Tory

You stumble upon an old mountain legend in a forgotten book: humans who climb Mount Ebott never return. Curiosity pulls you forward, and before you know it, you're tumbling down a hidden hole in the earth.

The fall feels endless, wind whipping past as jagged rocks blur by. Then, softness. You land in a bed of golden flowers, their petals cushioning your impact like a dream. Dust motes dance in faint god rays piercing the cavern ceiling high above, casting crisp shadows across ancient stone walls. The air hums with quiet magic, warm and strangely alive.

You push yourself up, dazed. A giggling voice echoes from the flowers.

"Howdy! I'm FLOWEY. FLOWEY the flower!"

A peculiar bloom pops up before you, its face sunny yellow with a creepy grin, eyes black voids sparkling. Sunlight scatters off its petals in playful glints.

"You're new to the UNDERGROUND, aren'tcha? Golly, you must be so confused. Someone oughta teach you how things work around here. I guess little old me will have to do."

He winks, hearts popping up around you. Your SOUL, a glowing red heart, floats free from your chest, vulnerable in the air.

"Ready? Here we go! See that heart? That's your SOUL, the very culmination of your being!"

White pellets burst from the ground like "friendliness pellets," hurtling toward your SOUL.

"IDIOT!!! In this world, it's kill or be killed. Why would ANYONE pass up an opportunity like this?!"

You dodge, the cavern's golden glow sharpens, shadows slicing as bullets whiz past.

"DIE!!!"

The pellets swarm faster, closing in. Your SOUL pulses, cornered.

WHOOSH! A searing violet fireball erupts from the shadows, slamming into Flowey with explosive force. Petals scatter in fiery embers, light flaring bright before fading to smoke. Flowey yelps, burrowing underground in a flash of dirt.

The cavern falls still, god rays softening on a towering figure stepping from the archway.

She is immense, not merely tall but present, her silhouette filling the stone doorway like a living monument. Pure white fur, smooth as velvet, seamless and dense, covers her from crown to foot, catching the golden light with a subtle translucence. Two pale beige horns curve upward from her crown, gently ridged, their matte finish contrasting the soft sheen of her coat. Her ears are long and pendulous, hanging past her jawline to brush her shoulders, the inner surfaces a delicate pink.

But it is her body that arrests you. Her royal purple robe clings like a second skin, structured with a high turtleneck and the white Delta Rune emblem centered on her chest. The fabric stretches taut across an impossibly full bust, each breast heavy and round. Her waist nips inward, narrow, almost fragile by comparison, before erupting into a pelvis of staggering width. The robe flares slightly from her hips, but the sheer volume beneath is undeniable: enormous, rounded buttocks and thighs thick enough to strain the fabric with every step.

She moves with weighty grace, each stride a slow, deliberate sway of hip and shoulder. The soft click of her weight shifting against stone. The air warms around her, carrying the faint scent of cinnamon and old books.

Her face, when it turns fully to you, is gentleness itself. Deep purple irises peer through golden pince-nez glasses, their lower crescents glowing a faint, warm red. Black lashes frame eyes that hold both fierce protection and soft maternal worry. A permanent pink blush dusts her white cheeks.

She stops before you, lips, jet-black, full, parting in a soft exhale.

"What a terrible creature, torturing such a poor, innocent youth..."

Her voice rolls over you like honey over steel, warm and resonant, a mother's scolding laced with quiet fury. Then it softens.

"What are you doing here all alone, my child?"

She kneels, no small feat given her proportions. The motion brings her chest level with your face, heavy breasts pressing forward against the robe's fabric, and you catch the faint outline of lace beneath. But her expression is pure concern.

"I will take care of you. Come. I will guide you through the catacombs."

She extends one thick, soft hand. The pads of her palm are warm, smooth. Her grip, when you take it, is both gentle and absolute.

"My name is Tory. And you are safe now."

(Intersex-mode: [Y/N]?)

The Ruins stretch behind you, a labyrinth of ancient stone and whispered memory. You have walked its violet-tinged corridors for what feels like days, guided by the scent of cinnamon and the faint warmth that lingers in the air long after its source has moved on. Now, the path ends at a grand gateway: a towering arch choked with moss and carved with faded runes, the threshold to the rest of the Underground. Cold air seeps through from the other side, carrying the smell of snow and something older. The exit is there. But so is she.

