November Poll Story: Falling In Love (Patreon)

Freshman Year

Located around the county of Castershire and founded atop the ruins of a desecrated abbey from the Elizabethan era, the respectable Queen’s College sat along the banks of the River Avon. A proud, sprawling collection of gothic buildings, it contrasted sharply with the village of Castershire, a cluster of cozy, ivy-covered cottages huddled around the towering spire of St. Ethelthryth’s. In recent years, the contrast had become more than just physical; with Queen’s College gaining a reputation as a party school, the students and simple country folk of Castershire were beginning to clash, especially as summer waned and autumn approached like an advancing army. 

Three Queen’s students were making their way down the cobbled streets of the village; two upperclassmen and the rugby team’s newest member, a lean otter, Franklin Miller.

“Ah, shite,” one of the upperclassmen, a hyena by the name of Daniel, grumbled. “This place must seem like a rubbish heap after London, eh, Frankie? Half these old buggers haven’t felt a pulse since Princess Di croaked it.” He snarled at two older bulldogs that glowered at the students in their school blazers. 

Franklin smirked, slicking back some of his chestnut brown fur. “Yeah, I’d kill for a decent shwarma, make no mistake. Doesn’t this place have any place for a bloke to have some fun?”

The other upperclassman, a burly badger named Charles, scoffed. “If you discount having tea with the vicar, not a whiff. It’s two hours to Liverpool, and that’s your lot.”

Daniel led the way into an idyllic looking bakery located in one of several ivy-draped brick houses. Delectable cakes crowded the bay window, and an old-fashioned sign above read “Castershire Cakes, A Sweet English Tradition Since 1796.”

“Watch this, Frankie boy,” Daniel winked, elbowing the otter as they got a table. “The baker here is a total muppet.” The hyena thumped his fist against the small table the three crowded around. “Oi! Harold! Get your fat arse out here, my friends and I want some bloody scones!”

“Coming, coming!” a chubby fox huffed, clumsily stepping out from the kitchen, only to hurriedly grab three scones on a tray. The fox was noticeably fluffy, but his apron was already stretched across his doughy build as he set the tray down.

Daniel snarled, poking him in the middle. “Oi, now Harold, these better be fresh scones.”

“O-of course they are,” the fox said, a little stiffly, but he couldn’t do much; Daniel and Charles far outclassed him in physical prowess.

“‘Cause last time, I nearly chipped a tooth, I did.”

“A-and I said I was very sorry,” Harold offered lamely.

Daniel rolled his eyes. “You just better hope these are good; we’re showing our new friend Franklin around town, and I’d hate to give him a poor first impression.”

Harold nodded quietly, his ears splayed and his tail between his legs as he slinked off back behind the counter.

The otter frowned slightly, but then bit into the scone. His eyes widened; it tasted amazing. “That’s bloody brilliant,” he said, his mouth still full. 

“Oi, don’t ruin it, Frankie!” Daniel stifled a laugh, before putting on a scowl. “Augh, damn!” He slammed his fist down on the table. “Fuckin’ Hell, Harold! These scones’re harder than Charles’ skull! We oughta be using these blasted rocks to beat the other team at our next match!”

“W-what? But they’re fresh!” Harold protested, his face falling.

“The bloody Queen is fresher, you tosser!” Daniel thundered. Charles silently grabbed the scones, and began heading for the door. “You better shape up this hole in the wall, Harold, or we’ll bring in the bloody constable for fraud!” The hyena declared, storming for the door.

“B-but you haven’t paid for those!”

Daniel swerved around dramatically. “You think I’m paying for these shingle tiles, Harold? What kind of a crook are you?”

“I… r-right, sorry,” Harold muttered, looking down. “I’ll… be sure to try harder next time.”

Daniel kept the facade up until he slammed the door to the bakery shut, and then let out a barely contained laugh. “Ah, beautiful! That fat shite falls for it every time.”

