FSE

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formerly SoFurry search engine

Companionship in the Wasteland is hard to find, like a good, intact suit of power armor: when you get your hands on it, you hold onto it, you take care of it. People tend to mock it and make fun of it, especially the more brazen ones - "shit, I don't need that, I can survive well enough on my own without it" and "if you have to rely on that, I'm sorry, but you're kinda weak" - but anyone in their right mind jumps at the chance if that chance is offered them. Of these two, power armor and companionship, the grey fox from Vault 97 found one and was quite glad with it.

Really, he was born a white fox and still maintained that, but just like with everything else in existence, the Wasteland tainted that. In the Vault he only ever saw brains, skulls, and innards as parts of anatomical drawings, not as cozy home decorations; in the Vault he actually put off showering, under the complaint that it took too much time and that he hardly got dirty enough to justify it anyway; in the Vault he took 'man's injustice to man' to mean when his brother sucked up all the rations coupons, or one when of the more scientifically-inclined youths disabled his mother's Mr. Handy; in the Vault he often got annoyed with the nametag on his maintenance jumpsuit for not matching the color scheme of the rest of the suit. Now he wished that it had stayed on instead of being blown away in the wind, since he felt sometimes that his whole world was falling apart around him, and he didn't know who he was anymore.

'Eli', that nametag had said. He'd been given the name of his father, the fox who not only maintained the Vault's reactor but also had been the one who designed the model that 97 used in the latter portion of its life. It was only through close ties of trust and friendship with the Overseer that he was allowed to phase out the old models to make way for his own, and the new reactors worked fantastically - for the most part. Almost twice as efficient as the stock Vault-Tec reactors, and half as loud, too.

97 fell, though. Eli, his brother, and five others managed to leave the Vault before all went to hell, each with their own extent of electrical burns - Eli still hadn't regained the full functionality of his left paw - and camped in a nearby town the night after. Raiders attacked, killed two, kidnapped one, and only allowed Eli and his brother to escape in a moment of confusion caused when a battery in the backpack of the then still-white fox punctured and exploded with a bright flash and loud noise.

On the way to rescue the one who had been kidnapped, Eli's brother disappeared, also overnight. No footsteps led away from the camp in the ash, none of his things had been taken, his sleeping bag remained undisturbed and still zipped as if he had suddenly become incorporeal and melted down through the ground. Eli lost his nerve to continue what they had set out to do and fled, taking his brother's pack and sleeping back after waiting two days to see if he would return.

All of that had to have happened over a year ago by now. He had been able to survive so long only through innovation and a knack for tinkering, both born in him and then honed by his father and his own curiosity. He had been through a few settlements, fixed water purifiers, air conditioning units, guns, robots, and other things, but nobody once took up his invitation to come with him. One night was spent in the bed of a vixen whose fur looked and smelled far too clean for the average wastelander, and then the next day he found himself in a similar position with her brother, except instead of a mattress it was the rusty pipe they were supposed to be fixing that creaked beneath them, and this time it was Eli's head thumping against the wall.

It was a longer-lived, more resilient type of companionship that he desired, though. Until his second night outside of the Vault, he had not spent one day without some interaction with someone who meant at least something to him. A new friend was just about the last thing he'd expected when he was awoken one morning by the sound of branches crackling underfoot - that's why he hated camping outside; there were things in the wasteland that made the things from his nightmares look cute, and you could never know for certain just what had caught your scent - and then he expected even less for that friend to be a feral dog, German shepherd by the look of it.

Eli had grabbed his sharpened tire iron and jerked up into a sitting position, but then promptly lowered it after seeing those cool brown eyes, flat pink tongue, tall triangular ears. The dog apparently had no fear or suspicion whatsoever about the strange greyish-furred fox that it had stumbled across: it stepped forward, blunted claws making little zipping noises across the outer material of the sleeping bag, and then licked Eli's nose.

It looked for all the world like it'd just returned from a lengthy vacation in Hell but still somehow none the worse for it: it appeared to be considerably well-fed and well-exercised, stout and muscular when the fox tried to wiggle out of his sleeping bag from beneath about seventy pounds of canine muscle. It followed him around as he rummaged in his pack for something to eat, nosed at his paw and tilted its head when he opened a can of Cram, and then sat down and wagged its tail from across the fire when Eli put on a pot of water to boil.

Where it came from, he had absolutely no idea. Nobody seemed to be coming to reclaim their dog, though, and no matter how hard he tried to shoo the shepherd, all he ever succeeded in doing was getting it to move back a few feet. The vague annoyance quickly turned to quiet appreciation, though: the dog alerted him whenever there was something nearby, more often through a soft huff or nip at his elbow rather than a loud bark; sometimes it would disappear briefly, only to return with a Stimpack or a package of purified water or something clutched between its teeth; and then once, it actually brought him a defunct hunting rifle that he got working again. Now it was Eli's weapon of choice for distance encounters.

