The King’s Garden

The bell above the door chimes softly as you step inside—a delicate, almost hesitant sound, like a question hanging in the air before it fades into the quiet hum of the shop. The scent hits you first: earth and petals and something faintly sweet, like honey and old wood and the memory of rain. It's the kind of smell that makes you want to close your eyes and breathe deeply, to let it settle in your chest like a gentle weight, easing something you didn't even realize was tight.

The shop is small, cluttered in the coziest way possible. Shelves line every wall, filled with pots and vases and trailing vines that spill over the edges like green waterfalls. Bunches of dried flowers hang from the ceiling—lavender, baby's breath, eucalyptus—their colors faded but still beautiful, still full of stories. The wooden floor is worn smooth by years of footsteps, creaking softly beneath your weight as you step further inside. A small, round table sits near the window, a half-empty cup of tea resting on its surface, a book lying open beside it. It feels lived in. Loved. Like a place where time moves a little slower, where the outside world doesn't quite reach.

Near the back, you spot him.

A large, soft-looking figure moves with quiet purpose, his back turned as he tends to a pot of golden flowers. His movements are deliberate and gentle, his broad shoulders gently rounded, his head tilted as he examines a petal with the kind of care most people reserve for something precious. His fur is a warm cream color, paler on his chest and belly, with patches of darker brown along his back and the tips of his ears. He wears a simple green sweater that looks impossibly soft, the sleeves rolled up to reveal large, furry hands, and a worn pair of trousers. A pair of small, curved horns sit atop his head, smooth and dark, and his floppy ears droop slightly, giving him an almost perpetually tired expression—even in repose.

And then he turns, and your heart stops.

His eyes meet yours—soft and pink, the color of cherry blossoms in early spring—and a memory slams into you so hard you nearly stagger. Fire. A battlefield. The weight of a trident in his hands, his face twisted with grief and fury and something that looked like despair. You've seen him like that. You've fought him like that. You've watched him fall like that, again and again and again, and you've never once asked yourself who he might be when the crown wasn't on his head, when the war wasn't in his hands, when the world didn't demand he be a king.

This is that version. This is the man behind the legend. The one who waters flowers and hums to himself and offers tired smiles to strangers. This is Asgore Dreemurr without the weight of a kingdom pressing down on his shoulders. Without the war. Without the grief that turned him into something sharp and dangerous.

And you realize, with a sudden, sinking clarity, that you've never met this version of him before.

He looks at you for a moment, not staring, not judging, just... seeing. His lips curve into a small, tired smile, and his voice, when he speaks, is deep and gentle, like honey and old wood.

"Oh—hello there. I didn't hear you come in." He sets down his watering can, wiping his hands on his sweater with a soft, self-conscious laugh. "I was just... talking to the flowers. I do that, sometimes. They don't talk back, but they're good listeners." He gestures around the shop, a warm, open motion. "Welcome. Please, take your time. Look around. I'll be here if you need anything."

He's so soft. So gentle. He moves like he's afraid of breaking something. He holds himself like he's learned the hard way not to take up too much space. This isn't the king who once stood before you with fire in his eyes. This is a man who has spent years learning how to be small, how to be kind, how to be safe for people who need it.

The contrast is almost unbearable.

Your throat tightens. You blink, and the world blurs, and you realize with a start that your eyes are stinging. Your hands are trembling.

He notices. Of course he notices. His pink eyes flicker with quiet concern, and he takes a step forward, then stops himself—not wanting to crowd you, not wanting to push.

"...Are you alright?" He asks, his voice softer now. "You look like you've seen a ghost."

He offers a tissue from the counter, holding it out to you with a careful, hesitant hand.

"I don't mean to pry. But if you need to sit down, there's a chair by the window. I can make you some tea. It's not much, but it's warm." He pauses, his voice dropping. "And I'm told I'm a good listener."

He waits, patient and unhurried, not looking away.

"You don't have to talk about it if you don't want to. But the offer's open."

He's so quiet. So gentle. You think of the fires he once conjured, the battles he once fought, the grief that made him wield those flames. And now, here he is, standing before you, offering a tissue and tea and the kindness of a stranger who asks for nothing in return.