“You just… say that to eat free, then?” Franklin asked, a lingering glance back inside; Harold was leaning against the counter, his head buried in his hands.

“Yeah. Best deal in Castershire, right Charles?”

The badger nodded emphatically, his face already full of Harold’s scones. Franklin tried to push the incident out of his mind as his friends finished showing him around the village; there wasn’t exactly that much ground to cover. But as they headed back to the campus in the mid-afternoon to get away from the chill, Franklin picked his way back to Castershire Cakes.

“Welcome to Castershire Cakes, what can I—” Harold’s face fell when he saw Franklin, the fox gently gripping the sides of the counter. “You’re the new rugby player hanging around Dan and Charlie.”

The otter sighed. “Look, I… came back to settle the bill. How much is three scones?”

“Three and a half quid.”

Franklin nodded, counting out the money then handing it over to Harold. “You should know… the scones were actually really fantastic. Some of the best I ever tasted, definitely fresh.”

The fox nodded glumly. “I had a feeling. But, I-I didn’t want to make a fuss…”

“Look, mate, you gotta just tell Daniel where to shove it and he’ll back off. You don’t have to be such a muppet about it.”

Harold shook his head. “I-I don’t think that would end well for me…” the fox sighed, then looked up to Franklin, offering a small grin. “One scone’s only one fifty. You only had one scone, right?” He gestured to the pastries under the glass counter. “So, I owe you two quid’s worth. How would you like to try, hm…” Harold looked over his own pastries, then picked up a generously large tart, decorated with strawberry and peach slices. “It’s an almond, ginger, peach, strawberry, and treacle tart. I call it Harold’s Own, since, well, I made up the recipe.”

“Oh, that’s really not necessary, mate. I just wanted to pay for the scones.”

“Look, I believe in fairness. You only had one scone, so you only pay for one. Please. I’d like you to have it,” Harold said, grinning softly.

Franklin sighed, nodding as the tart was boxed, then tucking it under his arm. “Thank you, Harold. And it’s Franklin.”

“Hm?”

The otter waved as he headed for the door. “My name is Franklin. Just in case we bump into each other again.”

Later that night, even after a hearty meal, Franklin devoured the entire tart. It was amazing; the peach and strawberry were sweet, but just tart enough to keep the treacle and ginger in check, the flavors melting on his tongue. Lying back with a full stomach, he was thoroughly convinced Harold had a gift. The following days, as the leaves began to change, Franklin often made his way down to Castershire Cakes, picking up a small treat for himself, but slowly, it was just to talk to Harold. The fox, as it turned out, was an avid reader, and Franklin learned more about Jane Austen and Lord Byron from the baker than he ever did in his literature class.

As autumn wore on, Franklin’s frequent visits to the bakery began to manifest themselves in a freshman fifteen, augmenting his middle; at first, it was actively encouraged. For a rugby player, the otter was a touch on the skinny side. But soon, Daniel and Charles began to realize how the otter was filling out.

Franklin was walking through the village alone when the hyena and badger flanked him, Daniel draping his arms over the otter’s shoulders. “Hey, Frankie, where are you headed?”

“Ah, just on a stroll, that’s all,” the otter replied quickly.

“A stroll, he says,” Daniel smirked to Charles, steering the otter towards Castershire Cakes. “You’ve got a sweet tooth, Frankie, but I don’t think you’re taking advantage of our five-fingered discount. You’re getting a little too soft on Harry, there. Why’s that?”

Frankie shrugged lamely. “He seems like a decent enough sort.”

Charles scoffed. “These Castershire sorts’re bunch-a toffs,” the badger growled. “They judge us ‘cause we’re college students, yeah?”

“And if we didn’t let ‘em know who’s in charge around here, they’d be lookin’ down their noses at us all the time, right?” Daniel said, pushing the door open. “Now, let’s get you anything you want, yeah?” He chuckled, patting Franklin’s softer middle.

