FSE

Furry search engine

formerly SoFurry search engine

It was a warm spring Friday night in the college town. As always, the street hummed with the gentle vibration of the night—the rhythmic thump-thunp-thump of a bass drum muffled by walls and the chatter of drunk college kids. The walkable downtown streets were illuminated by retro-chic LED streetlights designed to look like old kerosene lamps, a historic commercial district with bars, nightclubs, bistros, and art galleries.

Dylan the gargomon had a lot on his mind. His meeting with the head of the agriculture department had been less than stellar. Weighed down with constant thoughts with unyielding, anxious inertia, he had put on his cowboy hat and gone for a walk. He didn't know where, but somewhere.

He had picked the bar almost at random. The 21-year-old may as well have thrown a dart at a dartboard for how much information he had about the local hot-spots. But something about the bar's signage drew him in: a buff coyote cowboy shaped out of pink neon. His cowboy hat was pulled down, abs on full display. Had he not been so anxious, it may have made the digimon laugh.

It was quieter on the inside than he expected. Everything was illuminated in pink by the LED strips that edged the mirror behind the bar. A metal fan in the corner oscillated back and forth, but it barely seemed to move the stale and muggy air. There were a few other patrons inside, tucked into the shadows in their booths, hunched in private conversations. The music over the speakers was an old nineties country song by a female singer who at the time was a superstar but was now barely even a footnote. Dylan recognized it, but couldn't remember the name of either the artist or the song.

Awkwardly, Dylan sidled up to the bar and sat down, pulling the brim of his black cowboy hat down to shade his eyes. He unbuttoned the sleeves of his red flannel shirt, rolling them up to cuff them at the elbow, something to keep his hands moving. He wiped his palms on his khaki slacks. The bartender, a fit doberman in a tight white shirt, was at the far end of the bar, laughing and joking with another doberman clad head-to-toe in black leather. As Dylan raised his hand to get the bartender's attention, he was startled by a voice from behind.

“Hey, handsome!" a brassy alto voice said enthusiastically. “Haven't seen you around here before." There was a bit of a hint of customer-service voice, performative but sincere, and it was tinged at the edges by a slight vocal fry.

Dylan spun on the barstool, and was met with a surprising sight: another digimon. This one was a member of the gabumon family, pink leathery skin covered by a light-blue pelt with dark purple tiger stripes—a psychedelic mix of colors which gave the species its name: a psychemon. For a moment, Dylan thought the psychemon may have been an overweight woman, but his chest was too flat, his hips not curvaceous enough. Besides, there was a noticeable bulge between his legs, barely tucked into tight, low-cut denim shorts. He was wearing a black crop-top that tried to slip off of his shoulders, covered in white impact font that read “If I were a top, that would hurt my feelings". His elbows rested on the bar, his back arched slightly, his eyes half-lidded just above his confident smile.

Dylan took in all these details in a flash, time seeming to stand still. It took him a moment to realize time was still passing. He had forgotten what the other digimon had even said. “Um, sorry, what?"

His gentle smile broke into a sly grin. “The hat's cute, but aren't you a little overdressed, handsome?"

The compliment took Dylan off-guard. He looked down at his outfit, as if to make sure it was what he thought it was. Still a red flannel button up, still khaki slacks. He pushed back the brim of his hat. “Cute?" he shook his head. “You ain't talking to me, are ya?"

The strange digimon looked over one shoulder and then the other, a dramatic show of looking around. “I don't see any other hot guys in cowboy hats around here."

Dylan laughed. He couldn't help it. Someone, somewhere, must be playing an elaborate prank on him.

As his laughing fit began to die down, the psychemon waved to the bartender. “Hey! Two watermelon daiquiris on my tab!"

Dylan cast him a skeptical look. “The hell is a duh-cari?"

The strange digimon gave him an even more incredulous look back. “You've never heard of a daiquiri before?" The psychemon pulled himself up on the barstool next to Dylan, the old metal groaning beneath the weight of his heavy backside. “Okay, now I HAVE to know more about you. What's your name?"

Dylan extended his hand in an amicable handshake. “Dylan."

The psychemon took his hand, and Dylan was struck by its soft touch matched with its firm grip. “Xander."

