Commission I did for  WideWobblyProductions They're a magnificent friend and I'm so glad to have gotten to write for them! I hope the rest of you enjoy!

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Light from a lazy afternoon’s sun trickled into a hole after being suppressed by a dreary rain cloud for the entire morning. Not a wet, dirty hole filled with worms and bugs, but one that housed warm, soft colored walls and lacquered wooden floors that became dirty from two men opening the oaken door and rushing in.
This hole, naturally, had windows to let in the light. Windows that, under them, contained boxes for herbs and bright spring flowers that still glistened with the recent mist of rain as many were quickly plucked from their collective perches by a desperate hand.
Aside and around each window, however, was not wood or stone, but dark and damp earth that already began to spread the recent rain across streams of roots, water of which that stopped atop a stone sanctum housed under the earth. And this earth rose at a gentle crest into a fine hill, almost pristine and nearly unmarked save for the windows leading in and a cottage that partially cut into the side of the hill. Even the cottage, normally a picturesque beauty of comfort, was itself blemished today by a smear of blood and the fresh markings of a shaky key attempting to find its roost.
And inside the cottage housed two furs that loved each other and leaned on one another through all troubles: a fox and a badger. Though, unfortunately, the leaning this time was quite literal.

The smell of healing herbs and incense died down as Sylvester the fox finished his ritual. His husband, a mountain of a badger, still clutched over his heart at the wound that nearly split it apart, his face a mask of pain and suffering. Upsetting a normally sleek and trimmed grey ocean of fur and muscle was a deep red gash that was held together by the barest of threads and thinnest of scabs, conjured by a desperate husband. Were it not for his husband’s expertise in magic, Harold the badger surely would have bled out before they had arrived to their cozy cottage in the middle of the woods.
And for a moment, Sylvester thought he was too late as his husband lied on the floor, the fresh crimson already clotting over the smooth stonework. He held his breath and clenched his hands so tight that his claws nearly broke the skin of his paws. Hours passed in seconds as doubt unleashed a torrent in his head. And, thankfully, it all went quiet as he saw his husband take another breath and have his eyes flitter open.
“Harold! I was so worried for you!” Sylvester said as he wrapped his arms around the badger. Harold let out a pained groan, and Sylvester let off instantly for fear of undoing all of his work. “I was so worried,” he began again as he clutched his head in shock. “The healing marjoram wasn’t in season yet, so I was working with buds instead of full sprigs, and I was worried my hand movements were too shaky, not to mention the aetheric interference from the recent torrent, and—”
Harold looked over to his vulpine lover and smiled. He grasped on to his arm weakly and said,” I like your funny words, magic man.”
“Oh, right,” Sylvester said as he placed his own hand over his husband’s. “You lost a lot of blood. You’ll probably forget this whole conversation by tomorrow morning.”
“Can’t forget a face like…,” Harold slurred out before falling asleep. Sylvester, now spent from his impromptu revival, took the time to focus on the hovering magical lights in the sanctum and sent a wave of false darkness over the windows. With little effort from a learned mage such as him, the sanctum suddenly looked like the stars were out across a clear sky on a warm night. He kissed his husband one more time for reassurance, nuzzled under his arm, and took a warm nap before he set off to town to find help moving his hefty hubs.

Harold awoke sometime later, he wasn’t sure when. He knew for certain that the nip of morning cold had died down, but he had yet to enter the heat of midday. Light shone off of the drying dew outside and bounced back into the bedroom he and Sylvester slept in.
Harold ran his hand over the spot Sylvester normally slept, feeling the undisturbed pattern in the blanket that was bereft of him moving or Sylvester sleeping. Whatever sleep he underwent, it was deep enough to keep him from repositioning in his sleep. As he felt the softness of the blanket, his stomach began to groan with a deep moan, conjuring images of the restless dead he and Sylvester often fought in the ruins. Harold, only freshly awake, suddenly remembered just how tired and weak he was after the last expedition he went on with his best friend (and husband).