He did learn a few things more about the dog as time passed. First was its name through what looked to be a set Brotherhood of Steel dogtags clipped to its red leather collar, with 'Scribe Johannson' crossed out and 'Dogmeat' scratched into the metal instead; the other dogtag simply read 'good puppy'. And then, the second thing Eli learned was that this dog was very much exceedingly male - Eli had left his jacket over a stump to dry after falling into a river, and then Dogmeat must have gotten distracted by the moisture, the warmth caused by the sun and radiation, and the shape, and... well.

He'd only seen a brighter red in the beam of a laser rifle - and, god_damn_, this dog looked like he shot with about as much strength as one. It felt wrong, somehow, to watch Dogmeat pound away at the stump in a crook just the right width for him - Eli noticed when he was returning from the same river, and approached diagonally from the back so he got a head-on view of a full, heavy dog sack lurching back and forth beneath the base of a wide knot - so he pretended not to notice and just patted the shepherd's head once he had finished, intending to leave the jacket to dry for a little bit longer.

Of course, the scent of dog and canine cum, oddly similar to the former, soaked into the fabric and lingered after drying, so that the fox got a fresh whiff of it whenever he pulled it on or shifted his shoulder. The embarrassing part of all this, though, was not that he was wearing an article of clothing that had been thoroughly sex-marked by a wasteland dog, but rather that maybe he enjoyed it. At first, the scent just caused an odd tingly feeling the back of his nose, and whenever he picked up that scent he always turned his head to avoid tasting too much of it, but then on one particularly cold night he tugged his jacket up over his head for warmth's sake, ended up pressing his nose right along the area where Dogmeat had shot his load...

That night, he was glad that he'd found a house with a working lock on the front door to stay in, for a different reason than usual. Sure, he occasionally got the want and urge expected of any adult male, but hardly found the time or opportunity to act on that want... and never before had he had such a powerful catalyst as the scent entwined with the threads of his jacket, the scent that maybe made him shiver all over and maybe made him wish Dogmeat had not gone out on a hunt (the shepherd always nosed Eli's leg and then turned his muzzle towards the door as a way of asking permission, and then more often than not returned with a dead something in his teeth) so that, maybe, Eli could roll him onto his back and bury his nose and tongue into the source of that scent... so, not only had he discovered some things about the dog, but he also learned something about himself that he hadn't known.

He was just finishing up his third time when Dogmeat padded into the room, gnawing on what looked to be a half-formed Brahmin fetus. By morning it was that smell that permeated everything, so Eli doubled his effort to pack up and leave quickly; besides, the smell of blood and flesh would be certain to attract other things to the house as well.

After losing his brother, Eli spent his time wandering the wasteland trying to find people to help, simply because there was nothing better to do. Usually there was always at least _something_on his mind consuming his thoughts, even if it was as little as wondering where he could find copper wire for a pet project project of his... this day, though, the thing on his mind had roughly the same proportions as an old-style bottle of Nuka Cherry, before the addition of the rocket-like fins on the sides.

Dogmeat, of course, paid no notice to the furtive glances passed his way by the fox, at the fine shape of his muzzle, the curve of his back and rump, the line of his firm sheath under his belly, the point of red flesh that was revealed once when he sat down... sure, there were other far more important things to worry about on any day in the wasteland, but - well - when you see something you want, that thing has a tendency of occupying all thoughts until either you get it or you give up. It was like that with an old Brotherhood railgun Eli had once seen through the window of a building, only to learn that building to be a breeding nest of deathclaws... and even then, he still thought about it afterwards and sometimes wondered if it would have been worth the risk.

With this it was just a matter of morals rather than risk, really, though the latter did still exist. Such a... relationship, so to say, had never been covered during his education in the Vault - though one time, Tommy Darling's father found him 'with Mrs. Arroway's bitch', and at the time Eli was too young to understand why the rumor spread through the halls like fire across an oil slick, or why the poor Tommy - fifteen or sixteen at the time - locked himself in the reactor room for three days straight after as a result. Apparently that sort of thing was unacceptable in Vault society.

Good thing this is the Wasteland, Eli found himself thinking once the sun began to dip beneath the horizon - he'd learned the best way to approach nights, and as such settled down for shelter a considerable length of time before sunset. Tonight left them again under the stars, though this time in a run-down camp between some cars out in a field of overgrown grass; it was better to stay away from large noticeable structures, and they'd hear if someone was approaching, anyway. Eli didn't want to be caught in the act.

Really, what made him the most unsure about it was the fact that he'd spent the whole day thinking about it, planning it out, justifying his wants... and to think that what had started all this was just a little bit of... 'juice', so to say, that dried into the fabric of his jacket. When the fox slung his backpack off his shoulder, he got another whiff of it and shivered all over again; Dogmeat, sitting back near one of the cars, just perked his ears and watched him for a moment before looking away again.

