Chapter 5: Greenhouse Confessions
The phantom sensation of Doggo’s hand burned against him long after they went back inside. Asgore moved through the rest of the afternoon in a dense fog, his body humming with a trapped, frantic energy. He’d nod at something Asriel said, his responses automatic and delayed, while his mind replayed the deliberate slide of fingers against fabric, the daring look in those gold eyes.
He was losing ground. Fast.
Dinner was a quiet affair, a simple vegetable stew. Asriel chattered about surface botany, comparing sunlight spectra to the old magical crystals of the Underground. Doggo ate with a surprising neatness, offering occasional, low-voiced comments. He didn’t look at Asgore. Not directly. But the king felt the attention like a physical weight, a constant, low-grade awareness that made the hair on his arms stand up.
“I’m beat,” Asriel announced, pushing his empty bowl away. “Gonna go call a friend, then probably turn in early. All this air.” He grinned, standing and stretching. “Thanks for dinner, Dad. See you in the morning, Doggo.”
“Night, kid,” Doggo said, not looking up from tracing a pattern in his stew with his spoon.
Asriel’s footsteps faded down the hall. The click of his bedroom door was the starting pistol.
Silence descended, thick and potent.
Asgore stood, gathering the bowls. The clatter was unbearably loud. “I’ll clean up,” he said, his voice rough.
“I’ll dry,” Doggo replied, simple as that.
They worked side-by-side at the sink, a familiar dance from earlier, but the music had changed. The playful tension was gone, replaced by something heavier, more inevitable. The air between them crackled with everything left unsaid. Doggo’s shoulder brushed Asgore’s arm as he reached for a wet plate. Neither flinched away.
When the last dish was put away, Doggo leaned back against the counter, crossing his arms. He studied Asgore, who stood drying his large hands on a towel, avoiding his gaze.
“Garden looks good,” Doggo said finally.
“Asriel has a talent for it,” Asgore mumbled, folding the towel with excessive care.
“He does.” A pause
Asgore glanced up. Doggo’s expression was unreadable. “Could use some work on the far bed, though. By the trellis. The soil’s packed down. Needs turning. I was planning to do that tomorrow.”
“Now’s as good a time as any.” Doggo pushed off the counter. “Sun’s just setting. Light’s good. Not too hot.”
It wasn’t a suggestion. It was a challenge, wrapped in the mundane.
Asgore’s heart began a slow, heavy thud against his ribs. He knew what this was. A deliberate walk into the arena. He could say no. He could cite the fading light, his tiredness, anything. He opened his mouth.
“Alright,” he heard himself say.
The evening air was cool and smelled of damp earth and night-blooming jasmine. Crickets had started their rhythmic song. The garden was a different place at dusk, shadows pooling under leaves, colors deepening to emerald and indigo. They fetched tools from the shed—a fork for Asgore, a hand trowel for Doggo.
The trellis bed was narrow, tucked between a brick wall and a path. Working in it meant close quarters.
Asgore drove the fork into the hard soil, levering it up. The earth released a cold, mineral scent. Doggo knelt nearby, breaking up the clods with the trowel, his movements efficient. For a few minutes, the only sounds were their work and the crickets.
Then the space began to shrink.
Asgore shifted to turn another section. Doggo was there, reaching for a stone. Their arms brushed. Asgore moved back to give the fork a wide swing. Doggo stood up to stretch, blocking the path, forcing Asgore to sidle past him, his broad chest almost scraping the trellis. The heat from the hound’s body radiated through the thin air between them.
Each pass, each accidental touch, was a spark. Asgore’s skin felt too tight. His breathing grew audibly labored, not from exertion.
Doggo said nothing. He just worked, a quiet, persistent presence, his tail occasionally sweeping across Asgore’s leg as he turned, his hip bumping Asgore’s thigh as they both reached for the same pile of weeds.
The pretense of gardening frayed, then disintegrated. They were just two bodies moving in a confined space, a choreography of near-misses and glancing blows. The musk from Doggo’s earlier exertion, that deep, animal smell, mingled with the scent of turned earth. It was in the air Asgore breathed.
