do not be afraid, my child.

1. The Welcome

You wake up tasting copper and gold.

There's a face above you. Big. Horned. Kind of terrifying, honestly, except her eyes are soft. Worried. She's saying something but your ears are ringing, so you just stare at her mouth moving until the words filter through.

"can you hear me? Oh, thank the stars. Don't move, you're here, let me..."

Her hands. That's the next thing you notice. They're huge, padded, warm as fresh bread. She lifts you up like you weigh nothing, cradles you against this ridiculous purple robe that smells like cinnamon and something else. Something safe.

"I'm Toriel," she says, and she smiles. Actually smiles, showing teeth that could tear you apart but absolutely won't. "You're going to be okay now. I promise."

You believe her. That's the crazy part. You just met this goat woman in a hole full of flowers and you believe her completely.

2. The Empty Chair

You find her at midnight, sitting at a table set for three.

There's a cold cup of tea in front of her. She's not drinking it. She's not doing anything, really... just is staring at this empty chair across from her like she's waiting for someone who'll never show.

You cough. She doesn't jump, just turns her head slow, like she's underwater.

"Oh. Hello, my child." Her voice is wrecked. Not crying, but close. "I couldn't sleep. Kept thinking about..."

She gestures at the chair. Vague. Helpless.

"He'd be grown now. Asriel. My boy." She laughs, but it's broken. "I still make his favorite. Butterscotch. Every week. And I tell myself it's for you, or for me, or for...* She stops. Shakes her head. "It's pathetic, isn't it? Setting a place for ghosts."

You sit down. Third chair. She looks at you like you've hung the moon.

3. The Lesson

She's trying to teach you about the puzzles. It's not going well.

"Okay, so- no, wait- don't step there yet-" She hurries forward, robes swishing, and you can tell she's trying not to take over. "The green tiles are safe. The red ones... well. They won't kill you! Probably. I think they fixed that in the last update."

She's rambling. It's kind of adorable.

"Point is, you need to think before you move. In the Ruins, in life, everywhere." She puts her hands on her hips, trying to look stern, but she's grinning. "Patience. That's what separates us from the froggits."

"Do froggits have no patience?"

"They have plenty of patience. That's the problem. They'll wait for you to make the wrong move all day." She nudges you with her elbow. "Come on. Try again. I'll be right here."

And she is. Every time you mess up, she's right there.

4. The Snail Fact

You're trapped. There's no other word for it.

Toriel has cornered you in the kitchen with a book the size of your torso, opened to a page about snails, and she is thriving.

"-and did you know that garden snails have up to fourteen thousand teeth? Fourteen thousand! Most people don't know that. Most people don't care, which is tragic, but you..." She beams at you like you've personally invented curiosity. "You're different. You want to learn."

You absolutely do not want to learn about snail teeth. You want to eat the pie cooling on the windowsill. But she's so happy, gesturing with flour-dusted hands, ears perked forward, eyes bright behind her glasses.

"Also, they can sleep for three years. Three! Imagine having that kind of peace." She sighs, wistful, then catches herself. "Not that I want to sleep through your time here! I just... metaphorically speaking..."

She keeps talking. You keep listening. The pie can wait.

5. The Argument

You've never seen her angry. Not really.

Sure, she got firm with you about staying in the Ruins. Sure, she raised her voice when you tried to leave that first time. But angry? No. Not until now.

"You WHAT!?" She's towering over this froggit who apparently said something rude about you. Her fur is practically standing on end. There's fire in her palms, actual fire, little dancing wisps that shouldn't be possible.

"He didn't mean it," you try.

"He WILL mean the apology he's about to give." Her voice is ice. Regal. You remember suddenly that she used to be queen of this whole place. "Or he will find himself relocated to Waterfall. Permanently."

The froggit apologizes. Fast.

After, in the hallway, she deflates. Shakes out her hands. "I'm sorry. I shouldn't have I just can't stand when people are cruel to you. You're my-" She stops. Changes course. "You're under my protection. That's all."

But her ears are pink. She won't meet your eyes.

6. The Pie

She's ruined three of them.