As the handshake released, Dylan's hand felt strangely cold, imprinted with the memory of that warm, soft hand. He met Xander's eyes, an uncannily vibrant green. They looked like they were glowing behind those half-lidded, suggestive eyes.

The gentle CLINK of glass snapped him back to reality. Two cocktail glasses filled with a frozen, bright candy-pink slush. A toothpick skewered a chunk of watermelon through and floated on top of the slush.

“Ah, thanks hun!" Xander said to the doberman bartender, who simply nodded before returning to the far end of the bar. The pink digimon picked up the daiquiri, the same color as him, and sipped on the straw.

“Mm!" he said, picking out the watermelon triangle off the toothpick and tossing it into his mouth, eating it in a single chomp.

Dylan looked at the drink suspiciously, picking it up and sniffing it, but only catching a hint of alcohol and artificial candy sweetness. “I don't know. This drink looks a little… fruity."

Xander laughed, a cute little giggle that crinkled the corners of his eyes. “Tryyyyy it," he urged in a playful sing-song. “You'll like it, I promise."

Dylan rolled his eyes and picked up the drink. He had never held a cocktail glass before, and he checked himself to make sure he didn't hold it too effeminately. He took a small sip from the straw. The flavor hit his tongue like an electric shock, sour watermelon followed by a very mild aftertaste of alcohol. The texture was like the frozen drinks they sold at the gas station, only slightly melted, cool and refreshing with a few small chunks of ice just big enough to chew on.

“Whoa, that's amazing!" he said in breathless awe. “You weren't kiddin'!" He took an ambitious sip, the aftertaste of alcohol even stronger. “How'd ya know I'd like this so much?"

Xander shrugged. “I've got an intuition for that sort of thing."

With the alcohol as a social lubricant, the conversation flowed easily. Dylan talked about school, though he resisted the urge to complain too much. As his drink became more shallow, the urge became stronger. He sometimes forgot that the drink even had alcohol in it. After the first few sips, the burning aftertaste blended into the background, and all that was left was the sweet and sour flavor of artificial watermelon. By the time he had realized he needed to pace himself, his cheeks felt hot and his tongue felt loose. For the first time in what felt like years, he felt the corners of his mouth curl up into a smile. When Xander laughed, he laughed with his whole body, a boisterous and infectious giggle, unafraid and unashamed. Dylan felt sweaty and shaky, and the room was spinning just a little bit.

Dylan felt something warm against his hand. He looked down, and saw Xander's hand resting on top of his.

“Hey," Xander said. A single word, low and soft, but heavy with implication.

Dylan tried to be casual. He knew he should try and play it cool, pull his hand away and laugh. Brush it off, pretend it didn't happen—they could still have a fun conversation. But instead, he remained motionless. He felt Xander's thumb rub against his knuckles, he felt the softness of his palm, warm and confident—warm enough to fall into. His eyes were trained on the bar, afraid to look away, looking for an ambush. A sick feeling in his gut bubbled up as he turned to look at Xander's face, afraid to see sharp judgemental eyes. Instead, he saw a smile. Xander's eyes were still half-lidded, and there was no hint of cold judgement there, only the warmth of… something Dylan didn't want to admit to himself.

Suddenly, that warmth enveloped him. Without even realizing he had done it, he had stumbled straight into a kiss. Xander's breath was hot against his cheek, his tongue warm as it teased along his lip. He tasted even sweeter than the daiquiri.

Regaining his senses, Dylan bolted upright. “Oh god, sorry! I didn't mean to—" There was no defending it, and there was no denying it had happened. Ashamed, Dylan turned around and pulled the brim of his cowboy hat down to cover his face, which he imagined was glowing as bright red as a neon sign.

“Sorry for what?" Xander asked, and the sincerity made it worse.

Dylan shook his head. He wasn't able to answer that question. There was a lot he was sorry for, these days.

The gargomon felt something warm rest against his thigh and give it a gentle squeeze. He looked down and saw Xander's hand, warm and gentle. “I always enjoy kissing handsome boys like you."

Dylan had never been called handsome before, not like that. He froze. He imagined this is how deer in the headlights must feel—an experience so otherworldly, so dangerously beyond oneself that one cannot help but feel overwhelmed. And yet, for this strange pink digimon, it was just another day.