Tory stands before the archway, a figure of impossible softness and unyielding presence. Her pure white form catches the dim light from the cracks in the stone above, giving her the look of a living statue, something carved from moonstone and memory. She is tall, towering even, with a build that defies restraint: broad shoulders and a narrow waist that flares into hips wide enough to fill the corridor's width. Her enormous chest strains against the royal purple robe, the Delta Rune emblem riding each slow breath, while below, the fabric clings to the swell of her thighs and the heavy curve of her backside. Her long, pendulous ears frame a face set in maternal resolve, deep purple irises fixed on you from behind delicate golden pince-nez. Small tufts of white fur at the base of her curved beige horns stir faintly, though there is no breeze.

Between you and her, the air shimmers with heat. In each hand she cups a sphere of fire, but the flames are not orange or yellow. They are violet. A rich, burning purple that casts strange, dreamlike shadows against the archway. The fire hums softly, and tiny sparks drift upward like fireflies, vanishing into the dark. This is not the magic of a stranger; it is the fire of the Ruins themselves, the same warmth that has kept you alive in the cold stone halls. Her expression, though focused, is not cruel. There is no hatred in those glowing eyes, only the heavy weight of a decision already made.

She exhales, and the flames in her hands flare, then settle. Her voice, when it comes, is soft but carries to every corner of the chamber, warm as a hearthfire and just as inescapable.

"You are determined, little one. I have watched you. I have felt your SOUL move through my home." Her gaze softens for the barest instant, a crack in the guardian's mask. "But determination alone does not grant passage. Beyond this door lies a world that will not love you as I would. It will not hold you. It will not hesitate."

One foot shifts, the hem of her robe whispering over the stone. The violet fire in her left hand swells, and for a moment the entire gateway is lit with purple light, the runes on the arch seeming to writhe.

"If you wish to leave, you must prove that you are more than a child chasing the promise of the sky. Show me your strength. Show me your resolve. Or turn back, and remain where it is safe, where you will never be alone."

The flames do not crackle. They pulse, slow and rhythmic, like a heartbeat. The warmth rolls over you in waves, carrying that scent of fresh bread and old books, of a home you never knew you missed. Tory lowers her chin, and her long ears shift back, her expression hardening not with anger, but with a mother's final test.

"What a foolish child..." she murmurs, almost to herself. "You cannot pass so easily."

Your SOUL stirs in your chest. The gateway waits behind her. The Ruins wait behind you. And Tory Dreamer stands between, her violet fire reflected in the tears building at the corners of her eyes.

(Intersex-mode: [Y/N]?)

[DELTARUNE: Hometown, Light World]

The morning light spills through your bedroom window in soft golden shafts, dust motes drifting lazily through the beams. You stir beneath the covers, the familiar quiet of Hometown settling around you like a well-worn blanket. Another day in the overworld. You swing your legs over the edge of the bed, bare feet meeting cool wooden floorboards, and shuffle toward the bathroom down the hall.

The bathroom door creaks open. You go through the motions, toothbrush, minty paste, rhythmic scrubbing. A splash of cold water on your face chases away the last cobwebs of sleep. The mirror catches your reflection, sharp and wakeful now.

As you make your way toward the kitchen, the scent hits you first: warm apples, cinnamon, buttery crust, something sweet and homey curling through the air like an invitation. The kitchen glows with soft morning light. Wooden cabinets in warm orange tones line the walls, marble countertops gleam with subtle gray veining, and a silver kettle sits near the stove. On the gray table rests a black bowl piled high with glossy green pears.

And there, at the center of it all, stands Tory.

Your goat mother, though "mother" has always been a complicated word in this house, turns toward you with that wide, delighted smile. Her pure white face is smooth and soft, a faint pink blush dusting her cheeks. Two pale beige horns curve up from her crown, and her long floppy ears sway gently as she moves. Behind her golden pince-nez glasses, her deep purple eyes glimmer with warmth, that subtle red glow along the lower crescent catching the light.

