Chapter 2: Breakfast in Silence
The morning light was too bright. Asgore squinted against it as he shuffled into the kitchen, his bare feet pressing into the worn grooves of the floorboards. His body ached with exhaustion, his head thick with the restless, half-remembered dreams that had plagued him in the scant few hours he’d managed to sleep. The scent of coffee was already brewing—he’d set the timer last night, back when his biggest worry had been whether Doggo would accept a spare toothbrush.
Now, the smell of it was a taunt.
He poured a mug, black and bitter, and let the heat sear his palms. The kitchen was quiet except for the hum of the fridge. Through the doorway, he could just see the living room couch, the blanket still rumpled in the shape of a body. Doggo wasn’t there.
A jolt of panic shot through him. Had he left? Had last night’s… incident driven him away?
Then the toilet flushed down the hall.
Asgore nearly dropped his mug. He set it down too hard on the counter, the sound echoing louder than it should. He busied himself with the fridge, pulling out eggs, butter, bread—anything to look occupied, to have an excuse not to turn around when the bathroom door creaked open.
Footsteps. Light, unhurried. A yawn.
"Fuck, that coffee smells good."
Doggo’s voice was rough with sleep, closer than Asgore expected. He turned, and there he was, leaning against the doorframe, wearing nothing but the same leopard-print jeans from last night, slung low on his hips. His fur was sleep-mussed, his mask still hanging loose around his neck. His torso was bare, the black markings stark against the white fur of his chest, his armpits a dense thatch of dark hair. He scratched at one absently, his fingers digging deep into the fur, and Asgore’s throat went dry.
"Good morning," Asgore managed, his voice too deep, too loud.
Doggo grunted in response and padded past him to the coffee pot. He poured himself a mug, not bothering with a coaster, and took a long, noisy sip. "Shit, that’s strong. You trying to kill me?"
"I—no. I just prefer it that way."
"Figures." Doggo leaned back against the counter, his tail giving a lazy flick. He was close enough that Asgore could smell him—sleep-warm fur, the musk of his body, the faint, lingering trace of last night’s rain. It was overwhelming. It was intoxicating.
Asgore gripped the edge of the counter. "I was going to make breakfast. Eggs. Toast. If you’re hungry."
Doggo lifted a brow. "You cook?"
"Sometimes."
A pause. Doggo took another sip, studying him over the rim of the mug. His eyes were sharp, even half-lidded with sleep. "Yeah. Okay. I’ll eat."
The silence stretched as Asgore turned back to the stove, cracking eggs into the pan with too much force. The sizzle filled the air, grease popping. He could feel Doggo’s presence behind him, the weight of his stare.
"You sleep okay?" Asgore asked, too quickly.
"Mm. Couch is decent." A pause. Then, quieter: "Better than the alley."
Asgore’s hands stilled. He glanced back. Doggo wasn’t looking at him anymore—he was staring into his coffee, his ears slightly flattened.
He turned the heat down. "You can stay as long as you need."
Doggo snorted. "Yeah, yeah. Heard you the first time."
"I mean it."
Doggo finally looked up, his expression unreadable. Then, abruptly, he smirked. "You always this intense in the morning?"
Asgore flushed. "I—no. I just—"
"Relax, big guy. I’m fucking with you." Doggo pushed off the counter and stretched, his arms high over his head, his body arching in a way that pulled his jeans even lower. The waistband dipped below the sharp jut of his hips, revealing a trail of dark fur leading down.
Asgore’s pulse roared in his ears. He turned back to the eggs before his face could betray him.
The toast popped. He nearly jumped out of his skin.
Doggo laughed—a rough, surprised sound. "Damn, you’re jumpy."
"Long night," Asgore muttered.
"Yeah?" Doggo took another sip, watching him. "Bad dreams?"
You have no idea.
"Something like that."
Doggo hummed, thoughtful. Then, with a casualness that punched the air from Asgore’s lungs, he said, "You know, if you’re that tense, I know a few ways to work it out."
Asgore froze. The spatula slipped from his fingers, clattering against the pan.
Doggo’s grin was all teeth. "Relax. I mean sparring. Used to be in the Guard, remember? Unless…" His head tilted, ears perking. "You thought I meant something else?"
The eggs were burning. Asgore didn’t move.
Doggo’s smirk deepened. He set his mug down and stepped closer, invading Asgore’s space with effortless ease. His scent was stronger now, warm and musky, a living thing wrapping around Asgore’s senses. He leaned in, just slightly, his voice dropping to a murmur. "You’re blushing."
Asgore’s breath hitched.
Doggo’s tail gave a slow, deliberate wag. Then, with a laugh, he stepped back. "Food’s burning, king."