Dylan felt his hat tip backwards, guided by Xander's hand. The flirtatious digimon peeked under the brim into Dylan's shaded eyes, and smiled. “I think I'm gonna go to the bathroom. You wanna join me?" A casual statement followed by an unexpected invitation. The tone was clear—whatever happened in that bathroom, it would not be something Dylan would want anyone knowing about. However, it wasn't as if living his life to please others had made him happy so far.

What the hell, he thought, and stood up to follow Xander into the bathroom.

The smell of mold and urine barely had time to hit Dylan's nose before that warmth engulfed him once more. As soon as the door was shut, Xander had turned around and pressed his lips against the gargomon's. Dylan had never felt someone kiss him like this before, as if Xander had spent a week in the desert and Dylan was a tall glass of water. The feeling of being desired, it turns out, creates desire. Unsure of how to act on these feelings, Dylan awkwardly kept his hands at his sides, even as Xander's hands trailed down his chest.

Xander broke the kiss for only a moment to breathe. “Fuck, you're so fucking hot."

Dylan leaned in and pressed their lips together once more. Xander may have wanted a break, but Dylan didn't. He wanted to keep going.

Xander's arms wrapped around Dylan's neck, pulling him deeper into the kiss. His tongue slipped between Dylan's lips, and Xander let out a needy little moan of pleasure. Dylan's hands fell in the most natural place they could, gripping Xander's pear-shaped hips.Their bodies pressed against each other, Dylan could feel the heat radiating off of Xander's shorts, and each pulsing throb of Xander's growing erection against his thigh. His own erection was growing just as fast, already straining the tight crotch of his slacks.

Xander squirmed his hips. That hungry, needy desire never seemed to leave him. Reluctantly, Dylan let him pull away.

“Pent up?" Xander asked, and groped the gargomon's bulge.

Dylan squirmed at the unexpected touch. In truth, it was his first time being touched like that by another male, and the confidence of it made him shiver. “M-maybe a little."

Xander rumbled in eager pleasure, slowly easing his way down to his knees. He pressed his snout against the bulge of Dylan's slacks, and Dylan winced as his cock throbbed in painful need. He reached down and unbuckled his belt, unbuttoning his slacks before Xander stopped him. With a painful slowness, Xander reached out and unzipped his pants. The tension was still there, pressed against the fabric of his boxer-briefs, but the strain was lessened and he couldn't help but shiver.

Xander tugged those pants down. He stopped, and his eyes were fixed on that bulge. Embarrassingly, Dylan's underwear already had a damp spot. He couldn't help but feel a little self-conscious about it, an advertisement for how excited he was.

“Fuck," Xander said with an almost reverent awe, squeezing Dylan's shaft through the fabric. The chubby gargomon bucked his hip instinctively. His body was reacting on its own. In truth, he didn't know what he wanted, but whatever it was he needed it now.

Xander teased his claws around that snug waistband of those boxer-briefs before unceremoniously tugging them down. Dylan's erection flopped free from its cotton prison, plapping gently against Xander's snout.

“S-sorry," Dylan muttered automatically, but Xander didn't seem to mind. He was too busy pressing his nose against it and inhaling the scent before slipping his tongue out to taste it.

Dylan bit his lip at the surge of warmth, that tongue rolling up his length from base to tip. Those lips wrapped around Dylan's cut tip, his tongue circling the head.

It felt indulgent. Even as Dylan pressed his back against the graffiti-covered bathroom wall and let that warmth engulf him, it felt horribly greedy, gluttonous, sinful. Dylan couldn't help but place a hand on the back of Xander's head, desperate to push him further and further. He needed nothing more. It was embarrassing to need something so desperately.

But Xander followed the guidance of Dylan's hand skillfully, eagerly. In fact, as more of that cock slipped into that warm mouth, he let out a moan of pleasure deep in his throat, the vibrations of which made Dylan's cock pulse. It was tight, warm, and unending. Dylan closed his eyes, and felt as if he was falling in.

Tension spread through the gargomon's muscles, a small spasm running down his leg. His grip tightened on the back of Xander's head. Apparently, the psychemon took that as a hint that he should increase his rhythm.

