FSE

Furry search engine

formerly SoFurry search engine

Another day on my computer. I lost count of exactly how many hours I'd wiled away in front of my screen. TV Tropes, Game wikis, YouTube, Facebook, Tumblr, Reddit, even Wiki-Fucking-Pedia reading about who knows what. Of course there was Tail-Ups. Officially, TU was for art, where people could go to share their artistic and literary endeavors with other consumers of higher forms of expression. In reality, it was what the internet was always for: porn. To be fair, it was high quality porn because it was made by visual artists rather than shot on a camera. I liked it better than porn flicks anyway.

My purple eyes shifted side to side behind gun-metal-gray glasses. My roommate was out. I ctrl-9nd to TU and checked my watch feed. Now was as good of time as any to find some quality beat off material. I was in a twinky mood as I bit into a snack cake that I had just unwrapped (that pun was totally intended by the way), and I clicked on a thumbnail of a girly husky topping a sexy, curvy bunny. When the picture loaded, I noticed my inbox had filled while the page was loading.

It was Ink_Blot. The message had no title, and I clicked on it.

"Heya Sylux. Bad news today. I SI'd for the first time in years."

My mind suddenly went black before zeroing in on the text in front of me. The coke I was raising to my maw was slowly set back down on my bedpost. My fingers flew across the keyboard before, The light taps suddenly became loud, obnoxious clacks, and I realized my claws had extended as I was typing. I didn't care, and continued typing, even though my keyboard had been subject to far too much wear and tear for a computer its age. When I was done I contemplated my paws before retracting my claws.

" That's not good. Not good at all. Tell me why?" My pinky jabbed Enter and waited.

"Job's been hell."

" Tell me more."

"Shitty hours. Shitty boss."

" Why else."

"Not much."

" Liar." There was a pause. Had I gone too far?

"I feel so alone."

"I know the feeling." Another pause. "Tell me more."

Ink_Blot didn't answer for the rest of the night.

At midnight I realized I had stared at a blank screen for over an hour and a half. I sipped from my coke can and tasted flat sugar water. I threw it in the waste basket and put my laptop on my desk. I stood up and walked to the floor to wall mirror I had stolen off a yard on no-limits garbage day.

Before me stood a panther. that was me. My form was certainly lithe, with coiled arms and legs and a tight, flat torso. My eyes flashed purple behind my glasses, and my headfur had a natural purple highlight to it that no one else in my family had. All that color was probably from my dad's side. I never knew my dad, and neither did my mom. I was honestly lucky to be standing in a college dorm right now.

I stripped naked and examined my body. I opened my legs and showed the mirror my inner thighs. If someone saw a picture of just my thighs, they'd claim I was a tiger. I am certainly NOT a tiger. I kinda wish I was. They always seemed to have a bit more muscle than I did, and I had been trying for years to bulk up with no success.

But I digress. I'm not a tiger, but my thighs look it because they're slashed with thin, long stripes colored stark white. I ran a finger across the stripes and felt a twinge run up my leg that almost hurt. Some days they still hurt, seemingly out of nowhere. I didn't need knives to get those scars. I had my own claws, which were easily strong enough to go through anyone's skin, especially my own.

I shifted so that my profile was reflected back at me and I raised my underarms. My fingers pulled apart the fur underneath and inspected the burns. When I was sixteen I did more than I feel uncomfortable admitting to get my hands on bootleg cigs. I never took a drag, not even once. I had forgotten exactly every place on my body that I had burned myself.

How long had it been since I slashed myself? Burned myself? I still picked my cuts and scabs now and again, but at least I hadn't been giving myself new injuries. Maybe it was a good thing that I had forgot how long it had been since I self-injured. I put on my clothes and checked my computer.

Still no responses. I clicked out a new message, even though Ink_Blot was clearly offline now. "Message me back ASAP. Let me help you."

I went to bed. Classes went by in a haze. I didn't talk at all during sociology or philosophy, and I didn't even have to contain my snark when the holier-than-thou mouse chick started spouting scripture. I ignored dinner and my homework load and logged on to TU. One message.

"I did it again."

" Tell me more." Ink_Blot was online, but he didn't respond. " I told you I SI'd before too, right?"

I stared at my screen for more than two hours and got nothing. Ink_Blot's little blue dot was grey now.

A week flew by, and my inbox remained the same: no activity. It wasn't until ten days past that fateful thursday that I got another message from him.

"I did it again. And you did tell me. You didn't say why."

My legs twinged again as I read the message on my bed. " Being gay wasn't easy in high school. Once I realized how gay I was, I hated myself. Every cut was a gay thought. Every burn was retribution for a fantasy."

"I understand."

I smiled a little. At least he was engaging in dialogue now. " You still feeling shitty?"

"Yes."

" Still the job?"

"No. I quit. It was driving me nuts."

" Sometimes it's for the best." There was radio silence for fifteen minutes.

"I messed it up though."

" Messed what up?"

"The SI."

" I understand relapses. The best thing you can do is wash the wounds and move on. Did you cut yourself? Or did you burn instead?"

"Cut. You can't burn a dragon."

I actually laughed at the remark. I'd forgotten he was a scaly. He'd only shown one photo of himself. That was almost a year ago too. " Can I help you at all?"

"Not really. I feel isolated still. No one around me seems to care. I have no real friends, nearby, my family doesn't want to see me anymore, and my only really life is across a screen."