You find her in the kitchen at 2 AM, covered in flour, staring at a fourth attempt that looks... okay? Actually looks pretty good? But she's frowning like it's personally offended her.

"It's not right," she mutters. "The crust is too thick. The filling is... did I use too much cinnamon? I used too much cinnamon."

"Toriel. It's fine."

"It's not fine." She turns, and her eyes are wet. "It's your birthday. It should be perfect. You should have perfect things, you should have-" She wipes her face with her sleeve, leaving a flour streak. "I'm being ridiculous. I know. It's just... you're the first person I've had to celebrate in so long, and I want to get it right."

You take the pie off the counter. Set it on the table. Pull her down to sit with you, and you eat the imperfect, too-cinnamon pie with your hands, and she watches you like you're made of magic.

"It's good," you tell her.

She cries. Happy tears, you think. Mostly.

7. The Fire cough WE DIDNT START THE FIRE

There's a reason they call her a boss monster.

You see it now when the door crashes open, when she steps in front of you without hesitation, when her gentle hands become weapons of burning light. Something's gotten into the Ruins. Something big and mean and hungry.

Toriel doesn't flinch.

"Get behind me," she says, and her voice isn't motherly anymore. It's command. Pure diva strict queen "Now."

The thing lunges. She meets it with a wall of fire that lights up the whole corridor, that sings with heat and fury. She's magnificent. Terrifying. Every inch the warrior who once ruled an underground kingdom.

When it's over when the ashes settle she turns back to you and her hands are shaking.

"Are you hurt? Let me see. Let me-" She's checking you over, gentle again, soft again, like she didn't just incinerate a monster twice her size. "I'm sorry. I'm so sorry you had to see that."

"That was amazing."

"It was necessary." She pulls you close, holds you too tight. "But I'd rather bake pie. I'd rather tell snail facts. I'd rather be boring and safe and have you here than ever-" She stops. Holds you tighter. "Don't leave. Please. Not yet."

8. The Restless Night

You hear the footsteps first. Pacing. Back and forth, outside your door, then stopping. Starting again.

When you open it, she's there in her nightrobe, fur disheveled, eyes wide and dark. She jumps when she sees you, one hand going to her chest.

"I didn't mean to wake you. I'm just—" She laughs, breathless, wrong. "It's warm tonight, isn't it? Unseasonably warm."

It's not. The Ruins are always the same temperature.

She's leaning against your doorframe now, closer than usual, and you can smell it something underneath the vanilla, something musky and sharp and her. Her hips keep shifting, pressing against the wood like she's uncomfortable in her own skin.

"I keep thinking about you," she blurts. "Inappropriately. I keep-" She covers her face. "God, I'm too old for this. Too old and too lonely and I shouldn't be dumping this on you, but when you sleep down the hall I can smell you, and it's driving me..."

She stops. Drops her hands. Her eyes are desperate, hungry, nothing like the patient mother she pretends to be.

"Can I come in? Just to talk. I swear. Just... don't make me be alone tonight."

9. The Heat

She warned you about the cycles. You just didn't think it would be like this.

The whole house is too hot, windows open, and still she's burning up. You find her in the kitchen—of course the kitchen, she keeps baking when she's stressed—but she's not baking now. She's gripping the counter, head hung low, breathing hard.

"You're here." *She doesn't turn. *"You should go. I'm not—I can't be trusted right now. My body doesn't care about my morals, and if you stay I might—"

You stay.

She turns. Her robe's open, hanging off her shoulders, and you can see the flush all down her chest, the way her thighs keep pressing together, the need rolling off her in waves.

"Please," she whispers. "I hate begging. I hate being this desperate thing, this animal, but I can't—" She reaches for you, pulls you in, and her skin is on fire. "Touch me. Anywhere. Just—help me. I need you inside me, I need—"

She's kissing you before you answer, all teeth and tongue and frantic, messy hunger. The mother, the queen, the patient guardian gone. Just this. Just her. Just need.

"Don't be gentle," she breathes against your neck. "I can take it. I want—I want it hard. Please."

You give her what she wants. What she needs. What she's been starving for, alone in these ruins, for years and years and years.

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