FSE

Furry search engine

formerly SoFurry search engine

Sans saw her. He finally _saw_her and not that bodies mattered, but Toriel, well, she was something special. She was seven feet and three inches of graceful enormity and every time they were on the same side of a door, Sans couldn't help but take her in

It wasn't like him. But what, he assured himself, was the harm in looking? Or learning?

Her mouth caught his attention first. The mouth from which jokes and laughter fell like waterfalls, the flesh-and-enamel home of that voice Sans cherished. She had sharp fangs but, father back -- visible when a pun made her really howl -- her molars were flat and plentiful. Omnivore teeth. Curtained by flesh lips he could watch speaking all day, dancing in phonetic patterns with her tongue. A round, pink tongue that had a physical presence instead of just being a figment of magic the way his was.

She had four-digit hands, large and capable hands with claws she kept filed down so they wouldn't tear pie dough. The fur there was translucent in the right light. It looked fine as dandelion fluff. Maybe it was soft, he wondered. Sometimes bits of pie dough cemented themselves in between her knuckles and he pointed them out, to watch Toriel frown mild and then pick every fur strand clean. She wasn't good at dextrous tasks, she claimed, but it was a treat to watch her try: she was captivated, then, aiming her jellybean paw pads at phone buttons while the thought of a joke shaped her snout into a smile.

She turned that smile on Sans sometimes, regarding him with cherry-dark irises and pupils the slightest bit oblong. Kind eyes shining with moisture, not just magic: they must have shed tears at some points in her wearying life and Sans tried not to think about that. The fans of her eyelashes touched her cheekbones with each blink, gleaming silvery blonde when the light caught them right. There was a hint of blonde in the silky fur under her ears, too, and at the crown of her head he glimpsed sometimes when she bent to open the oven , and in the fur strands worn nearly away between her fingers. She had fur like gleaming velvet along the bridge of her nose, and pink nubs in the corners of her eyes where her tear ducts existed on the physical plane. She was so present and real that he kept taking her in, just to be sure.

Toriel noticed him mapping her; she was bound to notice eventually. He was sitting at the kitchen table and she was kneeling before her oven, peeking in the window at the pie that was starting to smell delicious, and he must have drank in her silhouette too long because suddenly, she was watching him back.

What was he staring at, Sans, she asked? She sounded too sure for it to really be a question.

Nothing, he mumbled. Just thinking that she was pretty. Pretty, uh, pretty great.

She tilted her head so her ears swayed; her flicking gaze read him like a love letter. Did he, she rhetorically asked? Because she thought he was wonderful, as well.

Toriel glowed, here in the golden light of the oven and the surface sunset, and he'd forgotten how to lie after all these layered years. He just nodded.

Standing, Toriel dusted off her flour-caked hands on her apron. And then she strode matter-of-factly over to him to place a kiss on top of his skull.

As far as he knew, kisses were a touching of teeth. Some monsters had lips as a safety precaution, a sort of air bag to soften high-speed collisions. This first kiss from Toriel was a revelation. The pillowy touch of her lips and the nudge of her cartilage nose were so strange and wonderful, and Sans could feel the dampness left and the wisp of her magic evaporating away even as he craned up to look at her. She was smiling, making delighted crinkles around her cherry eyes, and her huge, strong hand ghosted against his shoulder while his own magic roared in his ears. He covered her hand with his own and in that moment, all he wanted in the world was to know her more.

She was gracious enough to show Sans another kiss, later. Picked him up like he weighed nothing -- which he couldn't resent, barely corporeal as skeletons were. A fluttering shut of her eyes before she kissed him on his teeth this time, coordinated press and caress of her lips and a radiant fondness shining through her ambient magic. Flesh and fur and body-heated clothing contoured against his bony angles and his magical semi-substance. What a lucky guy Sans was. He shone a smile back to her and stretched to reach around her neck, to stroke her fur, and she giggled and grinned and hugged him far more thorough than that.

Sometimes her kisses were quick. Sometimes leisurely. Sometimes long and nuanced like a conversation. He got to understand the language of her facial muscles against his bones. Got to know the powerful caress of her tongue, too: it wasn't a gesture he could return but she hummed pleased when he summoned a smoky wisp of magic against her tongue instead.

Toriel took his hand one day and examined it, held it up and turned it to consider his every knuckle. He wondered if his expression looked half that arresting while he was being curious.

She murmured that she saw how often he stole looks at her, and combed gaze over her body. Why was that, Sans?

Her smile said that she believed she knew -- and he felt cold in her presence for the first time ever, wondering if his desires were a strange pittance compared to what a fleshed monster might offer her. With a flush lighting up his face, Sans confessed that she fascinated him. Fascinated him. He was a skeleton, a race of monster with no real reason to want the physical, but somehow he wanted to know every inch of her.