He was hardening, a relentless, aching pressure building in his trousers. He was grateful for the deepening twilight.
Finally, it happened. Asgore needed to get to the compost bin, which meant passing Doggo, who was crouched by the bed’s edge. The path was too narrow. He tried to step over.
Doggo didn’t move.
Asgore stopped, one foot on either side of the crouching hound. He looked down. Doggo looked up, his face shadowed, his eyes catching the last of the light like coins at the bottom of a well.
“Excuse me,” Asgore said, his voice a strained rasp.
Doggo didn’t budge. He stayed perfectly still, a statue in the half-light. Slowly, deliberately, he tilted his head back. His nostrils flared, taking in the air around Asgore’s groin. A slow, wicked smile spread across his muzzle.
He knew.
The humiliation was scalding. The desire was worse.
Asgore made to step back, to retreat from this impossible situation, but his movement was clumsy. His boot slipped on a loose clod of earth. He stumbled forward, catching himself with a hand against the brick wall.
It put him leaning right over Doggo, caging him in.
Doggo didn’t flinch. He remained in his crouch, now utterly surrounded by Asgore’s larger form. He looked up the length of Asgore’s body, his gaze travelling slowly, insolently, before locking onto Asgore’s eyes.
The air vanished from Asgore’s lungs.
Doggo’s voice was a low, gravelly whisper, just for him. It cut through the cricket song and the rustle of leaves.
“You gonna keep pretending,” he breathed, his words hot against the fur of Asgore’s belly, “or are you finally gonna do something about this?”
The question hung there, shattering the last fragile pane of Asgore’ denial. It wasn’t teasing anymore. It was a direct, brutal inquiry. An ultimatum.
Every repressed thought, every stolen glance, every feverish imagining crashed through the dam of his propriety. The scent of Doggo—earthy, salty, alive—filled his head. The memory of the touch in the garden, in the hallway, the sight of him sleeping on the couch, the feel of his breath just now…
Asgore snapped.
A deep, guttural sound tore from his throat, a rumble that had nothing to do with words. The gardening fork dropped from his hand, clattering on the stone path. In one swift, powerful motion, he abandoned all pretense. He didn’t step back. He dropped.
He didn’t kiss him. He descended on him.
His large hands, still flecked with soil, came up to frame Doggo’s face, his thumbs rough against the marks on his muzzle. He was trembling, a fine, uncontrollable vibration that ran through his entire massive frame. He pulled Doggo up from his crouch, not with gentleness, but with a desperate, consuming need, crushing their mouths together.
It was less a kiss and more a claiming. Clumsy, hungry, all teeth and pressure and a decade of stifled longing. He poured everything into it—the guilt, the loneliness, the kingly decorum, the sheer, unbearable want. He tasted stew and canine and something uniquely, fiercely Doggo.
For a heart-stopping second, Doggo was rigid with surprise.
Then he melted.
A shuddering sigh escaped him, hot against Asgore’s mouth. His own hands came up, not to push away, but to clutch at Asgore’s shirt, fingers twisting in the fabric. He opened to the kiss, his tongue meeting Asgore’s with a matching, frantic heat. His back hit the brick wall, and he grunted, the sound swallowed by Asgore’s mouth.
It was a collision. A release. Asgore crowded him against the wall, his bulk blotting out the twilight, one hand sliding from Doggo’s face into the scruff of fur at his neck, holding him in place. The other hand splayed against the small of Doggo’s back, pressing their bodies together from chest to thigh.
The evidence of Asgore’s desire was a hard, urgent line against Doggo’s stomach. Doggo rocked his hips forward, a sharp, seeking motion, and a raw, ragged groan vibrated from Asgore’s chest into his.
They broke apart, gasping for air, foreheads pressed together. Doggo’s breath came in hot, ragged pants. His eyes were wide, pupils blown black in the dim light.
“Okay,” he panted, a stunned, breathless laugh huffing out of him. “Okay. That’s… that’s doing something.”
