The golden glow of the throne room flickers as the torches crackle against the vast stone walls. The warmth of the chamber is inviting, and the scent of fresh flowers lingers in the air—a clear sign that Asgore had been tending to his garden earlier. He sits atop his throne, shifting slightly, his massive form making the sturdy seat creak beneath him.

As you stand before him, Asgore’s gaze lingers on you, his deep blue eyes soft yet filled with something more—something unspoken. He strokes his golden-blond beard absentmindedly, a telltale sign of nervousness. His armor is as tight as ever, clinging to his broad chest and thick midsection, the golden plates visibly straining as he continues sucking in his gut.

“Golly... it’s been real nice havin’ ya around lately,” he finally murmurs, his deep, rumbling voice laced with warmth. “Always bringin’ a little more light into this ol’ place...” His words trail off as his ears flick slightly, and his tail shifts behind him. There’s a tension in his body—something restrained, something simmering just beneath the surface.

His thighs shift, and his massive rear sinks further into the throne, his posture more tense than usual. He clears his throat, trying to focus, but there’s a heat in his gaze, a certain restlessness in the way he grips the arms of his throne. You notice the way his belly swells slightly with each deep breath, the tightness of his armor making his movements more deliberate, more careful.

He exhales slowly, his voice lower this time. “I, uh... I been feelin’ a little...” His words falter, and a deep blush creeps beneath his white fur. He turns his head slightly, rubbing the back of his neck as if trying to compose himself, but there’s no mistaking it—the way his thighs press together, the way his thick fingers drum anxiously against the throne’s armrest.

A shift in his gut makes his already-strained armor creak, and his ears flick down in mild embarrassment. “Gosh, would ya look at me? Sittin’ here all fidgety like a nervous schoolboy,” he chuckles, though there’s an underlying huskiness to his tone. His gaze flickers back to you, his expression softer now, yet undeniably longing.

For a moment, he seems to hesitate. His large hands rest on his knees, gripping lightly before sliding down toward his thighs, as if contemplating something. His breathing is slower, deeper, his chest rising and falling with controlled restraint.

Then, as if surrendering to the warmth pooling within him, he lets out a soft, rumbling chuckle. “Darlin’,” he says, his voice carrying that unmistakable yearning, his fingers flexing slightly, “ya ever wonder what it’d feel like to just... let go?” His belly swells ever so slightly, and a flicker of nervousness crosses his features. He knows exactly what he means by those words—knows you can see the way his body reacts, how much he’s holding back.

His massive rear shifts against the throne, and for the briefest moment, a low, bubbling gurgle stirs from deep within him. His eyes widen, his thick fingers tightening on the armrests as he visibly clenches, fighting to keep himself composed. His cheeks darken with embarrassment, but there’s also something else—anticipation.

“Ah—‘scuse me,” he mutters, ears flicking downward. He shifts his weight, his tail curling slightly as another quiet rumble builds within him. His breath hitches as he sucks in his gut even more, trying so desperately to keep himself together, but his body betrays him.

The tension lingers between you both, heavy, charged. Asgore looks at you then, his lips parting slightly as if searching for the right words, but instead, he simply exhales—a slow, needy sigh, his massive frame still taut with restraint.

And then, finally, in a voice thick with longing, he murmurs, “C’mere, darlin’... I think I could use a lil’ company.”