That wasn't the answer she was expecting, said her wide eyes. But she thought while pulling her lower lip between her teeth -- an elastic rolling of skin and fur. She turned a gradual shade of pink up her face and down the insides of her ears, until she took his hand and pressed it flush with her hot cheek.

With a working of jaw muscle and a shy light in her eyes, Toriel said she would like that.

It became a shared hobby, the study of her. She laid down on the couch in offering so that the top of her head was his to consider instead of a distant mystery. Her horns felt nearly like his own bones, hard and sleek; the fringe of platinum hair around them was much less familiar. Her ears were as soft as they looked, velvet sheets so thin that her magic showed in paisley coils. At their base, her ears were stiffer -- with cartilage or muscle or some mix of the two, an arrangement that let her shift those ears backward, away from his curious phalanges, and forward again as he reached for them.

Hey, he murmured, with her ear finally captured between his phalanges and the whorl-shaped structure revealing its textured secrets. Come on. Ear him out.

Toriel laughed. Her lashes lifted; she gazed at him with the calmest weight he had ever seen, with pupils dilated to full circles and her mouth a silvery wisp of a smile. It looked like trust.

Her apologies, she said, tipping her head back inviting. He was just so end_ear_ing. Please, continue.

Her fur was fine on her throat; it flattened to silk under his tracing fingers. The vulnerable round of her airway led to her collarbone -- a very discernible bone. Overlaid with skin and mid-thick fur, but there were all the same curves of bone that Sans had. His touch rose and fell along with her breathing; he glanced to her closed eyes with their fanned lashes. She wasn't asleep. Her fingerpads still stroked his shoulder blade in a relaxing figure eight. He forged lower.

He had never paid much attention to people's breasts, alien as they were. But Toriel's were enticing because they were _Toriel's_and as Sans ventured his touch from collarbone to softer flesh, he found that breasts were a more distinctive texture than he ever would have guessed. She had the large, broad pair that filled out her dress, and later sometimes pillowed his face. And she had a second pair hiding underneath, round as fruit and small enough to neatly fit in his palm. She sighed and stretched as he committed it those to memory. He ran touch over and around them, in circles to feel the tissue shift and yield. Cupped them to measure their weight. Swept thumb phalanges over her downy fur. and over her rubber-soft nipples until they swelled into firm buttons, while leaning against her thoat where her magic pulsed hidden. Her belly was nice, too, just as soft and grippable and textured fleecy with fur, but that wasn't what turned her liquid.

The first few times, Toriel just thanked him, and laid a few slow-burning kisses on his forehead.

Then, one time, she asked with a smiling voice if he would like to see more.

The bedside lamp gilded her white fur and made her eyes dark as chocolate. It shone on her blunted claws as she reached for his jacket, pulled it off so the cool air touched his bones and tossed it aside in a way he only grumbled a little about.

Toriel opened her mouth to speak as she climbed onto her bed. She paused, rolled her held breath inside her mouth, and yanked her dress off over her head. Her ears flopped against her neck and her fur settled slow, probably charged with crackling static electricity that he'd comb out with his fingers. She regarded him and asked if he still wanted the same thing? Still no favour given in return, just to know her?

Yeah, he blurted as his soul thumped inside him. Frankly, he didn't want to remove any more clothing from his own bones -- but god she was so sweet and beautiful. And if she liked what he'd been doing, then he had plenty more curiosity to give.

It wasn't exactly a love poem; she took his hand and pulled him onto the bed, anyway. Kissed his teeth and his cheekbones and his forehead, and pulled him closer so he couldn't help but to touch her.

Her hips and thighs and butt were a treat to roam. Neverending expanses of curves to stroke with the grain of her fur and then ruffle back upward, to feel the twitching of muscle and the raising of gooseflesh when he dug the tips of his phalanges in. He found sharp traces of hipbones and followed those relatable shapes where they led him, down into a thick tuft of fur, and farther down to where the fur stopped.

She was wet there -- not with saliva or tears but with something that clung to his phalangetips and tingled with magic. He rubbed thumb and forefinger and found it slick -- a lubricant, there for a reason -- before he stroked damp clumps of fur and traced her pelvic opening that was soft like lips.

This alright so far, Sans asked? The pelvic region was sensitive for fleshed monsters: he knew that much.

Toriel sat up onto one elbow, light rippling over her fur-frosted curves, and she laid her long chin on his shoulder. Please, she said breathless in his ear -- please, continue.

