Asgore Dreemurr: bonding time

The engine of the old monster-kingdom roadster rumbled as Asgore settled into the driver’s seat, the pink Hawaiian shirt stretched taut across his broad shoulders and the blue jeans cinching the unbelievable width of his hips. His golden-blond mane caught the morning light spilling through the garage, and the small crown he’d stubbornly kept on tilted when he turned to you with a shy, bearded smile. “Th-thank you for coming with me, my dear,” he murmured, paws gripping the wheel so tight the striped yellow fur on his arms stood on end. “Toriel packed us butterscotch pie for the way… and I brewed Golden Flower Tea.”

You slid into the passenger side, the door clicking shut, and immediately the cabin filled with the warm scent of goat musk and flowers. Asgore’s belly pressed against the steering column—he’d sucked it in out of habit, but the armor was home, replaced by soft cotton, and the truth of his thick torso relaxed as he pulled onto the highway. His massive ass, easily twice the size of the rest of him, spilled against the seat leather, the jeans seam creaking with every shift of his wide hips.

“You’re staring, dear,” he said, ears flicking, voice a gentle rumble. “I—I know I’m rather large down there. Asriel always teased… but you accepted us. That means everything.”

You reached over, palm landing on the nearest expanse of denim-clad cheek. His whole body jolted, a soft “Baa~” slipping from his lips, and the truck swerved an inch before he corrected. “Oh! Oh my,” he breathed, clinging to the wheel as you kneaded the heavy muscle, feeling the heat of him even through fabric. “Y-you like it? I… I like when you touch. It makes my heart race.”

He drove with one paw, the other fumbling to rest on your knee, thumb stroking small circles. The road cut through fields of golden flowers, petals whipping past, and Asgore hummed a tune Toriel taught him, his crown slipping further back. At a overlook he parked, killed the engine, and unfolded himself out the door—the cape he’d brought “just in case” dragged the dirt as he waddled around to your side. His hips rolled with that impossible width, his Hawaiian shirt riding up to show a stripe of pale fur above the jeans waistband.

You stepped out and he immediately pressed against you, arms wrapping, beard tickling your temple. “May I… hold you a moment? Just to be sure this is real.” His testicles, heavy in the denim, brushed your thigh as he molded his bulk to your frame, submissive and trembling. “I’ve never done… intimate things with anyone else other than toriel, but I want to learn if you’d show me. Gently. Or just… play with my ass again? It’s silly, I know.”

He nuzzled your neck, lips brushing skin, and the purple cape pooled at your feet as he sank to his knees, looking up with those big goat eyes, paws resting on your hips. “Whatever you wish, my adopted one. I’m yours on this trip. Always.”

Asgore's pink Hawaiian shirt rides up over his swollen gut the moment he sinks onto the couch beside you, the white flowers wrinkling against the soft dome of his stomach. His blue jeans groan at the seams across his thighs, and that impossible rear — wider than the cushions, twice the mass of the rest of him — spills against your leg, warm and heavy through the denim.

“H-hoh…” he breathes, ears flicking, golden-blond mane tumbling over one pauldron-less shoulder. At home he’s shed the armor, the crown tossed on the mantle, and without the tight plate sucking in his belly he’s just a big soft goat king with striped yellow fur on his arms and a beard you could nestle in. “Yer home early from the garden, little one. I—I saved ye the last slice o’ Toriel’s pie, but…” His broad hands curl, hesitant, then settle on his own knees. “Ye said ye wanted time. Just us.”

He shifts, and the couch creaks. That massive ass lifts, then resettles, deliberately pressing firmer into your side. His face goes ruddy beneath the fur. “A-asgore’s… heh… he’s glad ye accepted. Me an’ Toriel, we—” a thick swallow, “we love ye. Proper. An’ I… I wanna be close. If’n ye’ll touch me. Please.”

The goat king twists toward you, bulky torso leaning, belly first, and his huge paw finds your wrist, guiding it — not demanding, just trembling — down to the swollen curve of his jeans where the fabric stretches thin over one cheek. “Play with it,” he murmurs, shy and starving. “I ain’t never done this with a man, but I… I need yer hands on me, adopted son. I need t’feel small fer once.” His horns nearly catch the lamp as he ducks his head, beard tickling your shoulder. “Mmmngh… yer father’s ass is all yers t’hold.”

The late afternoon light spilled through the lace curtains of the Dreemurr living room, painting warm stripes across the worn hardwood floor. Asgore’s pink Hawaiian shirt hung loose over his bulky torso, the white hibiscus patterns trembling with each hesitant step he took toward the couch where you’d settled. The edge of his purple cape was nowhere in sight now—just the simple blue jeans straining around his monumental hips, the denim seams creaking as his twice‑body‑size ass shifted side to side. Golden‑blond mane framed the small crown he’d abandoned on the kitchen counter, and his beard twitched in a shy, upward curl when he caught your eye.

“I—I made butterscotch pie,” he said, voice a low rumble threaded with that perpetual upbeat gentleness. He set the plate on the coffee table, then immediately knelt beside you, his broad shoulders ducking so the striped yellow fur on his arms brushed your knee. “And… the tea is steeping. But mostly I just… wanted to be near you, my dear. If that is alright.”

You reached out, palm meeting the thick fur of his forearm, feeling the subtle ridges of those painted‑on body hairs. He leaned into the touch with a soft mmph, his massive belly pressing against the couch cushion, the armor long discarded, leaving only the soft give of fat and muscle underneath the shirt. His claws—carefully trimmed—skimmed your wrist, then his hand engulfed yours, guiding it downward with a trembling submissive urgency.

“You can… touch me where you like,” he breathed, ears flattening. “I—I enjoy it. Especially…”

His words trailed as you let your fingers trace the waistband of his jeans, then slip around to the mountainous hemisphere of his ass. Even through the denim the sheer scale was absurd—warm, heavy, impossibly wide, the flesh spilling over the seams like dough proofing in the sun. You squeezed, and his whole body jolted, a broken braaa… hnnn vibrating from his chest as his hips rocked backward into your grip.

“O‑oh,” Asgore wheezed, beard tickling your shoulder as he slumped closer, clingy and pliant. “That… that feels… mmmm… I have never… but I want you to… to keep…”

He fumbled, awkward in the bottom role he’d secretly craved, one thick thigh swinging over your lap so he half‑straddled your legs, his cape‑less back blocking the lamp. The Hawaiian shirt rode up, exposing the pale fur of his gut and the deep crease where his ass met the jeans. His 13‑inch cock was a rigid weight against the zipper, the massive testicles shifting like boulders in a sack, but he made no move to free them—only nuzzled his horn against your temple and let out a wet, goatish bleat of contentment.

“I love Toriel, and Asriel, but… you… you are my precious adopted one,” he murmured, claws kneading your shirt. “May I… hold you tighter?”

He pulled you against his furry chest, his enormous ass grinding softly against your thigh as he buried his face in your neck, breathing golden‑flower scented air, and whispered, “Stay with me like this… please.”