Chapter 3: The Brush
The grilled cheese was perfect—crisp golden edges, melted cheddar oozing between the slices, just the right amount of butter soaking into the bread. Asgore took another bite, humming appreciatively.
"Told you I could cook," Doggo said around a mouthful of his own sandwich, tail thumping lazily against the chair leg.
Asgore swallowed, wiping crumbs from his muzzle. "You weren’t lying."
Doggo grinned, sharp and pleased, before shoving the last of his sandwich into his mouth. He chewed noisily, licking cheese off his fingers with a satisfied smack. "Want another? Made plenty."
Asgore hesitated, then patted his stomach with a sheepish chuckle. "Better not. Trying to watch my waist."
Doggo rolled his eyes. "Your loss." He stood, plate in hand, and sauntered back to the stove. "Best damn lunches in the Underground, and you’re gonna stop at one."
Asgore watched as Doggo slapped another sandwich into the pan, the butter sizzling instantly. The borrowed black t-shirt clung to his frame, riding up just enough to show a sliver of his lower back as he leaned over the stove. The sleeves were tight, digging into his biceps and pulling back to reveal dark, dense armpit fur every time he moved.
But the real spectacle was the jeans.
Asriel’s old pair was clearly not built for the hound’s frame. The denim strained across Doggo’s thighs, the fabric pulling taut over his backside with every shift of his weight. The button—already stressed—let out a quiet, ominous creak as Doggo flipped the sandwich.
Asgore’s fingers twitched against his plate.
Doggo didn’t seem to notice. He kept talking between bites, rambling about some Guard training mishap from years ago, his tail wagging as he recounted the story. Asgore nodded along, but his attention was fixed on the way Doggo’s stomach pressed against the shirt after finishing his second sandwich, the fabric lifting slightly over the soft curve of a full belly.
Then Doggo leaned back in his chair with a loud, unapologetic burp, rubbing his stomach.
*Creak.*
The sound was sharp—too sharp. Doggo’s ears perked. He glanced down and leaned forward just as the button gave a final, desperate *ping* and launched itself across the room, landing with a tiny clatter against the tile.
Silence.
Doggo blinked at his now-open fly, then slowly looked up at Asgore.
"Hey, I'm sorry about—"
Asgore stood so fast his chair nearly toppled. His face burned, his pulse roaring in his ears. "Bathroom," he blurted, already backing away.
"Wait—"
But Asgore was already gone, practically sprinting down the hall. He slammed the bathroom door behind him, twisting the lock with shaky fingers before sagging against the wood.
His cock throbbed against his jeans, painfully hard.
*Fuck.*
He squeezed his eyes shut, but the image wouldn’t leave—the way the jeans had split open, the flash of fur and fabric straining, Doggo’s bewildered expression as the button popped. The way his shirt had ridden up just enough to tease the dark trail leading lower—
Asgore groaned, palming himself through his pants. The friction was maddening, too much and not enough. His breath came in ragged bursts as he glanced at the hamper in the corner.
Doggo’s clothes were still there—the pink muscle shirt, the leopard-print jeans, the blanket from the couch. All of it soaked in his scent.
Asgore didn’t hesitate.
He grabbed the shirt first, pressing it to his face with a shuddering inhale. The musk hit him like a punch—sharp, animal, *Doggo*. His hips jerked forward, his free hand fumbling with his zipper.
The first touch to his bare cock was electric. He bit back a whimper, stroking himself slowly, torturously, as he buried his nose deeper into the fabric. His knees trembled.
Outside, the floorboards creaked.
"Asgore?" Doggo’s voice, muffled through the door.
Asgore froze. His heart hammered against his ribs.
A pause. Then, quieter: "...You good in there?"
Asgore squeezed his eyes shut, his grip tightening around himself. *Not even close.*
But all he managed was a strangled, "Fine."
Another pause. Then footsteps retreating.
Asgore exhaled hard, his head dropping back against the door. He didn’t stop. Couldn’t stop. Not with Doggo’s scent flooding his lungs, not with the memory of that damned button popping burned into his brain.
His thumb swiped over the head of his cock, smearing precome down the length. He bit his lip to stifle another sound, his hips stuttering forward into his fist.