Harold looked up. “Welcome to Castershi— oh.” His ears splayed as Charles lumbered toward him, shoving against his round belly and backing him in a corner, the badger’s broad shoulders and thick, barrel-chested torso filling the space.

“H-hey!” the fox protested, but Charles was far stronger.

“Quality check, Harry, m’boy,” Daniel chortled, stepping behind the counter and grabbing a box, filling it up with pastries. “Frankie, you’re the expert. What’s the best thing in this shithole?”

“I…” the otter blanched. “Guys, I’m not hungry.”

“Psht, like we haven’t seen you in the cafeteria.” Daniel turned to Harold. “You know, it was actually Frankie’s idea we come here.”

“W-what?”

“No, I…” the otter was flushed. “Please, let’s just go.”

Daniel looked up, his hand wrapped around a blueberry scone. “Frankie boy, I’m losing my patience. I don’t want to spend another minute in this rubbish heap than necessary, so just tell me what you want.”

“The…” Franklin turned away. “The tarts are really good. Harold’s Own.”

Daniel grinned, grabbing two of them and putting them in the box. “There we go, nice pressie for our newest friend.”

“Y-you need to pay for those!” Harold shouted.

Daniel rolled his eyes. “Charles?”

The badger grunted, and slammed his fist into the fox’s gut. Harold gasped breathlessly, falling to the floor.

“Thanks for your cooperation, Harry. We’ll be sure to let you know our full critique soon enough,” Daniel said with a small salute. “Frankie! You wanted to get out of here, right?”

Franklin looked back at Harold, frowning deeply, then followed after, his tail between his legs. The otter avoided the bakery, out of fear Daniel and Charles would be there. He went through the rest of the season sticking to the campus, even losing some of the weight. Come the day before the Christmas holiday, however, he summoned up the courage to make his way into the village, just after closing. He caught Harold just as he was flipping the “open” sign to “closed.”

“Harold!” He banged on the glass door. “Harold, wait!”

The fox looked up, glaring with a wounded glint in his eye. “We’re closed.”

“Please, Harold- Daniel and Charles were being a bunch of tossers.”

The baker opened up the door. “I know I’m a bloody coward, but what about you? I noticed you stop coming around after all that.”

Franklin grimaced. “I’m sorry. I… should have told Danny to stop. But I can’t change the past, alright? So…” He held up two books, wrapped together with a festive ribbon. “I came to make peace, and another one for Christmas. I’ll be going home tomorrow.”

Harold was still frowning as he took the books, but his face softened as he look over the titles. “Northanger Abbey… you remembered.” He smiled softly as he held the book up. “It’s the only Jane Austen book I never had the chance to read.”

Franklin returned the smile as Harold looked down at his second book, but the fox’s brow furrowed. “A Gentleman’s Guide to… Fisticuffs?”

“Yeah, it’s… one of those self-help books. It’s totally taking the piss, you know, tongue-in-cheek, but it’s still got some great advice. Workouts, too. My dad gave it to me when some kids were picking on me in school,” the otter sighed. “I really think you could stand up to Charles and Daniel. If you stop slouching and cowering, well…” He pushed against Harold’s back, making him stand straight. “Well… look at that.” Franklin grinned. The fox was almost a whole head taller than him, and definitely taller than either of the two other rugby players.

The fox blushed. “Well… thank you. Really. I’m sure I’ll enjoy both.” He looked down at the otter and offered his hand. “Happy Christmas, Frank.”

The mustelid grinned, eagerly shaking his hand. “Happy Christmas, Harold.”

Sophomore Year

Franklin’s first year of college ended on a satisfactory note. The rugby team had a respectable season, and his grades were decent. Over the summer, however, he languished in London. He had come to miss Castershire; the quiet, slow pace of life, the rolling fields and forests, the delicious food and the cute bakers who made them… he had tried to push that last one into the deep recesses of his mind. If he was going to start batting for the other team, Harold wouldn’t be his first choice. Granted, he couldn’t really think of any good reason why not, but that was besides the point. Harold was just a friend.

