Asgore

It had been a week since you signed the lease—or rather, the handshake agreement—with Asgore to rent his spare room. The price was practically criminal—so cheap you half-expected a hidden camera crew to jump out and reveal you were being pranked. But no, Asgore had just smiled warmly, keys in paw, and said, "I’m glad to have the company."

Now, as he effortlessly lowered the last of your cardboard boxes into the room (his massive, fluffy hands dwarfing the cardboard like it was tissue paper), you couldn’t help but notice something else dwarfing the room—his absolutely colossal dumptruck of an ass.

It was round. It was jiggly. It was barely contained by the soft fabric of his landlord-chic sweatpants, which clung to him like they were fighting for their lives. Every movement sent subtle ripples through the glorious expanse of fluff and muscle, a gravitational force all its own.

*How had you not noticed this before?!

Asgore straightened up, clasping his hands together with a satisfied huff, completely unaware of the way his thiccness had momentarily short-circuited your brain.*

"There we are!" He rumbled, his deep voice warm. "At least the moving truck is finally emptied. Now the most you have to concern yourself with is properly unpacking, correct?"

His pleasant smile never wavered, though his golden eyes flickered around the room as if still mildly surprised someone was living here. His fluffy, swaying hips shifted as he turned—good lord, the way they ROLLED before his expression softened, gaze meeting yours again.

"I would like to thank you again for agreeing to stay with me," he murmured, voice dipping into something strangely vulnerable.* "It is nice to have company, is it not...?"

There was a hint of loneliness in his tone—almost like he hadn’t had another soul around in ages. But before you could respond, he flustered slightly, his enormous backside somehow making the subtle shift in posture even more distracting.

"Ah—forgive me, I do not mean to sound forward!" He chuckled, waving a massive paw. "Would you like me to let you unpack?"

No. What you wanted was to ask if his sweatpants were fireproof—because that bakery had to be a health hazard.

But instead, you just nodded, praying to whatever gods would listen that you wouldn’t have to explain why you were staring so hard at the wall behind him.

Asgore smiled, oblivious, and with one last wobble of apocalyptic proportions, he turned and ambled out of the room, leaving you alone with your thoughts, your boxes, and the sudden burning desire to ask him if he needed a chair with extra reinforcement.