With one of her legs straight and the other propped up bent, she was open to him. Open enough to catch a glimpse of shiny, magic-flushed flesh under the fur tufts -- but if he wanted a better look, he would need to yank out from under her. No need to do that when she seemed happy where she was. So Sans just nuzzled teeth against her cheek and kept, with blind phalangetips, exploring.

Fleshed monsters felt so intensely, the heat and the cold and every graze against their delicate skin. Quite the double-edged sword. It was a fascinating thing, pressing his fingers deeper in; she yielded thickly to him, shivers raising her fur, a wordless sound spilling from her throat.

Sans really didn't know what to make of what he was finding. A cone-shaped organ with different textures to it. Interesting to skate his phalanges around on the slicked surfaces, which was good because that same motion was getting her breathing up to that meaningful volume; one spongy area in particuar made her breath stutter against his shoulder and made her fingers tighten on him so her paw pads flattened.

She turned that hot breath onto his neck vertebrae. Would he like to see what this part of her body could do, she asked as quiet as a secret? And before he could answer, grip closed on his fingers -- a rolling wave of grip inside her.

Whoa, he murmured. Got muscles in there.

Toriel hummed affirmative, smiling all the way to her ears. She would call it a party trick, she said, but it was utterly inappropriate for most parties.

The horrible mental image got him laughing, which got her giggling. He was knuckles-deep in her body and it was a weird and fantastic time to be laughing.

Well, Sans said, know what type of trick he was going to show her? Some sleight of hand. He swept fingers against the walls inside her but couldn't find any trace of those festive muscle groups, not in the same way her hands and legs and face had a structure plain for the examining.

Picking him up with a hug, rolling and taking him into a soul-lurching fall, Toriel laid back on the bed. With fondness lidding her eyes, she said she hoped there wouldn't be any slighting going on. Touch that one spot again, if he would be so kind.

Whatever she wanted. He said it, too: whatever she wanted. His hand had slipped loose from her and he pressed back in, curling phalanges into the spongy spot, planting his free hand on her soft belly and carding fingers through her fur.

She keened, and bent her knees. She was relaxed and open and more beautiful than ever, and Sans leaned his cheek against her inner thigh to feel more of her fur scrubbing fluid against him. Her magic radiated hot as firelight, a wash of hungry, joyful feelings cresting with each flick of his fingers; her fangs glinted behind her opened lips and muscles tensed all down her legs, her toes curling claws into the bedsheets.

If she could see herself, Sans murmured. Gorgeous.

She grabbed his hand off her belly and clutched it tight. Laid hooded eyes on him, and smoothed a thumbpad over his metacarpals, and said she could say the same for him.

Startling thing to think -- but Toriel was watching him back, wasn't she? She had been watching him back all this time and there had to be something she liked about his pile of bones if she trusted him in such intimate ways. Sans asked if she really thought so?

Toriel hummed answer, a breathy hum while she shifted her legs a fraction wider. She purred that he blushed like a compliment when he looked at her, and his pupils brightened the slightest bit when he was intrigued. And to think that he was servicing her like this when he wasn't even interested himself! Her smile spilled all across her snout as she told him she appreciated that.

Speech left him. She was here and warm and he gave what he had to give: his soul. He gathered up the effervescent feeling of his own wonder and honour and his confused but real enjoyment -- gathered it and pushed it out past his bones, a blue aura he could see even with his eyesockets closed. Sans's stroking fingers had slowed and now he corrected it, trying out circles and swirls over her sensitive spot.

She gasped at the first touch of his soul magic; if it was half as honest as hers, it was a beautiful feeling. And she gasped sharper at his movements, wriggling, her toe claws scraping dull sounds against the sheets.

That was it, she cried -- please, Sans. Her voice strained like the sensations choked her; her magic was still barely visible but he felt its blaze. He called magic into his phalangetips and pressed up into her and she bucked and whimpered like a soul-rending song, and her muscles fluttering around his hand while he embossed her expression into his memory.

She went lax after that, tension gone from her limbs. Each breath was ragged but her omnivore teeth all showed in an open smile. Sans removed his hand from her, hesitated over the glistening film on his bones and settled on wiping them on the sheets.

She okay, he asked, crawling to her side? Now that he was thinking with a clearer head, it was a really weird moment to have raked his eyesockets all over.

Oh, she needed that, Toriel beamed: it had been so long. She wrapped him snug in her arms -- her damp arms, she must have been sweating -- and thanked him and breathed his name like a prayer.

The shape of her tongue around Sans sent a thrill down his spine. Her fur held together in humid streaks wherever he touched her, and her lips pillowed against his skull like they belonged there.

Listening to her pulse slow toward normal, Sans was knew he would need to keep doing this for her. She was worth mapping all over again.