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Being the royal scientist is an enviable position, certainly. Gaster has the king’s ear, as they say, and could provide opinions even on matters completely unrelated to science. In fact, Asgore has sometimes asked him for his advice, only to get Gaster’s shake of the head and, “I don’t think I could help you with that in an official capacity, sire.”
“Then tell me as a friend,” Asgore says, every time. And Gaster always gives in, because he’d like nothing better than to be Asgore’s friend. Or perhaps, only one thing better.
“How do you deal with loneliness?” Asgore asks one day, the rumble of his voice softer than usual. “I have been told I should move on, but… I cannot even imagine there being any replacement for her.”
Gaster looks toward Asgore, sitting on his throne but with none of the regal bearing he should have there: only a sad monster, missing his former wife. He feels for him, as he always does, but he can never truly separate his feelings of sympathy from other emotions that are less innocent and benign.
“Perhaps,” he says, slowly, “it would be better not to think of others as ‘replacements’. No one will ever be exactly the same as the queen, but… You might be able to be less alone, still.”
“You are right, as always, Gaster.” Asgore sighs. “But, I would not know where to begin.”
Gaster fidgets with his hands. “Well,” he starts, and stops for a moment before beginning again with a bit more confidence. “Is there anyone your majesty already enjoys the company of? Perhaps you might become a bit closer to them…?”
“Mostly just you,” Asgore says without hesitation. “My dear friend. I already impose upon you too much.”
“No!” Gaster says, louder than he intended to. “Sire, I…” He takes a step towards the throne, then another. “If anything, it’s me that enjoys being with you more than I should.”
Another few steps, until he’s right in front of him. Gaster is relieved that he can’t impulsively kiss Asgore without the benefit of lips - it would only make matters worse. Instead he leans his forehead against Asgore’s. “...You mean a great deal to me. More than is appropriate.”
“Gaster…” Gaster can’t read the emotion in Asgore’s voice. “I am sorry. I never knew you felt these things about me.”
Gaster knew it would be rejection. He shuts his eyelids, and is thus completely unprepared when Asgore puts a hand on his back and pulls him closer.
Compared to Gaster, Asgore is a giant of a man, and Gaster has no hope of ending up anywhere but half on Asgore’s lap. They’re still on the throne, and Gaster finds that his face has heated up for absolutely no justifiable reason.
“Y...your majesty?” His voice has risen, too.
“Asgore,” Asgore says, gently. “Please call me Asgore.”
Gaster had been using titles to keep a certain distance between them. There’s not much distance between them now - a few inches at best - so he supposes this is appropriate. “...Asgore, what are you doing?”
“I am sorry,” Asgore says, “that I did not notice sooner, and that I do not know very much about skeletons.” He leans in, brushing lips against teeth, and leans back again while Gaster is still in shock from the almost kiss. “You may have to direct me.”
Gaster’s mind is still hazy, but one of the first coherent thoughts that come to him is: he is lonely, he just said he was lonely, and he wanted Gaster to help him. Gaster seizes on this thought, because it is far easier to believe than the notion that Asgore might return his own feelings.
Ignoring evidence is rarely something he does, but this is far more difficult for him to understand than any of his complex lab experiments.
“Please,” Gaster says, when the fog clears enough for him to form words again, “don’t worry about me.”
Gaster knows his hands don’t feel the best. Bones are not the softest material, and the holes in his hands make for a strange sensation. But even with skeletal hands, there are a few things he can do for Asgore, and the first is that he reaches up and up to pull off Asgore’s cape, drop it off the side of the throne, and start to massage his shoulders.
Asgore’s muscles are, of course, tense. It’s no wonder - being the king is a difficult position, far more than being the royal scientist. Gaster works out knots and smiles a little as Asgore sighs in contentment.
His hands stutter every time Asgore decides to press another kiss somewhere against his skull, and when he brushes the crack running down on one side, Gaster stops completely to gasp.
“Are you alright?” Asgore asks.