*Fuck, fuck, fuck—*
He came with a silent shudder, his release spilling over his fingers as he pressed the shirt harder against his muzzle, breathing Doggo in like it was the only thing keeping him grounded.
For a long moment, he just stood there, panting, his legs weak.
Doggo's footsteps retreated down the hall, the floorboards groaning under his weight. The sink turned on in the kitchen, water splashing against dishes with rough, agitated movements. Asgore exhaled, shaky, and wiped his hand on his shirt before grabbing Doggo's discarded jeans from the hamper.
The denim was still warm in places, the crotch still damp with sweat and something muskier. He fumbled with the button, fingers trembling, then pressed the fabric to his face—deep, greedy inhales filling his lungs with Doggo’s scent, thick and feral and *alive*. His cock twitched, already hardening again.
Shirtless now, sweat beading on his fur, Asgore lifted one arm, his own armpit fur glistening under the bathroom light. The mingled smells—Doggo’s jeans, his own musk—hit him like a drug. His hips jerked forward, his free hand wrapping around himself again, stroking fast and desperate.
A choked moan escaped him as he came, hips stuttering, the jeans still crushed against his snout. The door handle rattled.
Silence. The dripping faucet counted the seconds.
The silence stretched until Asgore's breathing steadied. He wiped his hands on a towel, avoiding his reflection in the mirror. Doggo's clothes felt heavy in his grip as he shoved them into the washing machine, tossing in the blanket for good measure. The clank of the door closing was too loud in the quiet house.
He straightened his shirt, adjusted his belt, ran damp fingers through his beard. Every movement felt deliberate, measured—like if he moved carefully enough, maybe the floor wouldn't creak, maybe Doggo wouldn't hear him slinking back to the kitchen like some guilty teenager.
The kitchen smelled of burned butter and soap when Asgore finally shuffled back in. Doggo stood at the sink, shoulders hunched, scrubbing the same plate for way too long. His borrowed shirt clung to his back with sweat, the fabric riding up where he'd tucked the ruined jeans tighter around his waist.
Water sloshed over the counter as he tossed the sponge down too hard. "Fuckin'—" He grabbed at the split seam of Asriel's jeans like they'd personally offended him.
Asgore's throat tightened. "It's—it's alright. They were old."
Doggo didn't turn around. His claws tapped against the porcelain. "Yeah. Sure."
The silence between them thickened like curdled milk.
Asgore reached for a dish towel, brushing Doggo's elbow as he grabbed it. The hound flinched like he'd been burned.
"Look," Doggo muttered, finally turning to face him. His ears were flat against his skull. "I'll get outta your hair, okay? Clearly I'm—" He gestured at himself, at the mess of dishes, at the broken button still lying near the fridge. "—fucking things up."
Asgore's chest ached. "You're not—"
"I *broke* your kid's pants."
"He doesn't even wear them anymore."
Doggo barked out a laugh, sharp and humorless. He rubbed at his muzzle, his claws catching on black markings. "That's not the goddamn point and you know it."
The scent of weed and wet dog curled between them. Asgore recognized the tremble in Doggo's fingers—not anger, but withdrawal. He'd seen it enough in the Underground, back when monsters smuggled golden flower resin through the ruins.
Doggo's tail lashed once. "I'll go."
"No." The word came out rougher than Asgore meant.
Doggo froze.
Asgore stepped closer, the tile cold under his bare feet. He could see the pulse rabbiting in Doggo's throat, the way his nostrils flared when Asgore's shadow fell over him.
"You don't have to leave," Asgore said quietly.
Doggo's laugh was brittle. "Yeah? Then what, huh? I mooch off you till you're sick of my shit too?" His claws dug into his own arms. "Face it, old man. I'm a fuckup. Can't even keep a shitty apartment without—"
"You're staying."
Silence.
Doggo's breath hitched. He stared at Asgore like he'd grown a second head. "...Why?"
The truth lodged in Asgore's throat, thick and dangerous. *Because I like the way your fur smells in my sheets. Because I think about your armpits when I jerk off. Because you make this empty house feel less like a tomb.*
He swallowed hard. "Because I want you to."
