Chapter 4: Gardening with Tension
Asgore stood in the hallway for a few more seconds, hands pressed flat against the cool bathroom door, gathering the scattered pieces of his composure. He could still hear them talking. He drew a final, steadying breath and walked back into the kitchen.
Asriel was leaning against the counter, gesturing with a half-eaten crust of bread. “—so if you propagate from the root division in the spring, you get a hardier plant, but the summer cuttings just never take as well, you know?”
Doggo stood opposite him, nodding slowly with an expression of profound, utterly fake concentration. His arms were crossed, emphasizing the strained seams of the borrowed shirt. He spotted Asgore first. His grin returned, a slow, curling thing.
“Ah,” Doggo drawled, his voice a velvety rumble. “There he is. We were wondering if you were okay. You vanished like a ghost.”
Asgore’s ears burned. He forced a calm he didn’t feel into his tone. “It was nothing. Just… a moment.” He waved a large hand dismissively. “All fine.”
Asriel swallowed his last bite. “You sure, Dad? You looked super red.”
“Just warm.” Asgore moved to the table, beginning to gather the empty plates. The clatter of ceramic was a welcome distraction. “Let’s get this cleaned up.”
“I can do it,” Asriel offered, reaching for a stack.
“No, no,” Asgore said, too quickly. He gently nudged his son’s hand away. “You’re the guest. Sort of. You just got home. Relax.”
Doggo watched the exchange, his tail giving a single, lazy thump against the cabinet. Then he pushed off the counter. “I’ll help,” he announced, his tone deceptively light. “Two sets of paws. Get it finished faster and easier.” He punctuated the last word with a look directed straight at Asgore—a sharp, evil-looking smirk that promised silent mischief.
A cold trickle of dread, mingled with a frustrating thrill, ran down Asgore’s spine. He was afraid of what the hound had in mind, but thankfully, Asriel remained oblivious.
“Sure, whatever,” Asriel said, hopping up to sit on the cleared part of the table. “I’ll supervise. So, Dad, about that spiderwort in the back corner. The one by the oak. The leaves look kinda yellowed. You think it’s a nitrogen thing, or is the drainage just crap over there?”
Asgore began stacking plates, his movements measured. “The drainage,” he said, carrying the tower to the sink. “The ground slopes there, but the clay layer is close to the surface. It holds water.”
Doggo moved around him, a pale, lean shadow. He collected napkins and utensils, his smirk never fully disappearing. It was a constant, faint curve in Asgore’s peripheral vision, a distraction that made his fur prickle. He tried to focus on Asriel, to engage normally.
“You could try aerating it,” Asgore continued, running hot water. “Or we could transplant it this weekend, like you said. Put it in a raised bed.”
“A raised bed would be cool,” Asriel mused. “We could use those old bricks by the shed. Do you think it’s too late in the season to move it? Will it go into shock?”
Doggo was wiping the table now, his movements efficient. The dishtowel tied around his hips swayed as he bent to get a stray crumb. Asgore focused intently on scrubbing a plate, the soap suds blooming between his fingers.
“It might sulk for a bit,” Asgore answered, rinsing the plate. “But spiderwort is resilient. It’ll bounce back if we keep it watered.”
“Awesome.” Asriel swung his legs. “Maybe we can look at it after—oh, you dropped a napkin, Doggo.”
Asgore glanced over. A white paper napkin lay on the floor near Doggo’s foot. Before he could think, his instincts took over. He bent down to retrieve it.
At the same moment, Doggo shifted his position, turning as if to also reach for it. Their movements collided not in a clash, but in a subtle, deliberate interference. When Asgore started to stand back up, his foot caught slightly—not on anything tangible, but on the careful, positioned block of Doggo’s ankle.
It happened fast. A clumsy misstep.
Asgore staggered, his balance thrown. Instinctively, he leaned sideways to steady himself, his free hand flailing out. And his face, turning to find equilibrium, ended up pressed briefly against the hound’s side.
The world narrowed to a strip of damp, black cotton and the humid, pungent reality beneath it. His snout was buried in the space just below Doggo’s ribs, right where the tight sleeve ended. The hairy, sweaty armpit was inches from his eye, a dark, dense forest of fur matted with the day’s heat and effort. The musk was immediate and overwhelming—a concentrated blast of salt, warm canine skin, and something deeply, primally Doggo.