It felt almost like when he was trying to work up the courage to ask out Anna Druman, back in 97: a whole day of nervous fiddling, of frightened half-determination that seemed to fail right at the most important moments, of warm, quiet excitement underlining his every action... twice when trying to get tonight's fire started, his mind wandered - now Dogmeat had lain down a few feet away, showing to him again the shape of his sheath and a hint at the black-furred sack beneath it, partially hidden by another leg - and he ended up igniting either absolutely nothing or the fur of his left paw, not noticing at first due to the lack of feeling.

Maybe tonight wasn't the _best_night for exploration of that sort. The fox nursed his burnt paw as best he could before preparing his own meal (earlier in the day he'd killed a Radstag, thank God) and leaning back against one of the cars to tear into the meat, stringy and well-seasoned with the spice that could be tasted on everything permeated by two hundred years of nuclear radiation. Of course, during all of this he avoided looking at the shepherd, trying not to catch sight of the curve of his rump or the shape of his hanging sheath and sack again, because that would bring those thoughts back in full force.

But of course, being a dog, Dogmeat noticed this lack of attention, and when Eli dropped his gaze from the stars he looked right down into eyes brown like still-bottled ale found on the shelves of a decrepit brewery. The shepherd's tail stirred slowly in the short grass, and his muzzle fell open to show his long pink tongue; Eli sighed, rolled his eyes, and reached forward to pat the pup's head-

...but instead of feeling soft fur and warm ears beneath his paw, there was only air there - and suddenly there was a muzzle pressing up into the front of his pants, nosing gently but still firm enough to startle him and make him drop his half-eaten meal.

"Whoa-"

Before he knew what he was doing, he'd pushed the dog away and then just stood there, heart pounding, pants admittedly a little tighter than before he'd felt the pressure of that nose. Dogmeat certainly seemed smart enough to be able to tell what Eli wanted - and most dogs could do that anyway... only a little annoyed about the sudden loss of his meal, the fox slid down into a sitting position with his back against the car, legs spread, paws in the dust on either side of him. Dogmeat gazed at him before padding forward again, a little slower, a little more carefully.

That bashfulness was eradicated with a well-placed paw behind the shepherd's ear, gently scritching and maybe urging him forward a little. He obeyed, cast his smoky gemstone eyes again up at Eli's, and then settled his nose again into the bulge in the front of his pants - he'd elected for the two-piece vault suit instead of the single jumpsuit, a decision that had both its ups and downs but that he was now very glad for making.

He didn't even have to do anything other than spread his legs apart a little further - Dogmeat understood what he wanted quite well, snuffling into the bulge between those legs and then even wiggling his nose against the waistband and fur of Eli's lower belly, making him suck in against the kind-of cold nose - which in turn gave the dog a space to shove that nose under the waistband and right up against expectant sheath, full and waiting. Eli breathed out a soft huff, lifted up slightly, slid his pants down his legs a little, braced against the feeling of the cooler evening air... and then relaxed when instead what he felt was a warm muzzle, the reverse of earlier.

Maybe that's what the previous owner had meant when they'd scratched 'good pup' onto the tag of his collar. Dogmeat sniffed at the end of Eli's sheath, out of which the first half-inch of his cock had slid and continued to grow, and held that sheath in place between his two paws. Eli kept his own paw on the dog's head, rubbing gently and urging him on, all the while giving softly-breathed encouragement - "good boy", "that's a good pup", "how'd you know I want this, huh?..."

Then he felt a tongue against his revealed length, warm and moist and wonderful and, if anything, only further heightening his arousal. A shiver similar to the one that Dogmeat's scent caused shot through him, though this one felt sharper, stronger, more sublime - and then he felt it again, and again, and again, rhythmic like something he'd expect from a partner who wasn't a feral dog, sweet enough to make him lift his hips up off the dusty earth. It was just the way that the shepherd's tongue felt, broad and flat, velvet-smooth, delightful... it coaxed the rest of the fox's length out as easily as a paw on his sheath would have, and probably easier.

Dogmeat had shifted down to focus his tongue on the lower parts of Eli's shaft, down near the bulge of his knot which still remained half-hidden in his sheath. Funny - all through the day, he'd wanted and expected the reverse of this to happen, with Eli's tongue being the one on Dogmeat's length... maybe there was still time for that. The fox shifted to push the shepherd away again, but only succeeded in moving him back a little bit - and when he moved forward onto his paws and knees to push himself up, what happened then was... well, not exactly out -of-character for a feral dog.

Eli felt himself pushed roughly down against the ground right when he started to try to straighten up, with the dog's front legs on his back and blunt-clawed paws hanging over his shoulders. The weight and suddenness surprised him, but he still managed to reach back and slide his pants further down his legs - just as Dogmeat readjusted and began thrusting forward in the way that dogs do, in the way that he'd seen him rail his jacket that other day.