Doggo's pupils dilated. His tongue darted out, wetting his muzzle. The air between them crackled.
Then the doorbell rang.
They both startled.
Doggo recovered first, shoulders hunching again. "Expecting company?"
Asgore frowned. "No."
The bell rang again—insistent.
Doggo's ears twitched toward the sound. Then he grabbed a dish towel and tied it around his waist, hiding the ruined jeans. "Better get that."
The walk to the front door felt endless. Asgore's pulse thundered in his ears, his fingers clumsy on the knob.
When he opened it, Asriel stood on the porch.
"Hey, old man." His grin was wide. "Guess who's back a week early from college."
Asgore stood frozen in the doorway, his brain scrambling to process his son’s beaming face. "Asriel? But your term doesn’t end for—"
"Professor strike," Asriel said with a shrug, hefting his duffel bag higher. "Campus is a ghost town. Figured I’d surprise you." He pushed past his father’s bulky frame with an easy familiarity, his sneakers squeaking on the hall tiles. "I’m gonna crash here tonight, then head over to Mom’s tomorrow. She’s expecting me for dinner but I wanted to see—"
He stopped dead in the entrance to the kitchen.
Doggo was leaning against the counter, arms crossed over the tight black tee, the dishtowel still knotted clumsily around his hips over the split jeans. A half-eaten third sandwich sat on a plate beside him.
The two monsters stared at each other.
"Asriel," Asgore began, his voice unnaturally high. "This is, uh, Doggo. An old friend from the Guard."
Doggo’s ears twitched at ‘friend,’ but his expression remained unreadable behind the mask still hanging loose around his neck.
"Doggo," Asgore continued, wringing his hands. "This is my son, Asriel."
"Hey," Asriel said, recovering with a polite smile. His eyes did a quick, confused sweep of Doggo’s attire—the familiar shirt, the makeshift towel skirt. "Nice to meet you."
"Yeah," Doggo grunted. He didn’t offer a hand.
An awkward silence ballooned in the warm kitchen. It was abruptly pierced by a loud gurgle from Asriel’s stomach. He flushed, laughing lightly and patting his midsection. "Sorry. I haven’t eaten since yesterday. grabbed, like, one gas station burrito on the bus ride over."
Doggo moved before Asgore could. He shoved the plate with the remaining half-sandwich across the counter. "Here."
"Oh, you don’t have to—"
"It’s fine." Doggo’s tone left no room for argument. "Already cold."
Asriel shrugged, picking it up. "Thanks, man." He took a large bite, chewing thoughtfully as his gaze lingered on Doggo’s chest. He swallowed. "Hey, not to be weird, but… is that my ‘Cool Skull’ shirt from 12th grade?"
Asgore’s blood ran cold. Doggo looked down at the stretched black fabric as if just noticing it.
"I—" Asgore started.
"The washing machine blew up," Doggo interrupted smoothly, not missing a beat. He hooked a thumb towards Asgore. "Soaked all his stuff. He lent me whatever was clean." He delivered the lie with a straight face, though one ear gave a faint, skeptical twitch.
Asriel’s eyes flicked to the dishtowel, then to his father’s flustered expression. A slow, knowing grin spread across his muzzle. "Dude, no worries. Seriously." He took another bite, talking around it. "Better someone wears them. They were just sitting in that closet collecting dust." He pointed the sandwich at Doggo. "Looks better on you anyway. I could never fill that thing out."
The offhand compliment seemed to disarm Doggo momentarily. He just grunted again, but his tail gave a single, subtle wag against the cabinet door.
"Let’s, um, sit," Asgore said, desperate to steer the situation somewhere, anywhere, else.
They migrated to the worn dining table. Asriel pulled out a chair with a familiar scrape, dropping into it with a tired sigh. Doggo slid into the chair opposite, moving with a lazy grace. Asgore sat at the head, feeling like a defendant.
"So, Doggo," Asriel began, wiping crumbs from his chin. "You said you were in the Guard? You must’ve known my dad back in the day, when he was all… kingly." He chuckled.