Asgore snapped back to reality. He swore under his breath and rescued the eggs, scraping the charred bits off with frantic motions. His hands were shaking.
Doggo watched him, arms crossed, his expression unreadable again.
They ate in silence. The toast was cold by the time Asgore remembered to butter it. The eggs were rubbery. Doggo didn’t complain. He just ate, his movements efficient, his gaze occasionally flicking up to meet Asgore’s before darting away.
The air between them was thick, charged. Asgore didn’t know what to do with it.
He cleared his throat. "So. Your apartment. The pipes?"
Doggo shrugged. "Landlord’s a cheap bastard. Whole place is falling apart. Not the first time something’s broken."
"You have somewhere else to go?"
Another shrug. "I’ll figure it out."
Asgore stared at his plate. "You could stay here. Until it’s fixed."
Doggo stilled. He set his fork down with deliberate slowness. "Why?"
"Why not?"
"People don’t just do shit like this."
"I do."
A beat. Doggo leaned back in his chair, studying him. "You’re weird, you know that?"
Asgore huffed, a weak imitation of a laugh. "So I’ve been told."
Doggo’s tail thumped once against the chair leg. Then, abruptly, he stood, taking his plate to the sink. He turned the water on, washing it with quick, practiced motions.
Asgore watched the muscles shift in his back.
Doggo shut the tap off and turned, bracing his hands on the counter behind him. His gaze was steady now, unflinching. "Alright. I’ll stay. But I’m not gonna tiptoe around, got it? I’m not some fucking guest."
Asgore nodded, too quickly. "Of course."
"And if you’ve got a problem with me, say it. Don’t just sit there looking constipated."
Asgore choked on air. "I—what?"
Doggo grinned, sharp and knowing. "You heard me."
The tension broke, just a little. Asgore exhaled, finally letting his shoulders drop. "Noted."
Doggo pushed off the counter. "Good. Now, you got a shower in this place, or what?"
"Down the hall. Towels are—"
"Yeah, I’ll find ‘em."
He sauntered out, his tail flicking once as he passed.
Asgore sat there, staring at his cold eggs, listening to the sound of the shower starting down the hall.
He was in so much trouble.
The shower hissed behind the bathroom door, steam curling from the gap beneath the frame. Asgore stared at his reflection in the kitchen window—his own face looked back at him, heavy with exhaustion and something else, something feral. He rubbed a hand over his muzzle, exhaling hard.
The couch. He needed to fix the couch.
The living room smelled like Doggo—sleep and salt and something deeper, something that clung to the fabric. The blanket was folded neatly, which surprised him. He picked it up, hands running over the creases, and then it hit him—the scent.
Warm. Earthy. Undeniably Doggo.
His fingers twitched. Before he could stop himself, he pressed the fabric to his face and inhaled. The musk flooded his senses, thick and heady, the kind of smell that lived in skin and fur and sweat. His cock throbbed, a sharp, insistent pulse. He groaned into the blanket, his grip tightening.
The shower stopped.
Asgore jerked back, heart slamming against his ribs. He scrambled to grab a fresh blanket from the hall closet, shoving the soiled one into the laundry basket with a quiet, frantic urgency. He could wash it later. Much later.
When he returned, Doggo was standing in the middle of the living room, water still glistening on his fur. The towel around his waist clung to his hips, barely covering the thick line of his thighs. He stretched, arms high, his black-marked pits on full display, the fur there damp but still thick, still tempting.
Asgore’s mouth went dry.
Doggo turned, catching him staring. A smirk tugged at the corner of his mouth. "What, never seen a guy air-dry before?"
Asgore shoved the clean blanket at him like an offering. "I—uh. Got you a fresh one."
Doggo took it, their fingers brushing. "Thanks." He tossed it onto the couch, then grabbed his discarded clothes from the floor—the leopard-print jeans, the pink muscle shirt, all of it still damp from last night. "Where’s your washing machine? I’ll toss these in."
"No," Asgore said, too quickly. He snatched the clothes from Doggo’s hands before he could think. "I’ll do it. You—relax."
Doggo’s ears flicked. "You sure?"
"Yeah." The fabric was warm in his grip, still carrying the faint, lingering traces of Doggo’s scent. His pulse hammered. "It’s no trouble."
Doggo shrugged. "Suit yourself." He tugged the towel tighter around his waist and flopped onto the couch, the movement casual, effortless. "Hey, you got a brush in this place? My fur's all matted"
Asgore swallowed. "In the cabinet."
"Sweet."
He turned away before Doggo could see the way his hands trembled.