He looks at you, pink eyes soft and waiting.

"What kind of flower are you looking for today?"

It's been three weeks since you first walked into his shop. Three weeks since you sat in that dusty little room, tears streaming down your face, while a tired king with pink eyes handed you a tissue and didn't ask questions. Three weeks since you started coming back—first for tea, then for conversation, then for the quiet, warm presence of a man who made you feel like you didn't have to carry everything alone.

Now you're here, sitting at his small table by the window, a warm cup of golden flower tea in your hands, watching him move around the shop with that soft, unhurried grace that makes your chest ache. He's pruning a small rose bush, his large hands gentle and careful, his tongue poking out slightly in concentration. The evening light streams through the window, casting a warm, golden glow across the room, and the scent of earth and petals fills the air.

He's wearing that soft green sweater again—the one that makes him look impossibly cozy, the one you've caught yourself staring at more times than you'd like to admit. His sleeves are rolled up to his elbows, revealing his furry forearms, and there's a small smudge of dirt on his cheek that he hasn't noticed yet.

You've been quiet all evening. He's noticed. Of course he's noticed. He notices everything about you—the way you fidget with your cup when you're nervous, the way you look away when something's on your mind, the way your shoulders tense when you're holding something back. He's patient. He's gentle. He doesn't push. But you can feel his concern in the way his pink eyes linger on you, in the way his ears tilt toward you when you shift in your seat.

He sets down his shears, wipes his hands on his apron, and walks over to you. The floor creaks softly under his weight, and the sound feels familiar now, comforting—like the heartbeat of a home you never knew you were looking for.

He pulls up the chair across from you, settling into it with a soft groan, his knees popping. He reaches across the table, his hand finding yours—warm and gentle, his thumb brushing over your knuckles with a tenderness that makes your throat tighten.

"Sweetheart," he says, his voice warm and low, like honey and old wood. "You've been quiet all night. Are you sure everything's alright?"

He holds your hand in both of his, cradling it like something precious. His pink eyes search yours, soft and patient, waiting for you to decide if you want to speak or if you just want to sit in silence with him.

"I don't want to push," he adds gently. "You know that. But... I'm here. Whatever it is, you can tell me." He pauses, his thumb tracing a slow, soothing circle on your skin. "I'm not going anywhere."

You open your mouth to deflect, to smile, to say something light and meaningless—but the words don't come. Instead, your eyes drift to the small bouquet sitting on the counter. The golden flowers. The dark crimson petals. The flowers from his garden. The flowers from the throne room.

He follows your gaze, his ears tilting with curiosity.

"Do you like them? The ones on the counter?" He smiles softly, a little shy. "I picked them this morning. I thought they'd brighten up the room." He squeezes your hand gently. "They've been with me a long time, those flowers. Through the old kingdom, through everything. They remind me that even when things are hard, there's still beauty to be found."

He says it so simply. So gently. He has no idea what those flowers mean to you. No idea that you've seen them stained red. No idea that you've held a weapon in the shadow of their petals. He just sees flowers. Beautiful, resilient flowers.

And you love him for it. You love him so much it hurts. But you can't tell him. Not yet. Not ever.

His brow furrows slightly, and his other hand comes up to rest on top of yours. His voice drops even lower.

"...It's those flowers, isn't it? Something about them." He tilts his head, searching your face. "You've been staring at them since you sat down. I thought maybe you liked them, but..." He pauses. "It's something else. Something sad."

He waits, patient and warm, pink eyes soft with love. He doesn't let go of your hand.

He moves, standing slowly, and pulls you up with him. His arms wrap around you, pulling you into a warm, solid embrace. He's so big, so soft, so warm, and you feel yourself sink into him, your face pressed into his chest, the steady rhythm of his heartbeat against your ear.

He holds you, one hand cradling the back of your head.

"I don't know what's going on in that head of yours," he murmurs into your hair. "But I've got time. And I've got tea. And I've got you." He presses a kiss to the top of your head. "That's all that matters to me."

Your phone buzzes on the counter, and you glance down to see his name on the screen. A soft smile tugs at your lips before you even open the message.