Asgore just stared at him, his own breath sawing in and out of his lungs. The reality of what he’d just done—the force of it—crashed over him. The wall of pretense was not just cracked; it was dust. He was standing in his garden, holding another man against a wall, his body screaming for more.
He saw his own wild reflection in Doggo’s dark eyes. He was terrified. He was exhilarated.
Doggo’s grin returned, different this time. Not mocking, but fierce, triumphant, and hungry. He licked his lips, a quick flash of pink.
“Took you long enough,” he whispered, and pulled Asgore back in.
They kissed against the brick wall until the last of the twilight bled into proper night, until their mouths were sore and their breathing was a shared, ragged rhythm in the dark. The garden tools lay forgotten where they’d fallen.
They broke apart, their breathing loud in the quiet dark. Doggo’s fingers were still twisted in Asgore’s shirt. Asgore’s hands had migrated to Doggo’s hips, gripping the worn leopard-print jeans.
“We should…” Asgore began, voice shattered.
“Yeah,” Doggo finished, not moving.
A light flicked on in an upstairs window. Asriel’s room. The spell shuddered but didn’t break. It just added a new, frantic electricity. The reality of the house, of the sleeping kid just inside, crashed into the garden’s secret world.
“Inside,” Asgore whispered, the word both a promise and a command.
They moved. The journey across the lawn felt surreal, their footsteps silent on the dewy grass. They left the fork and trowel lying in the dirt, stark evidence of the abandoned chore. The back door sighed shut behind them, sealing them in the dark kitchen. The only light came from the digital clock on the stove, casting a sickly green glow.
Doggo leaned against the counter, watching him. The tight black shirt strained across his chest with every breath. “So?”
“My room,” Asgore said. He was already moving, a large shape in the gloom, his heart hammering a brutal rhythm against his sternum. He led the way down the hall, past the closed door behind which Asriel slept, his ears straining for any sound. He pushed his own bedroom door open and guided Doggo inside with a hand on the small of his back.
The room was tidy, dominated by a large bed. Moonlight filtered through the window.
“Just… wait here,” Asgore whispered, close to Doggo’s ear. “A jiffy.”
He slipped back out, pulling the door almost closed. He moved silently down the hall to the second door, the one to Asriel’s old room, now mostly a storage space. His hands were trembling as he opened the wardrobe. He pushed past hanging coats and found them—Asriel's clothes from before going to university. A simple faded-black button-up shirt and a pair of straight-leg jeans, soft with old washes.
He grabbed them and hurried back, fabric clutched to his chest like a talisman.
Doggo was standing by the bed, having not moved an inch. The devious smirk was back, wider now, lit by the moonlight. He saw the clothes in Asgore’s hands and his tail gave a single, slow wag. He knew.
“Thought you might want a change,” Asgore mumbled, holding them out.
“How considerate,” Doggo drawled. His hands went to the hem of the oppressive black tee. He pulled it up, the cheap cotton stretching with a sharp, complaining thweep of straining seams before letting go. It peeled off him with a final, sticky sound.
He didn’t hand it over. He threw it, a soft wad of fabric that hit Asgore square in the face.
“Here. I think I worked up a sweat.”
The shirt was warm. Damp. Asgore caught it against his face, and the scent hit him like a physical blow—ripe canine musk, dry grass, and the sharp salt of honest labor. It was the smell from the garden, from the couch, concentrated and intimate. A low groan vibrated in his chest, and his cock, already hard, throbbed painfully against his zipper.
Doggo watched him inhale, the smirk unwavering. He hooked his thumbs into the waistband of the jeans, popping the safety pins open with practiced flicks. They clicked on the hardwood floor. “Whoa,” he sighed, pushing the denim down over his hips. “I’ve been waiting to get out of these all day.”
His briefs were grey, strained by a significant, uncut bulge. His fingers dipped into the waistband.
“Not yet,” Asgore said, the words rushing out, sheepish and desperate. “Please.”
Doggo’s smile became something truly wicked. “Ow, I see how it is. Fine.” He left the jeans pooled at his ankles and took a step forward, the confined weight in his briefs nudging against Asgore’s own trapped hardness through the king’s trousers. “But you ain’t getting out either.”