He lingered.
For a heartbeat too long, the shock of the scent, the startling intimacy of the contact, short-circuited his fury. His body responded with a traitorous, hot flush of arousal even as his mind recoiled in horror. He was flush against him, inhaling.
He jerked his head back, looking up at Doggo, his own face a mask of flustered, blushing mortification.
The hound’s golden eyes were wide with barely-contained glee. He tried to stifle a laugh, his nostrils flaring as he bit down on his lower lip. “Whoa—are you okay?” Doggo said, his voice strained with the effort of sounding concerned. He stepped back and lifted Asgore’s arm with a grip that was oddly gentle, as if they hadn’t just been in a conspiratorial tangle. “Lost your footing there, big guy.”
Asgore pulled his arm away as if scalded. He straightened to his full height, the plates in the sink forgotten. Embarrassment curdled into something hotter and sharper. “Yeah,” he muttered, the word tight. “Yeah, I just slipped.” He glared daggers at the hound, his blue eyes conveying a clear, furious message: I know that was intentional.
This time, Asgore had it. The playful tension snapped, replaced by a genuine, simmering anger. Doggo had tried to pull that off in front of Asriel. Had used Asgore’s own helpless attraction as a weapon for a cheap, risky thrill. It wasn’t teasing anymore; it was disrespect.
The change in Asgore’s face was immediate and potent. The flustered blush darkened into a stern, royal displeasure. The usual softness hardened around his jaw. His large hands clenched at his sides.
Doggo’s grin started to fade. He saw the annoyance, the genuine offense in the set of the king’s shoulders. The playful light in his eyes dimmed, replaced by a flicker of uncertainty. His ears, which had been perked in amusement, gave a subtle, hesitant twitch.
He backed down. Visibly.
“Uh, anyway,” Doggo mumbled, turning back to the table to resume wiping with sudden, intense focus. His tail was still, tucked slightly.
Asriel, bless him, had seen the stumble but completely missed the charged exchange. “Whoa, careful, Dad! You gotta watch those old bones.” He chuckled. “So, raised bed. We’ll need soil mix. You got bags of compost left, or did you use it all on the tomatoes?”
The conversation resumed, but the air had changed. Doggo was silent now, moving with a subdued efficiency, his earlier bravado gone. Asgore answered Asriel’s questions about gardening with a calm, measured tone, but his gaze kept flicking to Doggo, guarded and cold. The hound kept his eyes on his tasks, his ears slightly lowered.
They finished cleaning in a quiet that was no longer comfortable. The only sound was Asriel’s cheerful chatter about pH levels and perennial borders, a stark contrast to the silent drama unfolding beside him.
Finally, Asriel hopped off the table with a wide yawn. “Man, that bus ride really wiped me out. I think I’m gonna go crash in my old room for a bit. All this plant talk is great, but my brain needs a nap.”
“Of course, son,” Asgore said, his voice softening genuinely for the first time since the incident. “Get some rest.”
“Thanks for the sandwich, Doggo,” Asriel said with a friendly wave.
Doggo just nodded, a stiff, small movement. “‘Course.”
Asriel padded out of the kitchen, his footsteps fading down the hall. The moment his bedroom door clicked shut, the kitchen plunged into a thick, heavy silence.
The moment his bedroom door clicked shut, the kitchen plunged into a thick, heavy silence.
Doggo kept his back turned, meticulously folding the damp dishtowel over and over on the counter. His shoulders were tense, his white-knuckled grip betraying the casual act. The playful, taunting energy had evaporated, leaving something brittle in its place.
Asgore leaned against the sink, the porcelain cool through his fur. He crossed his massive arms, watching the hound’s back. He let the silence stretch, a quiet judgment. The only sound was the hum of the refrigerator.
“Look,” Doggo finally said, his voice rough. He didn’t turn around. “That last bit. With the… you slipping. That was me.” He put the folded towel down with deliberate care. “I set that up.”
“I know,” Asgore said, his tone flat, drained of its usual warmth.
Doggo flinched at the coldness. He turned slowly, his golden eyes wide and unguarded. He looked younger, the defiant smirk completely erased. His gaze met Asgore’s for a second before darting down to the floor, his ears flat against his skull.