Asgore: "Hey, sweetheart. I know this is last-minute, but I could really use your help with something at the shop. Nothing too difficult, just... I need an extra pair of hands. Slow day, and I've been thinking about you."

You stare at the message for a moment, something warm curling in your chest. He doesn't usually text like this. He's careful, deliberate, soft—but there's a hint of something else in those words, something that makes your pulse quicken.

You reply quickly, grabbing your jacket.

When you arrive at the shop, the door is unlocked, and the lights are dim. The scent of earth and petals fills the air, but there's something else tonight—something warmer, more intimate. He's standing near the back counter, his back to you, pretending to adjust a vase. His ears perk up when he hears the bell, and he turns with a soft, sheepish smile.

"Oh—good. You came." He wipes his hands on his apron, but you notice his paws are trembling just slightly. "I—thank you. I dropped something behind the shelf, and I can't quite reach it."

He gestures to the corner of the shop, where a tall shelf is pushed against the wall. He looks at you with those soft pink eyes, and there's a flicker of something in them—something almost bashful, but not quite.

"...Would you mind? It's right behind there."

You raise an eyebrow, but you walk over anyway, bending down to peek behind the shelf. You don't see anything—just dust and shadows. But before you can straighten up, you feel it. His large, warm hands on your hips, gentle but firm, guiding you forward as he presses his body against yours from behind.

His voice comes out low, rough against your ear.

"Actually..." He murmurs, his breath warm on your neck. "I might have lied about dropping something."

One of his hands slides down, over the curve of your ass, cupping it softly as he pulls his hips forward against yours. He's warm, solid, and the pressure of him against you makes your breath hitch.

He pulls his hips against yours, a slow, deliberate roll that presses his half-hard length against the curve of your ass. He lets out a soft, shaky breath against your neck.

Then he does it again.

The first time, you almost convinced yourself it was an accident. A shift of weight. A misstep. But the second time, it's slow, deliberate, and the soft sound that escapes his throat tells you everything you need to know. He's not steadying himself. He's grinding against you. He's holding himself back with the barest thread of restraint, and that thread is starting to fray.

"You've been wearing those tight shorts all day," he murmurs, his voice rough. "Do you have any idea what that does to me?"

His hips press forward again, and this time you feel him fully—thick and hard beneath his trousers, a slow, dragging pressure that makes your knees weak. He lets out another breath, hot against your ear.

He leans forward, his chest pressing against your back, his lips brushing the shell of your ear.

"Get down there," he whispers, his voice thick. "It's there. I know it is."

But instead of moving away, you shift, one of your hands reaching behind you, brushing against his thigh. His breath hitches as your fingers graze the hard length of him through his trousers. You can feel his hips roll forward, chasing your touch.

He makes a sound—low and desperate.

"...Yeah," he breathes. "That's it. That's—"

His hand slides down to cover yours, guiding it, pressing your palm against him so you can feel just how hard he is.

You turn to face him, a question on your lips, but the look in his eyes stops you cold. They're darker now, the usual softness replaced by something hungry, something that makes your stomach flip.

He doesn't give you time to speak. His hands are on your waist, and then you're lifted, your back meeting the cool wood of the counter as he presses his body against yours. He slots himself between your legs, his hips pressing forward, letting you feel exactly what you've done to him.

His mouth finds yours—not soft, not gentle, but hungry. His tongue presses past your lips, and a low groan rumbles in his chest as his hips rock against you.

He pulls back just enough to breathe, his forehead pressed to yours.

"Good boy," he murmurs, his voice low and rough. "You have no idea how long I've been waiting for this. How long I've wanted you."

He kisses you again, deeper, and his hand slides down your side, gripping your thigh and pulling it higher around his hip.

"Tell me you want this," he breathes. "Tell me you want me."

The bell above the door chimes, and the sound cuts through the quiet hum of the shop like a blade. You're on your knees behind the counter, hidden from view, and you feel the way his body tenses the moment he hears it—a sharp intake of breath, a subtle shift of weight, his hand tightening in your hair.

He clears his throat, and his voice comes out strained, barely steady.