" I care, if that counts for something."

"It's a small comfort. You can't hold someone across a screen."

" I know." My fingers crossed each other to type in a "hug" emoji.

"Thanks." Ink_Blot logged off.

I closed my computer. I felt empty inside. Fuck distance. I took my mini globe off its stand and stared at north america. I put a claw on the place where St Louis would be. My thumb traced its way to Sault Sainte Marie. Fuck distance.

Five days past, much more slowly this time. My sleep was disrupted, partly because of finals and partly because of anxiety. Call it a flaw, but I took my friends' issues as my own. Perhaps it was because they were few and far between for a guy like me. Well, in some ways that might be better. Quality over quantity and all that jazz. I couldn't reach through my screen and make Ink_Blot feel better, but by god I wish I could.

On the sixth day, I opened TU and checked my inbox. Nothing. I sent Ink_Blot a new message. "Status check: Tell what's up, even if it's more of the same."

I got no answer for more than a day. "It still sucks. I SI'd again. I fucked it up though."

" What did you do?"

"Slashed my wrists."

I bit my lip, and my lean, tufted tail went rigid as the fur stood on end."

" That's dangerous. Don't do it there! You could kill yourself."

"I know. I long ago ran out of reasons to justify my existence, and it seems the people around me feel the same way."

Radio silence. I didn't know what to say. Before I could offer any comfort or ask for more information, Ink_Blot logged off.

I opened a new tab. I clicked on the link that led to my bank balance. I was dirt poor. I had no time for a college job, and my summer funds were low. I opened another tab and googled megabus. The ticket was more than $100 with two transfers at this short notice. I bought it anyway. I'd make excuses later. I wrote an email to my professor and said a family emergency popped up. It was half true. Friends were one step away from family for me. Fifteen minutes later my prof said I could replace the multiple choice by answer all three of the essay prompts rather than just one. I agreed with a four word answer "will turn in tomorrow."

I packed a few clothes, my computer, and my textbook and dashed out the door with my fresh thirty pack of coke. I knocked on Liz's door. "Drive me to the megabus station and this crate is yours. fair game? I need it ASAP. it's an emergency"

The black lab nodded. "It's only fifteen minutes," she said, alarmed at my tone. "I've got my keys in my pockets."

The trip was long and sleepless. I couldn't sleep in a car (or bus) anyway, and I had three papers to finish. I had edited and emailed the papers (thank you megabus wifi) before I passed Michigan City. It was only then did I realize I had no idea who Ink_Blot real was.

I knew he was an artist in his free time, and he told me that he had been published as a cover artist on a more "legitimate" book when he wasn't doing porny commissions. Not that I didn't like his M/M stuff, but the username Ink_Blot wasn't exactly useful for searching the white pages.

I went through all of his gallery, searching for any drop of his real name. I had to surreptitiously edge my screen away from my seatmate. It wasn't exactly polite to browse gay porn on a bus. But the old elephant had been asleep for miles. It wasn't until I returned to his home page did I see something I had ignored: a link to his DeviantArt account. I clicked on it, looking for any work that slipped through the cracks. And I saw it, on a self portrait: Daniel Evans.

I opened white pages at once and found an address in minutes. I hoped my info was up to date. The last hours were spent watching the pitch black landscape roll past, unchanging in the dark. His image kept coming up in my mind. His appearance was striking, as most dragons tended to be. His scales were a dark red, almost bloody. His arms were muscled, but he certainly didn't idealize himself, and was unafraid to paint himself with a muscle gut. He had no fur anywhere on his body (At least from the waist up). Instead his face was crowned by golden horns, and he looked almost royal, perhaps majestic. His body was curtained by large, dark wings, and I wondered if he could fly. I honestly found him quite attractive.

I got off the bus at eight thirty in the morning. I had long since memorized the directions to Daniel's house from the station, and I moved fast. by nine I was standing in front of a small brick house with an unkempt yard. The white paint on the porch was peeling, and the roof looked a little dilapidated. I knocked on the door. I waited. I knocked on the door. I waited. I knocked a third time, and this time I heard a low groan and a creak of wood as the door opened.

A tall dragon filled the door frame. He smelled a little unclean, sort of musky and musty. His scales were darker, less reflective in person. His gold eyes were now framed with red, and dark bags sagged into his high cheekbones. His wrists were wrapped in off-white cloth. "Who are you?"

"Are you Daniel Evans?"

"Yes. Who are you?"

"I'm Eric. You could also call me Sylux."

The great dragon gasped and his eyes widened. "Aren't you from..."

I cut his words off and wrapped my arms around the dragon who was both a friend and a stranger. my wrists crossed and pressed into the small of his back, close to where the wing membrane met scales. "I just needed to tell you that I care."

I felt Daniel instinctively hug me back, and his wings closed around me for a minute. "Can I... get you something to drink?"

"I guess..." I still felt a little awkward going into his house. I instead opted to lean against the porch railing. "Please, Dan... can you talk to me for a bit?"

Daniel bit his lip. His whole body seemed to sag. "I think I owe you that much." He turned back into the house and returned with two cans of coke. He sat down and passed a can to me. Neither of us spoke for a long time. But his demeanor seemed to change. His scales seemed to brighten, just by a fraction. "You had to take quite a trip to get here."

"I think that it's been worth it," I said. We sat in silence for almost an hour before starting to talk. But he was talking. A step in the right direction at the very least.