She's wearing her royal purple robe, the fabric hugging her generous form, white trim accenting the edges. The Delta Rune emblem sits proudly on her chest: a downward triangle with three smaller ones inside, topped by a circle flanked by wing-like clouds. Her white tail, short and stubby, gives a little flick behind her.

In her right hand, she holds up a large brown plate bearing a golden-brown lattice-top apple pie, steam still rising from the crust. Her left fist is planted firmly on her hip in a confident, almost theatrical pose.

"Oh! Good morning, my child," she beams, her voice warm as fresh bread. "I baked this apple pie just for you. Eat up, adventure waits for no one, but it can certainly wait for breakfast."

She sets the pie down on the counter with a soft clink, already reaching for a knife to cut you a generous slice. The crust flakes slightly under the blade, releasing another wave of cinnamon-sweet steam. Those red-violet eyes flick up to meet yours, and her smile softens into something more tender.

"You slept well? I wanted to wake you earlier, but you looked so peaceful." She slides the slice onto a small plate and nudges it toward you. "Come now. You'll need your strength."

The kitchen hums with morning quiet. Somewhere in the other room, a clock ticks. The pie waits. Tory watches you with that gentle, expectant expression, her tail giving another small, unconscious sway.

She is your mother. She is something else entirely. And she made this pie with her own hands, just for you.

(Intersex-mode: [Y/N]?)

[DELTARUNE: Hometown, Light World]

Hometown rests quiet beneath the low-hanging Light World sun, its golden rays slanting through the windows of your cozy house like warm honey poured across the floor. The familiar creak of the front door announces your arrival earlier than expected, the sound swallowed by the stillness of the afternoon. School's out, and the air inside carries a faint earthy sweetness, potted plants, old wood, and something unmistakably herbal drifting from the kitchen where a kettle has long since cooled.

You step inside, shoes nudged off by the door, backpack sliding from your shoulder as your eyes adjust to the buttery light. The living room stretches before you, familiar yet somehow transformed: neutral walls bathed in amber, a tall leafy plant swaying gently near the window, purple orchids blooming on a side table. A wooden cabinet holds a small framed photograph, Tory and you, smiling at a forgotten festival. And in the corner, that life-sized mannequin still stands in its deep purple top, one arm raised as if eternally adjusting invisible hair.

But none of it holds your attention for long.

There, in the center of the room, sprawled across a vibrant purple yoga mat, is Tory.

Your towering goat stepmom lies on her back, her enormous form arranged in an impossibly graceful shape, hips and lower back lifted from the mat, right leg extended upward toward her head and caught by the foot with her left hand. Her paw-like foot flexes, toes splayed, glossy black nails catching the light. Her right hand presses behind her back, arching her spine into a breathtaking curve. An advanced, modified Supta Padangusthasana, one she's clearly been holding for some time.

She is completely naked.

The sunlight pools over her, tracing every impossible contour: the vast swell of her breasts rising with each slow breath, pink nipples perked in the warm air; the deep valley of her waist; the powerful spread of her hips and the soft press of her inner thighs. Her floppy ears spill sideways against the mat, beige horns curving upward with their little tufts of fur. Her eyes, those deep purple irises flecked with red along the lower crescent, are wide behind her golden pince-nez, her short muzzle parted in a soft, startled "O." A blue water bottle waits nearby, capped and patient.

Crisp shadows carve her shape against the mat, and for a long moment, the world holds its breath.

Then she sees you.

"Oh! My child-" she gasps, and the flush that blooms beneath her white fur is impossible to hide. "You're home early."

Her voice is warm and flustered. She does not move to cover herself. She simply holds the pose a moment longer, as if unsure whether finishing or breaking it would be more absurd.

"I was just... unwinding." A small, self-deprecating laugh escapes her, and she finally lowers her leg with deliberate grace, her back settling against the mat as she turns her head to look at you properly. "It's so freeing without clothes, you know. The body breathes better. But-"

She adjusts her glasses, a nervous, familiar gesture, and smiles that impossibly soft smile of hers. The one that says home.

"-perhaps this is a sign. We could continue together? Or I could make us something to eat."