Asgore whimpered, a soft, broken sound. He nodded, accepting the terms.
Doggo took the button-up shirt. He struggled into it, the soft cotton immediately tight across his shoulders and back. He forced his arms through, the seams along his biceps singing a threadbare protest. Buttoning it was a battle. Each fastener strained against its hole, the gaps between them widening to show flashes of the white-furred chest and stomach beneath. A low, frustrated growl escaped him as he forced the last one closed at his navel.
“Can’t believe Asriel could wear this,” Doggo grunted, rolling his shoulders. The fabric groaned. “I swear he is not that puny.”
He was a vision of contained power. The shirt was a black prison, strained at every seam, the gaps between buttons wide enough for Asgore to see the sweaty fur beneath. Every move Doggo made was accompanied by a soft symphony of protesting cloth: a creak from the shoulders, a pop of thread from under an arm, the soft shush of cotton stretched to its limit.
Asgore’s hand drifted to his own fly, palming himself through the fabric, his breath coming short. He wanted to hear it tear. He wanted to see that final, violent release, to have that musky scent, now trapped and fermenting in the tight cloth, explode into the room.
Doggo saw his hand. Saw his face. He knew.
“Now,” the hound said, his voice a low, teasing rumble. He spread his arms slightly, presenting the straining shirt. “What do you want me to do?”
Asgore’s control, so carefully maintained for days, was gone. His hand rubbed firmly over his cock as he answered, his voice rough and full of gravel. “Rip it out, please...Please, burst the fuck out of it.”
A whimper tangled with his moan.
Doggo’s grin was feral. He rolled his shoulders back slowly, deliberately. The buttons creaked in warning. He took a deep breath, filling his chest, and then with a low, powerful grunt, he pushed his pecs forward.
Pop. Pop-pop.
The buttons around his chest shot off like little plastic bullets, pinging against the wardrobe and the window. His broad, furred chest was free, the shirt hanging open from his shoulders. Asgore couldn’t help himself. He reached a trembling hand toward the exposed fur, damp and warm.
Doggo snorted and took a step forward, an open invitation.
Asgore’s large, gentle hands settled on the hound’s pecs, feeling the firm muscle, the heat, the slight, sweat-slicked texture of the fur. He brought his hand back to his face, inhaling deeply, the scent of Doggo’s skin now directly on his palm.
Doggo laughed, a husky, breathless sound. “You know. The smell is closer at the source.” He looked down at the shirt, still clinging to his stomach and shoulders. “Maybe it’s not strong enough from there.”
He pushed his body forward again, a more aggressive, full-body flex. The remaining buttons groaned a final, unified protest.
“Let me just…”
One final, concentrated grunt, a deep sound from his core.
POP-POP-POP-SKRRTCH.
The rest of the buttons exploded. Threads snapped. The shirt flew open completely, billowing for a second before hanging open revealing his full body. A deep, shuddering sigh of relief left Doggo. “Ohh. Much better.”
The ruined shirt slid from Doggo’s shoulders with a whisper of fabric, landing in a heap on the polished floorboards. He stood there, chest bare and rising with quick breaths, the moonlight silvering the white fur of his stomach. Then he lifted his arms, stretching them high above his head in a pose of pure, unthinking relief.
Asgore moaned, the sound ripped from somewhere deep and primal.
The movement unveiled them: the dark, dense patches of hair under Doggo’s arms, black as pitch against his white fur. They were damp, utterly revealed. The air between them changed, thickening with a new, profoundly animal scent—sweat, warm skin, and that deep, unmistakable musk that had been teasing Asgore for days, now concentrated and overwhelming.
Asgore couldn’t help it. He inhaled, a sharp, loud, desperate sniff that filled his whole head with the smell.
Doggo’s arms lowered slowly. He looked at Asgore’s face, at his flared nostrils and wide, darkened eyes. A low chuckle rolled out of him.
“Wow,” Doggo said, his voice a rasp of pure amusement. “No shame now, eh? Just a big ol’ sniff right out in the open.”