“I’m sorry,” he blurted out, the words rushing together. “Okay? It was… I don’t know. It was fun at the beginning. Messing with you. Seeing you get all flustered.” He ran a hand through the scruff of fur on his head, agitated. “But I went too far. Especially with your kid right there. That was a dick move.”
Asgore stayed silent, his expression unreadable.
The quiet seemed to grate on Doggo. He gestured at Asgore’s stiff posture, his own frustration bubbling up. “But you’re gonna give yourself a knot, worrying so much. The pretending, the stress—it’s driving me nuts watching you.” He kicked lightly at a cabinet leg, a muted thump. “You get so tight and quiet whenever all 3 of us are in the same room. I don’t know how much of this walking-on-eggshells crap I can keep up with.”
The raw honesty cut through Asgore’s anger. He unfolded his arms, his shoulders slumping a fraction. The king let out a long, slow breath, the sound loud in the quiet room.
“I… appreciate the apology,” Asgore said, his voice softening. He looked at Doggo, really looked at him—the genuine chagrin in his posture, the annoyed flick of his tail. The tension in his own chest eased. He rubbed the back of his neck, a weary gesture. “It’s just a lot to manage. You’re right.”
He glanced away, muttering the next words more to himself than anything, a soft, defeated admission he hadn’t meant to voice aloud. “Might have liked it a bit, though.”
Doggo’s head snapped up.
His ears, previously flattened, shot upright. They swiveled forward like radar dishes locking onto a signal. Every line of his body went still, hyper-focused.
Asgore froze. He felt the heat bloom across his cheeks and muzzle, a scorching blush he couldn’t suppress. His eyes went wide with horror. He’d said it out loud.
A slow, wicked smile spread across Doggo’s muzzle.
It wasn’t his earlier teasing grin. This was something darker, more deliberate, a predator’s smile that showed the very tips of his sharp teeth. His golden eyes gleamed with unveiled triumph.
“Oh?” Doggo said, the single syllable dripping with sinister delight.
“No,” Asgore said quickly, taking a step back, his hands coming up in a placating gesture. His heart hammered against his ribs. “No, don’t—don’t get any ideas from that. I didn’t mean—”
“You said it,” Doggo interrupted, his voice a low, velvety purr. The apology, the remorse, was utterly gone, burned away by this new, thrilling information. His smile became more and more toothy, an evil grin that promised delicious retribution.
Asgore felt a dizzying mix of panic and raw excitement. He backed up until his lower back pressed against the edge of the kitchen table. “Doggo, seriously.”
The hound took a step forward. Then another. His movements were slow, deliberate, each footfall silent on the tile. He was stalking him, his lean body coiled with playful malice, his tail swaying gently behind him like a white banner.
Asgore couldn’t hide his reaction, the feverish anticipation that made his breath catch. He was terrified of what came next, but his body thrummed with a traitorous, eager energy.
Doggo was only a pace away now, still grinning that evil grin, when the hallway floorboard creaked.
Asriel shuffled back into the kitchen doorway, rubbing one eye with a fist. “Ugh. Tried napping. Brain wouldn’t shut up.” He blinked, looking between them. Doggo had gone perfectly still, his predatory advance paused. Asgore looked like he’d been caught stealing from the cookie jar.
“You two okay?” Asriel asked, a flicker of confusion crossing his face.
“Fine!” Asgore’s voice was an octave too high. He straightened up, smoothing his shirt with trembling hands.
“Peachy,” Doggo drawled, the sinister edge softening into something more casual, though his eyes still sparkled.
“Right.” Asriel yawned again, not convinced but too tired to pursue it. “Well, since I’m up, might as well be useful. Come on, Dad. You’re teaching me about the spiderwort right now. I need your expert opinion.”
Asgore felt a wave of dizzy relief. “Now? Can’t it—”
“Nope.” Asriel walked over, grabbing Asgore’s arm with both paws. He started tugging him toward the back door. “Because that patch out back is looking tragic. All leggy and sad. I think it needs dividing, but I don’t want to murder it.” He glanced over his shoulder at Doggo, who was watching with amused curiosity. “You too, Chef. You can learn something. Fresh air’ll do you good.”
Asriel, with the boundless, oblivious energy of youth, dragged a profoundly flustered Asgore through the cluttered living room. Doggo followed a few steps behind, his hands shoved in the pockets of the ruined jeans, his evil grin now a quiet, knowing smirk.