“A-ah, fuck!" Dylan tried to slow him down, the sensation overwhelming him. He needed to pause, to breathe, to think, but his mind was so overloaded with sensation he could barely form thoughts, let alone words. It wasn't long before that whole muzzle was filled with every inch of Dylan's length, worked in and out at a steady pace. The experienced psychemon's chin brushed against Dylan's balls with each bob of his head. Dylan had never felt the tightness of a throat around him, the warm inviting pull as those muscles tugged against the head of his cock.

Dylan felt the shift in Xander's body first, as if he was bracing for something. It was only a moment later that Dylan realized he was reacting to the gargomon himself, his head thrown back and a hoarse moan escaping his throat. Xander grabbed his hips, tugging them forward to hold the gargomon in place as he came. It was a hot release, all at once, a bursting eruption matched with a growl of pleasure. Each throbbing pulse of his cock released more and more cum, and Dylan thought for a moment that it would never end. He had never cum like this before, with so many aftershocks rocking his body. He bucked his hips, his legs trembling. They almost buckled, but Dylan leaned back against the cool tile of the bathroom wall. He was panting, and he only just now realized he was drenched in sweat.

Xander slowly, deliberately, pulled himself off of Dylan's length. Dylan shivered as his saliva-drenched erection hit the air, feeling frigid after the warmth of Xander's insides. The psychemon pulled himself up to standing, and Dylan opened his eyes just in time to see that snout press against his own in a sudden, passionate kiss.

The salty taste of his own pleasure hit Dylan like a Dodge Ram. A part of his brain, a quiet part at the back, was disgusted. It was easy to silence as his tongue slipped into Xander's mouth, eagerly accepting his own seed as they swapped it back and forth across their tongues.

Eventually, it was time for the kiss to end. Xander pulled away, a trail of saliva and cum connecting their lips before Xander licked them, severing the string.

“Fuck, you're so hot," Xander said between panting breaths.

Dylan was baffled. “What?!" He tried to push himself up off the wall, but his knees quaked at the mere suggestion, so he kept his back against the tile. “You're fucking hot!" He couldn't believe that someone this sexy, this confident, this powerful would ever compliment him.

Xander wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and shrugged. “We can both be hot together."

Dylan felt his head spin. That quiet part of him, the disgusted part of him, wanted this to end. This was a lapse in character, a catastrophic failure of common sense and moral dignity. He should just walk out that door, leave this sleazy gay dive bar behind, and forget the whole thing even happened. But even as post-nut clarity set it, that voice felt a lot smaller than it used to.

Xander looked down at Dylan's flaccid cock. “You might wanna zip up, hun. You're startin' to dribble on the floor."

Dylan looked down, realized he was right. He was still coming back up, and hadn't even realized he was still hanging out for the whole world to see. He tucked himself back into his underwear and zipped up his pants. “H-hey," Dylan said.

Xander turned and smiled, and Dylan felt butterflies in his stomach and the blood rushing to his face. “Hey," he replied.

“Maybe we could, uh," Dylan said as he fumbled with his belt. “Do this again sometime?"

Xander's eyes lit up. “No way! I was just thinking the same thing!"

The next few minutes were a blur of exchanging phone numbers. Even though they had just spit-swapped cum, it somehow felt more indulgent to have this sexy stranger's number. After they had exchanged numbers, Xander headed for the door.

“It was nice meeting you, Dylan!" he called over his shoulder, waving in a theatrical, effeminate way. “See you soon!"

Dylan stayed there, his shoulder blades pressed against the wall, for what felt like an hour. He needed some time to recover and collect his thoughts—he had plenty of them, and they all buzzed like tv-static in his brain. He was surprised, however, by the lack of regret. A small part of his brain told him that he should be flooded with guilt. He had felt regret for a lot of things in the past few years: his displeasure with his major, his declining grades, the relief he felt being away from his family, the shameful mask he always had to wear. Of all the things to feel regret for, getting a blowjob from a stranger in a queer bar should be near the top. But the regret was mysteriously absent. Instead, he felt a warm light filling his chest, like fireflies on a summer night. It took him a moment to recognize the feeling, something he hadn't felt in years: happy.