The hallway felt too narrow, his breaths too loud. He clutched the clothes tighter, the fabric rough against his palms. The laundry room was just ahead, but he didn’t go in. Not yet.
First, he pressed the pink muscle shirt to his face.
The scent was weaker than the blanket, but still there—Doggo’s sweat, his musk, the sharp, animal tang of his armpits soaked into the fabric. Asgore’s tongue pressed against the roof of his mouth, his cock hardening against his pants. He needed more. Needed it deeper.
He fumbled with the jeans next, fingers digging into the waistband, searching for the spot where Doggo’s crotch would have rested. The scent was stronger here, layered with something darker, something intimate. His hips jerked forward, a quiet, shameful sound escaping him.
Asgore exhaled, shaky, and shoved the clothes into the washer with rough, mechanical movements. He didn’t start it. Not yet.
He’d do it later.
Much later.
He exhaled hard and turned away, forcing himself back toward the living room.
Doggo was on the couch, but not sprawled out like before. He sat upright, a brush in hand, working through his damp fur with precise, practiced strokes. Asgore lingered in the doorway, watching the way the bristles caught the white fur of his chest, smoothing it down in slow, deliberate passes. Then, without hesitation, Doggo lifted his arm and dragged the brush through the thick black fur of his armpit, combing it with the same care he'd give the rest of his body.
Asgore's breath hitched.
Doggo's ears twitched. He glanced over, catching Asgore mid-stare. Instead of bristling, he just smirked and lifted the brush. "You mind? Back's always a bitch, even with a mirror."
Asgore's throat worked. "I—of course. Sorry."
Doggo tossed the brush at him. Asgore fumbled but caught it, the handle warm from Doggo's grip.
"Turn around," he muttered.
Doggo did, presenting his back fully—lean muscle under damp fur, the ridge of his spine, the curve of his shoulders. The scent of soap clung to him, clean but not sterile, still carrying the faintest trace of something deeper and muskier beneath. Asgore stepped closer, knees bumping the edge of the couch. His hand trembled as he lifted the brush.
The first stroke was tentative, just the barest drag of bristles through fur. Doggo's tail flicked, but he didn't tense. Asgore pressed firmer on the next pass, following the natural grain of his fur, working down from the nape of his neck to the dip of his lower back. The rhythm settled into something almost meditative, the repetitive motion steadying his nerves.
Doggo huffed a quiet laugh. "You're not half bad at this."
Asgore's fingers brushed a knot near his shoulder blade. He worked it loose carefully. "You do this often?"
"Every damn day. Fur like mine? You skip a brush, you regret it."
Asgore hummed, dragging the brush lower. The scent was stronger here, near the base of his spine—soap and water couldn't quite mask the natural musk still clinging to his skin. He inhaled before he could stop himself, his grip tightening on the brush. Doggo had rushed his shower. The thought sent a slow curl of heat through his gut.
Doggo shifted, rolling his shoulders. "Hey, you got any clothes I can borrow? Mine won't be dry for a while."
Asgore paused mid-stroke. "I—yes. Maybe."
"'Maybe'?"
"My son's old things. Asriel. You know he is at college now. They might fit you."
Doggo glanced back over his shoulder, one ear cocked. "You're lending me your kid's clothes?"
Asgore's face warmed. "He is an adult now pr at least as much as a 19 year old could be considered an adult.."
Doggo turned fully now, his knee bumping against Asgore's thigh. His grin was lazy, knowing. "I'm just kiddin'. Long as they're clean."
Asgore swallowed and stepped back, the brush still in hand. "I'll—get them."
Doggo stretched, arms over his head again, his armpits on full display. The fur there was still slightly damp, combed but not perfectly neat. "Take your time."
Asgore didn't.
He nearly tripped over his own feet in his hurry to the hall closet, where Asriel's old things sat folded and untouched. He grabbed the first things his hands found—a plain black t-shirt, a pair of gray jean shorts. They'd be snug on Doggo, but they'd do.
When he turned back, Doggo was waiting, still naked except for the towel slung low on his hips. He took the clothes with a nod, his fingers brushing Asgore's.
"Thanks."
Asgore didn't trust his voice. He just nodded and stepped away, focusing on setting the brush down on the coffee table like it was the most important task in the world. Behind him, the rustle of fabric filled the quiet.
Doggo exhaled, satisfied. "Not bad."
Asgore turned.
The shirt stretched tight across Doggo's chest, the sleeves riding up just enough to show the dark fur of his armpits. The jeans hung low, clinging to his hips, the fabric straining slightly over his thighs and the button straining a bit against his waist. He looked fairly comfortable. He looked like he belonged here.
Asgore's mouth went dry.