"Knew of him," Doggo corrected, his voice a low rumble. He leaned back, the chair creaking. "I was just a sentry. Patrol duty in Snowdin. The King didn’t exactly do walkabouts." His gaze slid to Asgore, a flicker of something glinting in his eyes. "Heard stories, though."
Asgore took a slow sip from a forgotten glass of water. His nerves were live wires.
Asriel launched into a rambling monologue about his humanities course, the weird dining hall food, a friend’s disastrous attempt at brewing mead. It was normal, easy chatter that filled the room with a veneer of domesticity.
Asgore wasn’t hearing a word.
His entire awareness was funneled into the space beside him. Doggo had shifted in his seat. The hound stretched his arms high above his head, a silent, groaning motion that pulled the borrowed shirt tight across his chest and shoulders. The hem rode up, exposing a strip of pale stomach fur.
But the true spectacle was revealed in the tight, dark hollows of his raised armpits. The dense black fur there was lush and matted from the day’s warmth, the skin beneath subtly glistening. The scent hit Asgore a second later—a potent, musky cloud of clean sweat and canine warmth that cut through the smells of toast and soap.
Doggo held the stretch for a heartbeat too long, his eyes sliding to meet Asgore’s stunned gaze. A slow, wicked smirk curled the edge of his mouth.
He knew. He knew exactly what he was doing.
"Asriel," Doggo said suddenly, his voice casual as he lowered his arms, letting one fall carelessly along the back of Asgore’s chair. "Your dad mentioned you’re into gardening. That true?"
Asriel blinked, mid-sentence about a problematic roommate. "Huh? Oh, yeah. I mean, I try. Got my mom’s weirdly green thumb, I guess." He turned to Asgore. "You should see the succulents on my dorm windowsill, Dad. They’re actually alive."
Asgore flinched as Doggo’s furred forearm brushed against the back of his shoulders. The contact was electric, and the musk was stronger here, closer. "That’s… wonderful, son," he managed, his tongue thick.
"You think so?" Asriel beamed, missing the strained tone entirely. "Maybe I can replant that clogged corner in your backyard this weekend. The one where all the snails congregate."
Doggo’s arm shifted, the back of his hand now subtly resting against Asgore’s tense bicep. The hound leaned forward to grab his water glass from the table, his movement causing his torso to twist. His other arm came to rest on the table, his hand inches from Asgore’s, fingers splayed. The position pulled the shirt sleeve even tighter, offering an unobstructed view of the dark, fragrant pit.
"It’s a good skill," Doggo said to Asriel, his attention seemingly fully on the conversation. "Self-sufficiency. Bet your mom appreciates the help."
"She does!" Asriel said, delighted. "She’s got me pruning the spiderwort every other week. says I’m the only one she trusts not to butcher it."
Asgore was drowning. The visceral, musky scent was in his nostrils, in his throat. It was the same feral, intoxicating aroma he’d buried his face in just minutes ago, now potent and live on Doggo’s skin. His own face felt feverish. His traitorous body was responding, a slow, warming tightness gathering low in his gut.
Doggo chose that moment to push back from the table. "Forgot my water," he murmured, standing.
He didn’t walk around. He brushed past Asgore’s chair, his hip and thigh pressing firmly against the goat monster’s shoulder and arm in the cramped space. The denim of the ruined jeans was rough. The heat of him was biblical.
Asgore stiffened, a sharp inhale catching in his chest.
Returning from the kitchen, Doggo didn’t resume his old seat. He leaned against the side of the table, right next to Asgore, one hand planted on the wooden surface. He was so close Asgore could see the individual hairs in his exposed armpit. The hound then casually crossed his arms behind his head, elbows pointed outward, framing that dark, intimate space perfectly. He let out a contented sigh, the cotton of the shirt straining audibly across his pectorals with the motion.
It was a blatant, brazen display. A trap laid in open sight with an oblivious witness.
"So, Asriel," Doggo said, his voice a relaxed drawl. "What’s the plan for your mom’s? Big dinner?" He subtly flexed the arm behind his head, making the tight sleeve bite into the muscle. A soft, fibrous creak emanated from the stressed shirt seam near his shoulder.