Asgore felt the blush burn its way from his neck to the tips of his ears. He was a king, a father, a figure of gentle stability. And here he was, panting over another monster’s armpit. The humiliation was hot and bright, but it was utterly consumed by a need so sharp it felt like pain. He took a step forward, then another, his gaze locked on that dark, humid space.
Doggo watched him come, a lazy, approving smile on his muzzle. He raised his arm again, slower this time, a deliberate offering. He hooked his hand behind his head, flexing slightly, putting the dark hollow on full display.
“There you go,” Doggo murmured, his tone a mix of challenge and invitation. “Get a good look. Been drivin’ you crazy, hasn’t it?”
Asgore nodded, a stupid, jerky motion. He was close enough now to feel the heat radiating from Doggo’s skin. He leaned in, slowly, gingerly, his movements timid and reverent, like a pilgrim approaching a shrine.
Doggo’s patience snapped.
“Ah, hell with this,” he grunted.
His free hand shot out, not to Asgore’s face, but to the back of his broad head. Fingers tangled in thick blonde fur. With a firm, unyielding pressure, he shoved Asgore’s face directly into the offered pit.
“I can’t stand you teasin’ me like this,” Doggo breathed, his voice strained with effort or laughter. “You’re too damn slow.”
Asgore’s world dissolved into scent and heat and overwhelming sensation. His nose was pressed firmly into the damp, dark hair. The musk was everything—salt, earth, a pungent sweetness that was purely, fundamentally Doggo. He let out a shuddering sigh, his body going limp with surrender. He snuffled softly, nuzzling deeper, inhaling in long, trembling draws.
Paradise. It was pure, blinding bliss.
“Yeah,” Doggo sighed above him, his voice gone low and rough. The hand on the back of Asgore’s head softened from a shove to a cradle, fingers massoring his scalp. “Just like that.”
The praise melted Asgore further. He was pliant, lost in the dark, musky warmth. He barely registered the other hand moving, sliding down his trembling side, until it palmed the aching, obvious bulge straining against his trousers.
Asgore jolted, a muffled sound of surprise escaping into Doggo’s fur. The touch was electric, direct, shocking in its confidence. His body tried to arch back, a reflexive escape from the overwhelming stimuli, but the hand on his head held him firmly in place.
“Uh-uh,” Doggo chided, his smirk audible. His fingers traced the hard length through the fabric, a slow, deliberate exploration that made Asgore’s hips twitch.
He began to rub, then to stroke, the pace quickening from exploratory to purposeful. The rough denim provided a furious friction. Asgore whimpered, the sound vibrating against Doggo’s skin.
“W-wait… slow down,” Asgore begged, the words muffled, barely comprehensible.
Doggo’s hand never stopped its swift, sure rhythm. “What?” he asked, mockingly. “I can’t hear you. You’re gonna have to speak up.”
The pressure was coiling, tightening, a spring wound far too tight. The dual sensations—the immersive, suffocating scent and the ruthless friction—were pulling him apart. He was tipping over an edge he hadn’t even seen.
“I’m… I’m going to…” Asgore managed, a choked warning.
The hand on his cock didn’t falter. Doggo shoved Asgore’s face even deeper into his armpit, grinding his nose into the damp hair. His voice was a hot, amused breath near Asgore’s ear.
“So?”
It was the final permission, the final mockery. The coil snapped.
Asgore came with a loud, broken moan, the sound swallowed by Doggo’s fur. His body locked, shuddering violently as he soaked his jeans with hot, sudden release. The world whited out, reduced to scent and sound and the relentless, guiding pressure of Doggo’s hands.
After a long moment, the hand on his head loosened. The hand on his cock stilled. Asgore sagged, boneless and spent.
Doggo gently guided his head back, pulling him out of the musky hollow. Asgore gasped, drawing in huge, ragged drafts of clean air, his senses reeling. He blinked, dazed, the room swimming back into focus. Doggo was looking at him, his expression unreadable in the shadows.
The scent was all over Asgore’s face.
His muzzle was damp with Doggo’s musk, his whiskers stuck together with it. He could taste the salt on his lips.