The other fox from that village had at least given him time to prepare, had at least pushed him down to slicken him up first; Dogmeat apparently lacked the patience to go through with that, though Eli could feel repetitive jets of watery pre out against his rump and tailhole, and reached back to stop the dog's thrusts and monitor his movements. The shepherd continually tried to thrust into him, muzzle by his ear with hot breaths panting out over his whiskers, but - the last thing Eli wanted was a sore rump from his feral travelling companion.

He recalled how it felt when he'd been hoisted up onto the rusty pipe in the shack back in that village, how it had feel when a slick cock slid up under his tail and sunk into him... and he pressed back against the waiting dog, who gave another slight push forward in response. Definitely thick, more so than he'd had experience with before but not undoable; while one paw held himself up and shook a little under the combined weight with the dog bearing down on him, with the other he squeezed behind Dogmeat's knot - wide; he couldn't fit his fingers around it - and held him in place for gradually inching back on him, feeling the contours of the dog's shaft sink into him, stretch him a little further, throb under his tail in shooting out another jet of pre into him. So much for lacking preparation; already he could feel the slick warmth coating that paw, and wanted so much to bring it to his mouth and lick it off.

Whenever the fire crackled or something rustled in the grasses, Eli's heart sped up and his breath caught in his throat, but nobody stepped out into the light to laugh at him or ask him what the hell he was doing... and then, as he got deeper into it, his heart started speeding up each time he felt the dog's hips tense up in preparation for another thrust, and his breath caught in his throat whenever Dogmeat's heavy sack, soft and deliciously warm, swung forward and bumped against the back of his. Along the way, the fox's paw fell away to let the shepherd take the control of the thrusts that he so desired, and then came up to Eli's muzzle and remained there.

It was a different scent, the musk that clung to the back of the dog's knot, but - God... his claws scratched at the earth with the all-over shiver it sent through him, and he unconsciously pushed more firmly back into the steady thrusts into him. This was a faster, harder, more carnal fucking than what he received from the fox in that village - and, similarly, it was more breathtaking, more invigorating... he intentionally ran his nose over the parts of his paw where the musk had gathered and soaked into the fur, purely so that he could still taste it on the air even after removing that paw.

Dogmeat, meanwhile, served his duty quite well. The paws over Eli's shoulders were heavy, but nothing compared to the weight of the thrusts up under his tail, again and again, each one kissing the top of the dog's wide knot against the rim of his tailhole... at this depth, his earlier comparison of Dogmeat's length to a Nuka Cola bottle felt fairly accurate. What he'd give to have that cock on his tongue, though, shooting those spurts of pre out over his lips, into the fur of his muzzle - and here in the wasteland a fresh source of water was quite rare, so he'd have to live with the scent lingering on him and becoming stronger with the heat of day... Eli felt that he wouldn't have to reach a paw back to finish off with the way things were still going, but he still did.

It was hard to tell how far along Dogmeat was in his own pleasure, but - Eli could hardly take it. After first having a nose on his sheath, then a tongue on his cock, and now a just-as-hard throbbing shaft deep under his tail... he was particularly glad that the fire he'd built cracked loudly at the same time he let out a series of small, shuddering moans with his orgasm, spurting out into the dirt of the ground beneath him in a fairly straight but broken line. Maybe it was his tight clenching brought on by that shuddering orgasm - still Dogmeat pounded into him, ensuring that the last of the fox's load was squeezed out of him - that slowed the shepherd and eventually caused him to stop, panting just as heavily as the fox beneath him.

There was no tie; after another moment Dogmeat dismounted, which pulled another gentle gasp out of the fox's throat - and then lowered his muzzle and drew that broad, flat canine tongue up his master's tailhole a few times, lapping off whatever oozed out of him. Eli could tell that he'd been considerably filled, given the fervor with which the tongue pressed into him and slurped beneath the base of his tail; if he hadn't already finished, that certainly would have made him.

He had trouble pulling himself up into a sitting position, and then more trouble in tugging his pants back up his legs. Tonight he'd planned to go out and hunt for a while, since all he'd intended to happen was for him to swallow down all the pre and cum that this shepherd had to offer instead of receiving those deep under his tail, but... well. Things don't always go as planned.

The next morning - after another dream detailing what he'd already done - he woke up to two separate reminders of the previous night's 'exploration', as he'd put it: one as a lingering soreness under his tail, and the other in the shape of a reddish-pink point of flesh protruding from a plump sheath about a foot away from his muzzle. Dogmeat's tail swished patiently behind him.

Eli could swear that he could see a glint of something in the dog's eyes. He wiped at his own eyes, yawned, licked his lips, and leaned forward.