Asriel, leaning on his elbows, nodded. "Yeah, she’s making butterscotch-cinnamon pie. The good kind, with the lattice crust. My absolute favorite." He glanced at his silent father. "You okay, Dad? You seem a little… red. Is it hot in here?"
Doggo’s smirk widened into a full, toothy grin. He flexed again, turning slightly to give Asriel a view of his profile. The muscles in his arm and chest corded under the fabric, which let out another soft, protesting sound.
"Yeah, Asgore," Doggo echoed, his voice dropping to a mocking, faux-concerned purr. His eyes, heavy-lidded and full of malicious amusement, locked onto the flustered king. "You do look kinda flushed."
The words hung in the air, a taunt wrapped in fake concern. The hound's armpit was right there, a dark, humid vortex of scent that Asgore could taste. His own face burned as if he’d leaned over an open oven.
“I—it’s the weather,” Asgore blurted, his voice cracking. He pushed his chair back with a screech, the legs catching on the tile. “Sudden heat. Must be a… a front coming in.”
He didn’t wait for a reply. He turned and practically lunged for the hallway, a giant moving with graceless, desperate speed. As he brushed past Doggo, the hound shifted his weight, his hip blocking the path for a fraction of a second. His hand, hanging casually at his side, swept inward.
The touch was fleeting, a rough, deliberate brush of knuckles against the denim covering Asgore’s crotch. It wasn’t an accident. The pressure was firm, knowing, a silent confirmation of everything Asgore was trying to flee.
Asgore jerked as if electrocuted, a choked gasp escaping him. He didn’t look back. He heard Asriel’s confused, “Dad?” and Doggo’s smooth, lying follow-up: “Maybe he’s coming down with something.”
Then Asgore was in the bathroom, door locked, back pressed against the wood as he panted. His heart hammered a frantic rhythm against his ribs. The ghost of that touch burned through the fabric. He was painfully, shamefully hard. He squeezed his eyes shut, gripping the edge of the sink until his knuckles ached.
Not in front of your son. This is not appropriate. Get it together.
But his body sang a different, traitorous song. The blunt heat of Doggo’s knuckles, the smug implication… it was hot. A dangerous, thrilling heat that made his stomach clench. He couldn’t summon any real anger, only a dizzying swirl of panic and want.
He turned the cold tap on and splashed water on his face, the shock helping a little. He focused on his breathing, on the chill of the porcelain, on the mundane sound of the pipes groaning in the walls.
A soft knock at the door made him jump.
“Your Majesty?” Doggo’s voice was a low, melodic drawl from just outside. He sounded like he was leaning his head against the wood. “You okay in there? Your boy’s getting worried. Says you never run off from pie talk.”
Asgore closed his eyes. “I’m fine,” he managed, his voice gravelly.
“You sure?” Doggo’s tone was syrupy with fake concern, each word stretched out. “Took off pretty fast. We’re all… concerned.”
“Doggo,” Asgore hissed, pressing closer to the door, his voice a strained whisper. “Stop. Not in front of my son.”
A rich, quiet chuckle vibrated through the wood. “Why? You afraid we'll get caught?”
The phrase was a seductive punch, loaded with amusement and dare. It slithered under the door and wrapped around Asgore’s spine.
“You know why,” Asgore whispered fiercely, his flush returning full-force.
“Do I?” Doggo mused, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial purr. “Maybe I just like seeing you all flustered. The great King Asgore, tripping over his own feet. It’s kinda cute.”
Asgore had no reply. A helpless, strangled sound left his throat.
He heard a soft thud—Doggo pushing off the door. Another muffled laugh, quickly stifled. “Alright, alright. Composing yourself. Don’t take too long. The kid’s asking about spiderwort propagation and I am way out of my depth.”
Footsteps padded away, back toward the kitchen. Asgore stayed frozen, listening to the murmur of Asriel’s voice and Doggo’s deeper, now-engaged reply discussing gardens he knew nothing about.
The normalcy of it was the most surreal part. Asgore took one last, steadying breath, adjusted his pants with a wince, and unlocked the door. The king walked out, trying to reclaim some semblance of dignity, while the ghost of a touch and a seductive "why?" echoed in the hollows of his skull.