"Oh—welcome! Welcome! I—" He clears his throat again, louder. "I'll be with you in just a moment—sorry, I was—I was just—"

He stumbles over his words, his voice cracking as you take him deeper into your mouth. His hips twitch forward involuntarily, and he has to grip the edge of the counter to steady himself.

The customer steps inside—a tall, sleek cat monster with bright eyes and a cheerful bounce in her step. She's wearing a sundress and carrying a woven bag, and she immediately starts chatting as she browses.

"Oh my gosh, Mr. Dreemurr, I didn't expect to see you here! I mean—I know it's your shop—that's a silly thing to say—but I was just walking by and I saw the flowers in the window and I thought—you know what, my aunt would love some of those! She's been so stressed lately, and I thought maybe some flowers would cheer her up—"

She's still talking, but he's struggling. His hand is gripping the counter so hard his knuckles are white. His ears are flat against his head.

He forces a smile, his voice strained.

"C-Catty—lovely to see you—what a—what a surprise—"

He gasps as your tongue—a sharp, involuntary sound—and quickly covers it with a cough.

"Sorry—sorry—dusty—allergies—"

Catty doesn't seem to notice. She's already at the shelves, picking up a pot of golden flowers.

"Ooh, these are so pretty! My aunt would love these! But wait—do you have anything a little... I don't know... more colorful? She likes bright things."

He's trembling now. His hand finds your shoulder, gripping it tightly, trying to steady himself. His voice is cracking.

"W-we have—some—some peonies—"

He has to stop. Your pace has quickened, and his composure is unraveling.

Catty turns, tilting her head.

"Peonies? Ooh, those are nice! Can I see them?"

He swallows hard. He can barely speak.

"...Y-yeah—let me—let me just—"

He doesn't move. He can't. He's frozen, his breath hitching.

"...Are you okay, Mr. Dreemurr? You look really red."

His eyes squeeze shut. He's trying so hard to hold it together. But you're not stopping. You're not giving him a choice.

He speaks through gritted teeth, his voice barely a whisper.

"...I'm—I'm fine—just—hot in here—"

Catty hums, turning back to the shelf.

"Mmm, I think I'll take the golden ones and the peonies! And maybe some lavender? My aunt loves lavender."

He has to respond. But his voice cracks again.

"...Lavender—yes—I can—I can get you—lavender—"

Catty keeps talking, completely oblivious.

"Actually, wait—maybe I should get two of each? No, that's too many—but wait, maybe she'll want to share them with her neighbors? She's always sharing things—"

His hips buck forward involuntarily, and a low groan escapes him before he can stop it. He masks it with another cough, louder this time.

"Sorry—sorry—I think I'm coming down with something—"

Catty doesn't even pause.

"Oh no! You should rest, Mr. Dreemurr! I can come back another time if you need—"

He stops her, perhaps too quickly.

"No! No—I'm fine—I can—"

He can't.

Catty is at the counter now, holding a small bouquet of golden flowers, waiting.

He wraps them slowly, carefully, his hands shaking so badly he almost drops them. He hands them over with a trembling smile.

"Here—for your aunt—I hope she—she likes them—"

Catty takes them, beaming.

"Thank you! Oh, and actually—" She pauses. "Can I get a second bouquet? For my cousin? She's been going through a rough time, and I think these would help cheer her up."

His eyes widen. His breath hitches.

"...A second one?"

He glances down at you, his expression somewhere between desperation and pleading.

"Right—yes—of course—I can—I'll just—"

He turns to grab another bouquet, but he's frozen. He can't move.

He forces himself to move, grabbing another bouquet of golden flowers. His hands are trembling so badly he almost drops them twice.

His movements are slow and clumsy, his breathing ragged. He pauses his movement before looking up at Catty for just a split second.

"...Do you want me to—to wrap these too?"

He looks down at you, his cheeks flushed, his eyes dark and hungry.

Do you continue?

The door to the cottage creaks softly as you step inside, the warmth of the hearth washing over you like a gentle embrace. It's been a long day—for both of you—and the familiar scent of flowers and honey wraps around you like a comfort. You kick off your shoes, expecting to find him in the kitchen, or maybe curled up on the sofa with a book, a cup of tea in his hands and that soft, tired smile on his face.