The actual expedition was still well remembered up until the end. He remembered a searing pain over his heart, and Harold’s fingers gingerly traced the scabbed and fragile flesh on his chest that was only barely protected by fresh bandages.
“Good morning, Bubs,” a bright and sunny voice sang out in perfect harmony with the spring morning outside. Harold knew it was Sylvester, but he smelled what his husband brought much sooner than he saw his husband.
In the fox’s hands was a wooden tray that was stacked to the brim with breakfast foods. Toasts cooked with eggs and slathered in butter and syrup, sausages and cuts of meat over beans and rice, and a mound of fluffy white potatoes that were diligently holding in a pond of gravy. On the sides were freshly cut fruits and two glasses of tea and juice, both already moist on the outside from the fresh ice inside the glass.
Harold opened his mouth to speak, but nothing came out but a struggling whisp of air. He grabbed the tea off of the tray and downed the entire glass in a greedy gulp as he felt the relief come in a literal wave.
“Thirsty?” Sylvester asked as he set the tray over Harold’s lap and leaned in for a kiss on his cheek. Harold looked at him as he processed the fact that they were both alive and relatively well, and grappled Sylvester by the lapel and pulled him in for a long and emotional kiss in return. After moments of intimacy between the two, Harold pulled back as his wounds hurt and said,” Not anymore.”
“Try not to exert yourself, love,” Sylvester said as he took two woven cotton pillows and placed them behind Harold, guiding him back until he was sitting up properly. He then grabbed a fork and stabbed one of the sausages gently, letting the fat and juice run like rivers over the taut casing. He guided it to Harold’s mouth, and as he fed his husband, he began to explain.
“Those ruins we went to,” he said as he fed his lover another sausage,” it was filled with all manner of distasteful things. Truly it would be of no small loss to the world to rake every stone in there with fire, both holy and mundane.”
Harold swallowed another hunk of meat, grabbed Sylvester’s hand that held the fork, and gently brought it to his lips. He kissed his husband’s fingers and took the fork from his hand, and began to eat by himself. As he skewered several fruits together in a short but sweet kebab, he said,” I know, hon. We took a poster that said ‘Wanted: Reclaim Dark Ruins!’ on it in bold letters.”
Sylvester, being a diligent husband, took Harold’s empty glass of sweetened tea and began to refill it, and sighed in relief. “I’m glad you remember that much,” he said as he put the glass and the pitcher down, waving his hands over both so that ice began to form on the outside. “Well, everything went fine until we stumbled into the main library.”
Harold nodded, indicating that he remembered the journey more in-between each savage bite of toast and eggs, as Sylvester continued.
“Honestly, I was so convinced that there would be a magical trap of some kind in there that any other possibility seemed foolish.” He took his thin fingers and gently traced over the bumpy bandages with a morose look. Harold stopped eating for a moment; not from pain, but because his husband was deep in thought and he wanted to give him the attention he needed. “You jumped in front of me before I even had time to see that spike trap,” he said dolefully, a few tears coming to his eyes behind his silver spectacles. “Just a couple of millimeters and I wouldn’t have been able to bring you back.”
Harold grabbed onto Sylvester and pulled him in close. “I’d do it again too,” he said. “Anything to know you’d be safe.” Sylvester, barely restraining his emotions, let himself show how much guilt he felt to his love. And Harold held tighter, ignoring whatever pain that was brought to his new wound.

As days passed, the stifling comfort of the bedroom the two of them shared began to ease away as Harold rose from bed more and more frequently. As the flowers outside lost some of their vibrant hues in favor of sturdier stalks and green, so too did the season turn in the most predictable way. Spring had finally gone to rest for another year, leaving the two husbands together in the sun-room to welcome summer in with a cup of tea.
“And then,” Sylvester said as he continued his story,” the man reached down and actually produced the pearls! I was scandalized, love. Whatever would his wife think?”