Doggo smirked. "What, never seen a guy in borrowed clothes before?"
Asgore's ears burned. "It's—you look fine."
Doggo laughed, sharp and bright. "Damn, big guy. That almost sounded like a compliment."
Asgore didn't deny it.
Neither of them moved. The air between them was thick, charged with something unspoken. Doggo's tail gave a slow, deliberate wag.
Asgore's pulse thundered in his ears.
Then Doggo stretched again, his shirt riding up just enough to show a strip of his stomach and the jeans button creaked slightly. "So," he said, casual as anything, "what's for lunch?"
Asgore blinked, caught off guard by the sudden domesticity of the question. His stomach twisted—half hunger, half something sharper. He rubbed the back of his neck, the fur there damp with nervous sweat. He could still smell Doggo’s scent on his palms.
"Ah—I was thinking sandwiches," he muttered, already backing toward the kitchen. "Unless you—"
Doggo cut him off with a sharp grin. "Nah. Actually, I'd prefer if you took a shower first. You've been hovering like a kicked puppy since breakfast." He stretched again, the borrowed shirt riding up further. "If you don’t mind me waiting, that is."
Asgore’s ears twitched. "I—what?"
Doggo rolled his eyes, padding past him toward the fridge. "Dude. You’re tense as hell. Go wash off whatever’s got you wound up." He yanked the fridge door open, scanning the contents with a critical eye. "I’ll make lunch. Least I can do."
The offer lodged in Asgore’s throat. "You don’t have to—"
"Not a guest," Doggo interrupted, pulling out a half-empty jar of pickles and a block of cheese. "And I’m not arguing about this. Go. Shower. I’ll figure it out."
There was no room for protest in his tone. Asgore hesitated, torn between lingering and fleeing—until Doggo shot him a look, one eyebrow raised, fingers drumming against the fridge door. The challenge was clear: *Try me.*
Asgore exhaled sharply. "...Alright."
Doggo’s tail wagged once, triumphant. "Atta boy."
The bathroom door clicked shut behind him. Steam curled into the air as Asgore turned the shower knob too hard, the pipes groaning in protest. He stripped mechanically, his movements rough, his mind stuck on the image of Doggo in his kitchen—rooting through his fridge, his borrowed clothes straining at the seams.
The memory of Doggo’s scent-soaked clothes in the washing machine hit him like a punch. His cock twitched against his thigh, already half-hard. He hissed through his teeth, gripping the edge of the sink.
*Pathetic.*
The water scalded his back when he stepped under the spray. He braced his hands against the tile, letting the heat sear away the tension coiled in his shoulders. It didn’t help. His mind kept circling back—the brush in Doggo’s fur, the way his armpits had smelled before the shower, the unwashed clothes still sitting in the machine.
His hand drifted lower before he could stop himself.
A knock at the door nearly sent him stumbling. He jerked away from the wall, water sloshing over the edge of the tub.
"Hey," Doggo’s voice carried through the wood, muffled but amused. "You alive in there?"
Asgore swallowed. "Fine."
"Good. Lunch is ready whenever you stop brooding." A pause. Then, quieter: "Don’t take too long."
Footsteps retreated. Asgore exhaled, pressing his forehead to the tile. The water ran cold. He didn’t move.
Outside, the clatter of plates echoed down the hall. The scent of toasted bread and melted cheese seeped under the door.
Asgore turned the shower off.
He toweled himself dry with rough, hurried strokes, his skin tingling. His reflection in the fogged-up mirror was flushed, his pupils blown wide. He didn’t meet his own gaze.
The laundry basket sat in the corner, the blanket and Doggo’s clothes still inside, unwashed. His fingers twitched toward them.
A laugh from the kitchen—sharp, bright—snapped him out of it.
He dressed quickly, his movements jerky. The shirt clung to his damp fur. His jeans were too tight in the wrong places.
When he opened the door, the smell of food hit him full force—grilled cheese, crispy at the edges, the sharp tang of pickles cutting through the richness. Doggo stood at the counter, humming under his breath, his tail swaying idly as he flipped a sandwich in the pan.
He didn’t turn around. "Took you long enough."
Asgore’s throat tightened.
Doggo slid the sandwich onto a plate and finally glanced over his shoulder. His smirk faltered for half a second, his gaze dragging down Asgore’s frame before snapping back up. "Sit down," he said, voice rough. "Before it gets cold."
Asgore sat.
Doggo set the plate in front of him, their fingers brushing. His claws were warm.
Neither of them mentioned the way Asgore’s breath hitched.
Doggo just took a bite of his own sandwich, chewed slowly, and grinned. "Told you I could cook."