The back door swung open, releasing a flood of late afternoon sunlight and the rich, loamy scent of damp earth and blooming flowers. The garden was a lush, overgrown sanctuary, buzzing with bees drunk on nectar.
Asriel hauled them past the budding tomato plants and the herb spiral, straight toward the shaded corner under the sprawling oak. The spiderwort was indeed a sorry sight, its purple flowers sparse, stems straining for light.
“See?” Asriel said, releasing his father’s arm, marching over and squatting down. He poked a floppy stem. “It’s crying for help.”
Asgore knelt beside him, the earth cool and firm through his trousers. He examined the plant, his large hands gently sifting through the foliage. “The center is crowded. It’s straining for light. You are correct, it needs to be lifted and divided.” He felt a slice of normalcy return, the quiet joy of diagnosis.
A shadow fell over them. Doggo.
He hadn’t joined them on the ground. He stood just behind and to Asgore’s left, close enough that his leg brushed against Asgore’s broad shoulder. Asgore stiffened, his botanical focus shattering.
“So you just… rip it in half?” Doggo asked, his voice lazy. He shifted his weight, and the side of his thigh pressed more firmly against Asgore. The rough denim of the torn jeans was a direct line of contact.
“Gently,” Asriel corrected, oblivious. “You tease the roots apart. It’s satisfying.” He looked up at Doggo. “You want to try?”
“Nah. I’ll supervise.” Doggo’s tail gave a slow, sweeping wag. The white plume of it drifted into Asgore’s peripheral vision, then, with a casual flick, the fluffy tip brushed against the back of Asgore’s thigh.
It was a whisper of contact. It might have been an accident.
Asgore’s breath hitched. He kept his eyes fixed on the spiderwort.
“Okay, so show me where to cut, Dad,” Asriel said, pulling a small trowel from his pocket.
Asgore pointed with a slightly trembling finger. “Here. Follow the natural clump.”
Asriel dug in, his focus complete. As he worked, Doggo moved. He crouched down, ostensibly to get a better look. He settled on Asgore’s left, his bare arm coming to rest against Asgore’s wool-clad one. The heat was immediate, a line of fire through the fabric.
And the smell.
Up close, in the damp heat of the garden, Doggo’s natural scent bloomed. It was the warm, deep smell of his fur, yes, but underneath was the sharper, saltier musk from his skin, intensified by the kitchen’s warmth and now blooming in the sun. It was the scent from the borrowed shirt, from the bathroom, but now it was live, unmasked, drifting from the open collar of the tee and from the dark patches under his arms.
Doggo reached across Asgore to point at a root, his arm stretching over Asgore’s lap. The movement pulled his shirt tight, and the neckline gaped. Asgore’s gaze, against all his will, dropped. He saw the crisp black markings on the white fur of Doggo’s chest, the stark divide that led downward, disappearing beneath the fabric. He saw the powerful line of his throat, the casual flex of muscle.
“That one too?” Doggo asked, his voice a low murmur right next to Asgore’s ear. His breath was warm.
“Y-yes,” Asgore stammered, his own voice strangled.
Asriel paused, trowel in hand. He glanced up, his eyes narrowing slightly. “You sure you’re okay, Dad? You sound weird.”
“Fine!” Asgore boomed, too loud. A bird startled from the sunflower. “Perfectly fine. Just… absorbed.”
Doggo leaned back, but didn’t break contact. His arm remained glued to Asgore’s, his tail now resting across Asgore’s ankles. It was a cage of casual touches, each one a brand.
“So, Doggo,” Asriel said, returning to his digging. “You gonna stick around the city long?”
Doggo shrugged, the motion making his shoulder rub against Asgore’s. “Dunno. Depends.”
“On what?”
Doggo was silent for a beat. Asgore could feel the vibration of a low hum in the arm pressed against his. “On if I wear out my welcome,” Doggo finally said, his tone light, but the words held an edge.
Asriel laughed. “With Dad? Impossible. He collects strays. Ask the seven birds that live in that busted greenhouse.”
“I’m not a stray,” Doggo said, but there was no real offense in it.
“Everyone’s a stray to Dad. He’s got a… a nurturing aura or whatever.” Asriel sat back on his heels, clutching a healthy clump of spiderwort. “Got it! See? Not murdered.”
“A true triumph,” Doggo said dryly. He finally, mercifully, stood up. The sudden absence of his heat felt like a cold draft. “I’m gonna sit. Sun’s brutal.”