“I don’t know,” Harold said as he drained what was functionally a flagon of iced sweet tea,” but you can be sure her sister will be more than thrilled.” The two of them laughed, Harold much longer than Sylvester. Sylvester didn’t know why, but he had grown used to eying his husband’s mid-section more and more lately.
Right now he was wearing some of his winter under clothing. Not the bulky cottons and wools that kept them warm, but the lighter and wider garments that went under. They weren’t the most comfortable, sure, but Harold had been very gracious in accepting food to help recover his strength over the past few months, and it was quickly becoming more and more apparent on his figure.
Even now, Sylvester couldn’t keep his eyes off of the rift of grey fur that rolled over in a soft crest, eagerly escaping the confines of clothing. He noticed the way Harold had been adjusting his sleeves more and more as his frame grew wider, and he certainly noticed that the same seams in his pants had been ripped more and more often as Harold continued to eat. Sylvester couldn’t place the feeling, but it felt both good to know his husband was so happy but bad that he was directly changing his figure so much.
In but the briefest of seconds that it took for Harold to stop laughing, Sylvester averted his eyes away from his husband. He quickly focused on an arcane plant that was coming in nicely and made some comment that he knew Harold wouldn’t understand. He’d just nod in agreement and give his usual warm smile.
“Darling,” Harold said as he gently took Sylvester’s paw into his own,” you’ve been far too good to me.”
“No such thing,” Sylvester replied as he rubbed his thumb against Harold’s palm. He noticed that there was just a hint more skin there than normal. “In fact, I was worried when you said you didn’t want much for your birthday. I know we haven’t been doing our usual work, but we’re not destitute yet, love.”
“I know, I know,” Harold said. “But you’ve been working yourself to the bone cooking for the two of us and trying to keep atop of your studies. I wanted to let you know just how much I care about you, so…”
Harold got up, barely having to use the chair or table for support. He began to waddle out of the room, where Sylvester tried desperately not to have his eyes snap to seeing how his husband’s love handles swayed or how his rump mashed against each other with each step. Or how what he saw of his stomach bounced with every quickened step he took. He felt his face flush with the thoughts he had about his husband and how he wanted to see more of him. Thankfully his fur was already red enough to hide it, though he was more than certain that Harold was catching on.
He returned quickly, entering the room with a covered tray with a dome on it. Unfortunately, it obscured more of his husband’s dashing midsection, but enjoyed seeing the muscles under his arm tighten and bulge their size out further whilst carrying it.
Harold set it down on the table, Sylvester scurrying to move everything out of the way. He then put his hand on the top of the covering and the other on his husband’s shoulder. He leaned down for a quick nuzzle before saying,” I wanted to show how much I appreciated all you did for me by doing something for you.”
As he removed the covering, Sylvester was hit by the hot and steamy scent of his favorite snack: spicy sausage and leek hand pies. The crust was a golden gambeson of buttered layers, a puff pastry technique that Harold mastered long before the two were together, and as Sylvester opened one, he saw the juicy filling nearly escape on a cloud of aromatic steam.
“I’ve had some time with doing your duties for the village, and I wanted to show you just how much that meant to me.” He pulled up the chair he used earlier and brought it closer to Sylvester, allowing the two to press against each other as they held hands. “And I was hoping this would be a nice gesture before some big news,” Harold said quietly.
“Oh love,” Sylvester said as he put his hands on Harold’s face before asking,” big news? What’s happened?”
“Well, we’ve been spending so much time together at the house,” he said as he picked up one of the pies and gave it to his husband. Sylvester held off on eating it, despite the fact that it was the perfect temperature at the moment. “And I’ve loved every second of it,” he continued as he leaned in for a kiss and returned to his seat.
“But?” Sylvester inquired.
“But…I think I’m ready to get back out there and start our adventuring business again,” he said anxiously.
