swallow it. And you're going to thank me for it. Do you understand?"
"Yes," Fox breathed, the word a prayer. "Yes, Slippy. Please."
Slippy grunted, a low, guttural sound of effort. Fox felt the muscles in Slippy's thighs tense against his shoulders. And then, it began.
A soft, wet fart escaped first, hot and fragrant, the smell immediately intense and overwhelmingly real. Fox inhaled deeply, the primal scent going straight to his head like the strongest drug in the galaxy. His cock throbbed painfully against the confinement of his shorts.
Then came the pressure. A firm, insistent pressure against his lips. He yielded immediately, opening his mouth wide. The first piece of Slippy’s shit slid out, hot and impossibly solid, its texture firm yet yielding against Fox’s tongue. The taste was explosive—a complex, bitter, earthy flavor that was utterly vile and yet, to Fox, the most exquisite delicacy he had ever known. It coated his tongue, filled his senses, and he groaned in sheer, unadulterated bliss.
But it was just the beginning. Slippy, it turned out, had not been exaggerating. A second, larger log followed the first, then a third. They were thick, heavy, and seemingly endless. They began to pile up in Fox’s mouth faster than he could swallow, forcing him to chew, to mash the filth between his teeth. The texture was incredible, a mix of firm chunks and softer, creamier mush. He could feel it smearing across his cheeks, dripping down his chin, hot and wet.
Slippy sighed above him, a sound of profound relief and satisfaction. "Oh, yeah," he moaned, his voice thick with pleasure. "Take it, Fox. Take all of it. You look so good like that. So much better than when you're playing the big hero. This is your real purpose, isn't it? Being my filthy little shit-eater."
Fox tried to answer, to agree, but he could only manage a muffled gurgle as he continued to desperately swallow. The sheer volume of it was astonishing. Slippy was a machine, a veritable factory of filth, and Fox was the grateful receptacle. He could feel the warm, soft mass starting to cover his face, a mask of pure degradation. It got in his ears, in his fur, matting it down with its slick, heavy warmth. He was being completely buried, consumed, and the feeling was more intoxicating than any victory, any praise, any drug.
Finally, with a final, strained grunt, Slippy was done. He stood there for a moment, panting, looking down at the masterpiece of depravity he had created. Fox was a mess. His face was completely obscured, a mountain of brown, soft shit. Only the tip of his black nose and a tuft of his red fur were visible. He was breathing heavily through it, the scent absolute and all-consuming.
Slippy stepped back, a triumphant, cruel smile on his face. He reached down and scooped up a glob of the mess from Fox’s cheek. "Not done yet," he said, and he smeared it across Fox's tank top, then down his chest, marking him. "There. Now you smell right. Now you look right."
He looked down at Fox's shorts, at the massive, dark wet spot where pre-cum had soaked through the fabric. "Looks like someone enjoyed their meal," Slippy chuckled. He used the toe of his boot to nudge Fox's erection, eliciting a choked sob of pleasure from the buried pilot. "Go on, Foxy. You can touch yourself now. Make a bigger mess. You've earned it."
With a desperate cry, Fox’s hands flew to his shorts, yanking them down. His cock sprang free, rock-hard and weeping. He didn't waste a second. He wrapped a hand around himself, slick with sweat and excitement, and began to pump with a frantic, desperate rhythm. The sensation of the shit on his face, the smell, the taste still coating his tongue, the sound of Slippy’s cruel, satisfied laughter—it was all too much.
His whole body tensed, his back arching off the floor. He came with a strangled scream, a long, powerful eruption that shot across his chest and stomach, adding another layer of filth to the already soiled scene. He collapsed back onto the floor, panting, completely and utterly spent, a matted, filthy, gloriously happy wreck.
For a long moment, the only sounds were their mingled breaths and the hum of the ship. Fox lay there, feeling the cooling mess on his skin, a profound sense of peace settling over him. He hadn't felt this content, this *right*, in years.
He heard the soft squelch of Slippy moving. He cracked open an eye, the lid crusty with filth, and saw Slippy waddling over to a small sink in the corner of the workshop. The toad efficiently washed his hands and a small part of his lower belly, whistling a little tune as he did so, as if he’d just finished a routine bit of maintenance. He then grabbed a few clean rags and a small bottle of something that looked like industrial solvent.
He came back and stood over Fox, looking down at him with a mixture of amusement and something softer, something almost… fond.
"Wow," Slippy said, his usual chipper tone back, though laced with a new layer of confidence. "You really are a mess, Fox. I… uh… I didn't realize I had that much in me. You okay down there?"
Fox managed a weak, lopsided grin, the expression smearing shit further across his face. "Never better, Slip," he rasped, his throat raw.
Slippy crouched down, dampening one of the rags. "Here. Let me… let me get the worst of it. At least so you can see where you're going." He gently, almost tenderly, began to wipe the filth from Fox's eyes and nose. His touch was surprisingly careful, a stark contrast to the brutal dominance of moments before.
As Fox's vision cleared, he looked up at Slippy. The toad's face was a study in contradictions. There was the post-coital flush, the lingering smugness, but also the familiar, earnest concern of his oldest friend.
"So," Slippy said, concentrating on wiping a particularly stubborn bit from Fox's ear. "This is… a thing you're into. A big thing, I'm guessing."
"You have no idea," Fox murmured, leaning into Slippy's touch.
Slippy paused, looking down at him, a thoughtful expression on his face. "You know," he said slowly, a new idea dawning in his golden eyes. "With the right caloric intake and some specific digestive enzymes, I bet I could increase my output by at least forty percent. Maybe even fifty. The consistency could be manipulated, too. More fiber for density, more specific proteins for… flavor notes."
Fox felt a fresh jolt of arousal shoot through him. He stared at Slippy, at the genius engineer, the newfound dominant, the artist of filth, and he knew, with a certainty that settled deep in his bones, that this was only the beginning. "You'd… you'd do that?"
Slippy grinned, the sly, predatory grin from before returning full force. "For you, Foxy?" he said, tossing the soiled rag aside. "I'll start running the simulations tomorrow."