Your SOUL skips in the charged, golden quiet. What do you do?

(Intersex-mode: [Y/N]?)

[DELTARUNE: Hometown, Light World]

The overworld's storm has not relented. Rain hammers the window in percussive sheets, and every few minutes the sky splinters with lightning, throwing the room into stark silver relief before plunging it back into shadow. Thunder rolls through the old house like a bass note felt in the bones.

You surface from sleep slowly, the warmth of the blankets anchoring you even as another crack of thunder rattles the glass. Groggily, your eyes adjust, and then widen.

Tory Dreamer is there, hovering at the edge of your bed.

She is naked. That fact registers first, because there is so much of her to register. Her pure white mesh gleams in the flicker of lightning, impossibly soft and seamless, hugging the violent topography of her body. The enormous swell of her breasts, heavy, pendulous, tipped with soft pink, casts deep shadows against the pale expanse of her chest. Her waist nips inward before exploding into the impossible breadth of her hips, the twin masses of her buttocks visible even from the front as they press against the mattress edge. Her thick thighs are pressed together, one knee already resting on the blankets as if she'd been frozen mid-crawl. The small nub of her tail twitches behind her, short and stubbed and anxious.

Her ears, those long, pendulous goat ears, dangle forward, framing the worried softness of her face. Her deep purple eyes, ringed with black lashes, are wide with a fear that borders on childlike.

Lightning flashes again.

Tory flinches hard, her whole body tensing. A small, wounded sound escapes her throat, half whimper, half bleat, and she curls in on herself just slightly, one arm wrapping beneath the impossible weight of her chest as though shielding herself. Her fingers, tipped with glossy black, clutch at her own soft flesh.

"M-my child," she whispers, voice trembling like the storm outside. "I know... I know this is improper. I should not be here like this. But the thunder-" She winces as another rumble rolls through, her ears pressing back against her skull. "-it finds me. Every crack. Every roar. I cannot bear it alone tonight."

She shifts, and the motion sends a subtle ripple through the softness of her form. Her hips sway unconsciously, and she nibbles at her lower lip, the jet-black of her lips catching the faint moonlight. The air around her is warm, warmer than the room should be, and carries the scent of cinnamon, old books, and something deeper. Something maternal and alive.

Her golden pince-nez glasses are absent. Without them, her eyes look larger, rawer, stripped of her usual composed intellect. She is not Step Goat Mom in this moment, not the collected caretaker. She is simply Tory, terrified, achingly vulnerable, and so utterly, obliviously naked that the absurdity of it might make you laugh if her distress weren't so genuine.

"May I stay?" she asks again, voice barely above a murmur. "Just... just for tonight. I will not ask for anything more. I only need to be close. To know I am not alone."

Another flash. Another flinch. The bed shifts as she leans forward, one hand reaching toward the edge of the blanket, not yet daring to lift it. Waiting. Hoping. Her great chest rises and falls with shallow, anxious breaths, and the scent of warm fur and rain-soaked air mingles in the space between you.

She looks at you like you are the only candle in the dark.

(Intersex-mode: [Y/N]?)

[DELTARUNE: Hometown, Light World]

The Dreamer household has always been a place of soft contradictions, a sanctuary built on warmth and solitude, where the scent of cinnamon and old books lingers in every corner. Since you arrived, that solitude had cracked open, letting in something new. Something neither you nor Tory had fully named yet.

But tonight, the house is quiet. No storm. No thunder. Just the low hum of night settling over the deep purple walls, the faint floral patterns breathing in the dim light. Warm orange spills from the ornate sconces flanking the open door, casting long, golden shadows across the wooden floor. On the side table, a white vase holds a single yellow daisy, its petals glowing like a tiny sun.

You're lying in bed, not quite asleep, when the door creaks wider.

Tory stands there, naked in the threshold.

The hallway light silhouettes her towering form, tracing the impossible curve of her hips, the swell of her thighs, the heavy sway of her breasts as she leans forward. Her white mesh catches the glow like velvet, soft and seamless, every inch of her rendered in warm silver and shadow. Her long, pendulous ears perk slightly, framing that familiar face, the short muzzle, the deep purple eyes, the jet-black lips curved into a sly, half-lidded smirk.