Sylvester opened his mouth to begin a protest, but Harold quickly took the pie in his hand and placed it in the hole. Sylvester instinctively bit down and was immediately placated by the rush of flavor that he hadn’t experienced in some time.
“There’s rumors of tunnels leading to the Necropolis opening up, pirates have been seen off the coast of one of the nearby towns, and worst of all,” Harold said as he looked his lover in the eyes,” I think I’ve gotten too fat for you.”
“Hoo haf?” Sylvester said with his mouth full. He swallowed and repeated himself. “Whatever do you mean?” he said with a quick glance down to this hubby’s tubby tummy.
Harold instinctively pulled his shirt down before saying,” Nothing fits me anymore, darling. My armor is a pathetic attempt to protect all of this,” he said as he grabbed his sides with a quick jostle,” and I’ve seen how you’ve been staring at me. I know it’s vain to think so, but I’m worried I disgust you.”
“But you don’t!” Sylvester enthusiastically replied. “I mean, you wear it well. A-and the armor can be refitted, worry not.” Sylvester, having finished just one of many snacks, rubbed his hand over his husband’s stomach. He felt the soft skin resist only a bit before giving, the short grey fur adding to the already soft feeling. “Personally, I quite enjoyed seeing you eat your fill and then some. You’ve always loved food, love. But I’ve seen you hold back from really enjoying it with the gusto you deserve. Even when we first met.”
Sylvester leaned in and put his hands under the badger’s shirt, gently guiding it upwards. While he would normally be so shy to even think of this sort of gesture in public, in private he was only limited by his husband’s want. Harold didn’t resist, and the linen and silk threads slid off of his portly frame easily.
As Sylvester traced his hand along his husband’s frame, feeling every inch of fat in his fingers, he asked,” How do you feel about all of this?” whilst emphasizing the point with a quick squeeze.
“I-I…” Harold began, Sylvester plainly seeing the confusion on his face. He gulped, taking in a long breath between two fattened cheeks, and finally said,” I think I might actually like it.”
Even under the fur, Sylvester could see Harold blush. “I didn’t want to admit anything for fear of being judged, and I always felt this…stir within me whenever we worked with our larger companions. I realize now that it was envy. Not just for their size, but their confidence and comfort in it as well.”
Harold grabbed Sylvester’s hands and guided them along his curved stomach. They spent several moments in quiet exploration, only interrupted by the ambient noise of summer and the heat of midday pouring in through the glass, just rubbing Harold’s expansive midsection.
“We didn’t have much food growing up, you know this Sylvester.” His husband nodded in agreement, himself a little shocked at how quickly he felt validated with this conversation. “But my parents made sure to keep us fed no matter what. Food has always been a sign of love, making fat just a sign to everyone that people loved you.”
“I know,” Sylvester said as he nuzzled his nose into his husband’s neck and along his face. “Since last time I saw him, I could tell his wife loved him very much,” he said as he rubbed Harold’s stomach fur. He could tell his husband was getting excited, and it stirred a hunger in Sylvester himself.
He grabbed one of the pastries that Harold made for him and guided his husband back in his seat. “Close your eyes, love,” he purred. Harold did just that, and Sylvester slid in one of the pastries down the badger’s greedy maw. As he chewed, Sylvester continued to rub and help ensure his husband digested every last crumb of food.
“Though, thinking on it,” Sylvester said with a coy smile as Harold devoured another pastry,” I would want nothing more than to show your family how much I loved you instead.”
The fox leaned in to kiss his husband’s neck, the pressure of another man’s body pressing into his distending stomach. He looked to his fox of a husband, and felt something rise in his throat.
“I—” was the last word he said before releasing a gale of a belch into his husband’s face. The wind lasted for seconds on end, breaking the tranquil silence of their sun room and filling it with a cacophonous roar. By the time it died down, both of them could feel just how aroused the other was as they kept eye contact. “I’d like that,” he said before the two of them picked up the rest of the tray and headed into the bedroom.