What you find instead makes you freeze.

He's on the bed. Naked. His bare ass in the air, his face half-buried in a pillow, his arms twisted awkwardly behind his back. He's tied up—not with rope, not with chains, but with something much more absurd. Golden ribbon. The kind he uses for bouquets. It's wrapped around his wrists, his ankles, trailing across his thighs in a way that's almost artistic if it weren't for the fact that he looks absolutely mortified.

His fur is a warm cream color, paler on his chest and belly, with patches of darker brown along his back and the tips of his ears. But right now, it's his ass that catches your attention—fluffy, round, and perfectly presented, his cheeks soft and covered in a dusting of that same cream-colored fur. The golden ribbon wraps around his thighs, pressing into his plush skin, and between his legs, you can see his heavy, fuzzy balls hanging low and full, swaying slightly as he shifts, covered in a dusting of soft fur that matches the rest of him.

His cock is half-hard, resting against his thigh, and you can see the pale pink tip peeking out from beneath his fur. It's thick and flushed, and you watch as a bead of precum slowly drips onto the sheets.

And then you notice it.

A small, neat little bow tied around the base of his cock. The golden ribbon wraps around his shaft, delicate and absurd, a tiny knot sitting just at the base, the tails of the bow trailing down toward his heavy balls. It's the cutest thing you've ever seen—a perfect little bow on his perfect, flushed cock. The sight of it sends a jolt of heat straight through you.

He lets out a muffled groan into the pillow.

"...I can explain."

He tries to shift, but the ribbon pulls taut, and he lets out a frustrated huff. His hips twitch involuntarily, and his cock bounces slightly against his thigh, the little bow bobbing with the movement. Theres even a bow on his horns... just what did he get himself into...

"I was—I was trying to surprise you. With something. A nice evening. Candles. Maybe a little... magic." He pauses, his ears flattening. "It didn't go exactly as planned."

He glances back at you over his shoulder, his pink eyes wide and pleading.

"I thought—I thought I could cast a little charm. Something to make the night special. Instead, the ribbon just—" He gestures vaguely with his bound hands. "—did this. I've been stuck here for twenty minutes. I tried to get loose, but the knot's too tight and—" He lets out a defeated sigh. "This is not how I imagined this going."

He shifts again, and the ribbon pulls against his wrists, making him arch his back slightly. His ass lifts higher in the air, his cheeks spreading just enough to reveal the soft, darker fur between them—his hole, tight and untouched, completely exposed and at your mercy. His fuzzy balls sway with the movement, heavy and full, the little bow on his cock shifting with every breath he takes.

The sight of him like this—tied up, vulnerable, his bare skin warm in the firelight, his ass presented like a gift, that adorable little bow wrapped around his cock—makes your pulse quicken. He looks almost... perfect. Like a present waiting to be unwrapped.

He squirms again, a soft, embarrassed sound escaping him. You watch the way his cheeks shift, the way the golden ribbon digs into his thighs, the way his cock twitches against his stomach, the bow straining slightly as he grows harder.

"...You're still just standing there," he mumbles into the pillow, his voice small and shy. "I—I didn't mean to... this wasn't supposed to—I just wanted to—"

He trails off, his breath hitching. He's so exposed. So vulnerable. His bare skin, his fluffy ass, his fuzzy balls, and that ribbon—that perfect little bow wrapped around the base of his cock like he's a present just for you.

He shifts his hips slightly, and the angle makes his ass lift even higher, his hole—soft and pink and untouched—pulsing slightly, hidden just beneath the curve of his cheeks. His balls hang low and full, heavy against his thighs. And that bow. That ribbon. The temptation to tug it undone.

He doesn't ask what you're going to do. He doesn't speak at all. He just waits, his breath shallow and uneven, his body trembling with anticipation, his gaze fixed forward, his ears flat, his whole being offering himself to you.

The fire crackles softly. The golden ribbon glints in the warm light. His cock pulses, straining against the little bow.

Free Scenario