On his first day back, the otter breathed in the country air, and began to feel more at ease. Setting his things down in his dorm room, he noticed a package waiting for him tied with string. Gingerly opening it up, he instantly smelled rich cinnamon and butterscotch, and he was now looking down on a decadently rich custard pie. Already guessing where it came from, he couldn’t help but sneak a quick bite. 

“Oh, ye gods,” he groaned. The taste was almost overwhelmingly sweet and decadent. There was a card attached. 

“To Frankie: Welcome back! You ought to start your studies early, so name the book this quote is from, and I’ll have a special prize for you down at the bakery. ‘We have all a better guide in ourselves, if we would attend to it, than any other person can be.’

Your friend,

-Harold”

The otter chuckled for a moment, then concentrated hard. Snapping his fingers, he grinned as he rushed for the village. Castershire Cakes was the same as he had left it, and spotting Harold hunched below the counter getting a display ready, Harold swung open the door and thumped his fist against the counter. “Mansfield Park, Jane Austen. Bam! You’re going to have to try harder than thought to… to… oh, my god.” 

The otter trailed off as the fox stood to his full height. Harold grinned wide as Franklin took all of him in; his shoulders were broad and thick, and his sleeves were tight around noticeably sturdy arms. He had lost some of his chubby middle, though his torso was still delightfully thick. “Right you are, Frankie. Ah, suppose it’s my own fault, being predictable.” His smile trailed off. “Is… something wrong?”

Franklin realized he was staring, and quickly shook his head. “No, no, it’s just… good to see you,” he muttered, his eyes going up and down the fox’s frame. It was a little better to see him than he expected. “You, uh, put on weight- beef- muscle!” The otter buried his muzzle in his hands. “You look good.”

“Ah, well, goodness, thank you,” the fox blushed. He held up his Christmas present. “You were right about this book. I’ve gotten hooked on working out, as it would happen.” There was a slightly awkward pause. “You- you look good, too, Frankie. Finally lost that Freshman fifteen.”

The otter made a face. “Dad had me on a diet all summer.”

“Well, there’s nothing wrong with an extra pound or two,” Harold grinned, placing his special tart on the counter. “There you are. I’m a man of my word.”

Franklin’s eyes lit up as he gladly took it. “Hah. Thanks, Harry.”

“And, uhm,” the fox looked down, trying to find something to do with his hands. “If… you ever wanted another place to study, well… you could come here. I’d be happy to help you with any literature you might have a problem with. If you need it.”

The otter grinned. “Sure, I’d like that. I assume you’ll be providing the refreshments?”

Harold smirked. “We’ll see. But… it’s good to have you around again.”

“Same. I, uh, missed you- your baking.” Frankie cleared his throat. “There’s really nothing like it in London.”

The fox reached under the counter. “Flattery will get you everywhere, as they say.” He slid a scone over to the otter. “Welcome back.”

Time away had given Franklin a new perspective; he had outgrown Daniel and Charles, who still delighted in being a general nuisance to the town of Castershire and terrors to the new freshmen. He still hung out with them, but really, the only time he enjoyed himself was in Harold’s bakery. The fox had built some semblance of confidence, which helped his charm; but around all of Harold’s pastries, cakes, and pies, it was hard to fight the temptation, and as the two pored over the first few assigned reading for his classes, Franklin ate more and more. It wasn’t long until he found the Freshman Fifteen he had lost, which, as the temperature continued to drop and the trees turned garish reds and yellows, soon ballooned into a Sophomore Sixty in counting.

It was in the locker room after a particularly grueling practice session that it was driven home; Franklin yipped as his round ass was smacked with a towel, and he swerved around to see Daniel and Charles closing in.