He sauntered over to the worn wooden bench under the oak tree, a few yards away. He didn’t so much sit as collapse onto it, stretching his legs out with a groan. He threw his arms along the back of the bench, thrusting his chest out and tilting his head back, eyes closing against the dappled sunlight.
The pose was an open exhibit. The tight black shirt pulled across his torso, outlining every lean muscle. His legs, clad in the torn jeans, were spread. And his raised arms pulled the fabric of the shirt taut, exposing the full, dark, hairy hollows of his armpits to the open air.
Asgore’s mouth went dry. It was a blatant, lazy display. An offering. Or a challenge.
“Dad? Earth to Asgore?”
Asriel was waving a dirt-caked hand in front of his face. “Where’d you go? I said, where should I plant this half?”
Asgore forced his eyes away from the bench. “Ah. The… the empty spot by the fence. Where the peonies failed.”
“On it.” Asriel bounded off, humming to himself.
Leaving Asgore alone in the middle of the lawn, caught between his happily gardening son and the sphinx-like figure on the bench. Doggo hadn’t moved. A slight breeze stirred the leaves of the oak, and Asgore saw the fur in Doggo’s armpits rustle. He imagined the scent lifting on the wind, and his traitorous body responded with a fresh, aching throb.
This was unsustainable. He was a former king, a father, a man in his own home. He was being unspooled by a lazy grin and a knowing look.
He stood, brushing dirt from his knees with more force than necessary, and walked toward the bench. His shadow fell over Doggo.
The hound didn’t open his eyes. A slow smile spread across his muzzle. “Enjoying the show, your Majesty?”
“Stop it,” Asgore hissed, keeping his voice low.
“Stop what?” Doggo’s eyes opened to slits. The gold of his irises glinted. “I’m just sitting. It’s a nice bench.”
“You know what you’re doing.”
“Do I?” Doggo lowered one arm, letting it drape along the back of the bench, inviting. The other remained up, the exposure complete. “I’m just a stray catching some sun. Your son said I should get some air.”
Asgore’s fists clenched at his sides. The urge to reach out, to bury his face in that offered, musk-laden fur, to push Doggo back against the bench and— He cut the thought off, a hot wave of shame following it. “He is right there,” Asgore ground out, each word measured.
“And he’s busy.” Doggo’s tail gave two soft thumps against the wooden slats. “Very focused. Good kid.” His gaze traveled over Asgore’s face, reading the conflict there. The smile turned softer, less a knife’s edge and more something curiously genuine. “You’re gonna give yourself a knot, worrying so much.”
“This is not… appropriate,” Asgore whispered, the argument sounding weak even to his own ears.
“Says who?” Doggo asked simply. He finally lowered his other arm, leaning forward. His knees bumped against Asgore’s legs. He looked up, the playfulness fading into something more direct, more serious. “Look. I’m not asking for a parade. I’m not asking for anything.” He paused, his nose twitching. “But I’m not gonna pretend, either. And you’re pretending so hard you’re about to snap.”
Asgore had no answer. The truth of it sat between them, heavy as a stone.
From across the garden, Asriel called out. “Hey, Doggo! Come tell me if this looks straight!”
Doggo held Asgore’s gaze for a second longer, a silent, weighted moment. Then he pushed himself up from the bench, brushing past Asgore. As he did, he let his hand drag slowly, deliberately, across the front of Asgore’s trousers.
The touch was even more brazen than the one in the hallway. It was a slow, assessing stroke through the fabric, a claim staked in broad daylight with Asriel thirty feet away.
Asgore froze, every nerve ending igniting.
Doggo didn’t break stride. He was already walking toward Asriel, calling back, “It’s a plant, kid. It’s not supposed to be straight.” His voice was normal, easy, as if he hadn’t just turned Asgore’s world to liquid fire.
Asgore stood rooted to the spot, the phantom pressure burning into him. He watched Doggo squat next to Asriel, pointing at the planting hole, laughing at something the younger monster said. The sun beat down. The bees hummed. The world continued, perfectly normal.
And Asgore Dreemurr, former King of All Monsters, understood with a terrifying, thrilling clarity that he was no longer in control of this situation. The line had been crossed, rubbed out, and danced upon. The only question now was when, not if, he would stop pretending and finally follow.