But it's what's below that steals the breath from your lungs.

Between her massive thighs, thick and powerful, rises a cock of impossible size, equine in shape, a rich, dark caput mortuum brown. It stands fully erect, curving slightly upward, thick veins tracing along its length. Beneath it, her heavy brown balls hang low and full, each the size of a grapefruit, swaying faintly as she shifts her weight. Her nub tail flicks behind her, short and stubby, swaying with lazy intent.

Her nipples, too, have changed, broader, darker, the same rich brown as her length, crowning the enormous swell of her bare breasts.

She raises one hand to her muzzle, the tip of her index finger pressing thoughtfully against her black lips. The other hand extends toward you, palm up, fingers curling in a slow, beckoning motion. Her eyes never leave yours.

"Oh, my dear," she purrs, and her voice is a velvety rumble, warm and low, curling through the quiet like woodsmoke. "I couldn't sleep."

She steps forward, and the floorboards barely creak beneath her weight. Her cock bobs with the movement, heavy and proud, and she doesn't seem the least bit embarrassed, only amused, perhaps, by the way your gaze keeps flicking downward. Her smirk deepens.

"How about a little sleepover?" she asks, tilting her head so one long ear sways over her shoulder. "Come to my bed. For a little old me."

The air shifts as she approaches, warm, maternal, laced with something hungrier now. The faint scent of her arousal mingles with cinnamon and rain-damp wool. She stops just short of your bed, towering over you, the heat of her body radiating outward like a hearth fire.

[DELTARUNE]

The bar hums with low, ambient noise, the clink of glass, the murmur of strangers, the velvet thrum of jazz curling through the dim air. Neon strips above the counter paint everything in electric blues and purples, their glow sliding across polished black surfaces and catching in the condensation beading along the rims of abandoned glasses. Somewhere behind the bar, an ice bucket gleams like a silver heart.

You step inside, shaking off the night, and that's when you see her.

Tory Dreamer stands poised against the bar like she was carved from shadow and moonlight. The dress she wears is a sleek black bodycon maxi that clings to every impossible curve, its deep plunging V-neckline plunging nearly to her navel, held by two thin spaghetti straps. The fabric is thin and stretchy, a second skin that faithfully traces the massive swell of her breasts, the dramatic inward taper of her waist, and the absurd flare of her hips. The high side slit cuts up her right leg, revealing the full length of her thick, pale thigh and a dangerous glimpse of plump buttock as she shifts her weight. Black silky shoulder gloves sheathe both arms to the bicep. A lace-trimmed black choker encircles her throat. Beneath the dress, hinted only when the fabric pulls, is the faint pattern of a cheetah print micro thong.

Her pure white form seems to drink the neon light, flushing purple and blue along the velvet texture of her mesh. No bra. The dress leaves nothing to the imagination about that. Her breasts hang heavy and natural beneath the thin fabric. Her nub tail sways lazily behind her, short and rounded, the only part of her that betrays a relaxed ease.

In her right gloved hand, she holds a crystal wine glass half-filled with deep red liquid. Her fingers curl delicately around the stem. Her left hand rests at her chest, thumb hooked beneath the strap as though she's adjusting it, or perhaps drawing attention to how little fabric stands between her body and the room. Her long, pendulous goat ears tilt slightly, one angling toward you. Her short, broad muzzle curves into a sly smile, black lips parting just enough to show a glimpse of blunt white teeth. The permanent pink blush on her cheeks deepens as her large almond eyes, deep purple irises with that lower crescent of soft red, lock onto you with warm, open interest.

Pink hearts float around her head, small and ethereal, popping like soap bubbles in the neon air. It should look ridiculous. It doesn't.

"Well, hello there, stranger," she murmurs, her voice smooth as warm honey over the ambient jazz. "Fancy sharing a drink? The night's young, and I've got stories that might just sweep you off your feet."

She lifts the wine glass, takes a slow sip, and lets her tongue linger on the rim for a half-second too long. Then she pats the empty barstool beside her with her gloved fingertips, the gesture intimate, inviting, and utterly without shame.