“Y-yes,” Gaster manages, and restrains himself from asking him to do that again. “Ah - may I continue?”
“You need not ask permission,” Asgore says, smiling. “Please do not think of me as the king right now.”
It’s difficult not to when they’re on the royal throne, but Gaster will do his best. He trails his hands down lower places, less tense, and slides one up underneath the hem of Asgore’s shirt once he reaches it. Asgore breathes in sharply, which Gaster takes as encouraging.
It’s distracting that Asgore keeps rubbing the back of his spine up and down through his clothes, but Gaster will do no more than whimper occasionally as he focuses on alleviating Asgore’s loneliness. He searches for sensitive spots, and is careful to be gentle with his bones.
Soon enough, Asgore is shifting in the throne, and Gaster can easily feel the reason why underneath him.
Asgore covers his blushing face. “It - has been a long time, you need not-”
“I don’t mind,” Gaster says. It had really been his intention the whole time. He pulls himself off of Asgore’s lap to kneel at his feet instead, and tugs off the clothes in his way.
Asgore, unsurprisingly, is big, and thick as well, and for the first time Gaster can remember, he’s glad that there’s nothing in his body it would be pleasurable for Asgore to be inside. He wraps one hand around him, and it only covers a little more than half the length.
He has to be especially careful not to scrape, but if he goes slowly, then Asgore makes soft rumbling noises that turn into moans whenever he brushes underneath the head. His thumb rubs there while he uses his other hand to stroke, and Asgore hunches over a little, bringing one hand to rest on the top of Gaster’s skull.
It’s complimentary, and Gaster makes a mental note that if this is going to continue, he really must look into using his magic more creatively. His hands just aren’t what Asgore deserves.
But Asgore doesn’t complain, at least not now. When he’s close, he says Gaster’s name again and again, until he lets out a long wordless groan and finishes in Gaster’s hand. Most of the come stays on his hands, but some flies through the holes there and leaves a white mess on his black clothing.
Gaster fishes a tissue out of his pocket and wipes himself off while Asgore is still recovering. When Asgore reaches for his hand, he lets him take it, and is pulled right back into his lap again.
“You don’t need to do anything for me,” Gaster tells him, because his hands are wandering over his clothes and it’s being very distracting.
“I would like to,” says Asgore, firm and sure, and Gaster can hardly argue with that. Without further complaint, Gaster takes his coat off, setting it on top of Asgore’s cloak on the ground. Then, a bit more slowly, his shirt.
Asgore’s hands are a bit clumsy at first, and Gaster winces a few times from overstimulation, but once Asgore figures out what he’s doing, it’s embarrassing how loud Gaster gets. Asgore is stuck stroking the outside of his bones, far too big to get inside his ribcage, but that’s enough to leave Gaster a quivering mess, pressed up against Asgore’s chest there and whimpering, alternating ‘Asgore’ and ‘sire’ and they’re on the royal throne-
And that shouldn’t be even more of a turn-on, but it is. He shouldn’t be doing this, it’s not appropriate, Gaster’s sure Asgore doesn’t at all feel the same way as him, but every time he reminds himself of that his moans just get louder.
Maybe it’s not at all surprising that he takes less time than Asgore does to finish. He doesn’t have as clear a physical tell as Asgore does, so he has to pry himself away from him, gasping, “Enough, that’s enough.”
Asgore pulls his hands back. “I am sorry.”
Gaster takes a few moments to try and compose himself again. Silently, he picks up Asgore’s cape and brushes some leaves off of it, then offers it to Asgore, who accepts it. He picks up his own clothes next, and is still trembling as he puts them back on.
“...By your leave, sire,” Gaster says, quiet. Asgore gives him a nod, and Gaster turns to go.
“Gaster-”
Gaster turns to look at him over his shoulder, staying silent.
“Please call me Asgore,” Asgore says, with closed eyes. “We are friends, are we not?”
Gaster smiles a little, despite himself. “As you wish.”