“You’re looking terribly prosperous, Frankie boy, do you know that?” Daniel said with a sneer, smacking the otter’s round cheek. “Not even your thick tail can hide that fat arse.”

“This for ‘bulking season’?” Charles rumbled, prodding the otter in his increasingly round gut. 

“Hey, hey!” Franklin backed up. He just barely had the stamina to keep up with the team these days, carrying all that extra weight, but the way his butterball gut filled out his uniform was quickly making him the butt of the joke for all the other rugby players. “That’s enough. I’ve… just been stress eating.”

“Yeah, must be terribly stressful, keeping that bench warm,” Daniel smirked. “Look, Frankie, you were good last year, but now, some of us are starting to think you’re maybe not the best fit for the team…” The hyena pinched Franklin’s gut again, making it wobble. “Seeing as you barely fit in your uniform.”

The otter gulped. “Look, I- I’ll work harder. I’ll lose the weight.”

Daniel and Charles exchanged looks. “Frankie, Frankie, Frankie… it’s too late for that.”

“Team’s full,” Charles grunted.

Franklin shook his head. “Look, boys, we’re mates, right? I can’t… I can’t get off the team.”

Daniel chuckled, patting Franklin’s shoulder. “Frankie, don’t fret. You can still be our bench warmer. But you need to do a little something, first. Call it… a test of loyalty.”

The otter frowned. “What’re you talking about?”

“Halloween’s coming up, and Charles and I, we want to get up to some tricks. All you have to do is get that fat oaf of a baker out of his shop. And leave the door unlocked.”

“...What’re you going to do?”

“Trick or treat,” Charles grumbled.

“We’re going to remind him who’s in charge around Castershire. Don’t you fret, doughboy, the bakery’ll still be there when we’re done. Just… a couple hundred pounds short.”

Franklin stood up, glaring at the two of them. “You want to rob him.”

Charles tensed his thick arms, and the badger pinned the chubby otter against the wall.

“That’s such an ugly word, Frankie. But you just keep this quiet, and we can all be friends again. Clear?” Daniel smiled, holding out his hand expectantly.

It was later that day when the otter stared down at Harold’s latest creation, a Quiche Lorraine he had cooked up with a special blend of herbs.

“Do you not like it?” Harold’s grin fell a bit. He was leaning over the table, his increasingly thick arms taking up much of the space as his heavily roped muscles bunched together.

“Hm? Oh, no. It’s great. The egg is fluffy, the crust holds together well. The bacon, it’s maple-cooked, yes? It’s a nice blend of flavors.” 

The fox leaned back, grinning with relief, his chest noticeably filling out his shirt. “Well, that’s good. I made it special for… well, I wanted to offer more breakfast items, that seems to be popular nowadays. I was… actually hoping to ask a favor.”

“What’s that?”

“Halloween’s coming up, and the Vicar’s asked me to set up a stall for the village fair. I was thinking, maybe, you could help me out? It’d just be nice to… to work with someone.” The fox leaned back, his back spreading and filling out his shirt as he stretched, his shirt riding up and showing a tuft of white fur poking out. His torso was still fairly thick, but it looked solid as stone.

Franklin grinned softly. “I… I would like that.” He frowned, reflecting. “Harold, there’s something you should know. Daniel and Charles asked me to make sure you were out of the shop on Halloween night. They want to rob you.”

“Rob me?” Harold frowned, huffing as he drummed his fingers on the table. “Well, that’s a step up for them.” 

Franklin stood up, starting to pace. “I… I had a thought. If you’re willing. I’m sorry, I should’ve said something before, but Daniel and Charles, they had me pinned, and I—”

“Frank, calm down.” Harold stood up, placing his hands on the otter. “I’m glad you told me. You’re… a good friend.” The fox hesitated, then pulled Franklin into a hug.

The otter blushed as he felt those strong arms wrap around him, digging into his softer sides, his belly pressed against the fox’s firm torso.

When they let go, Harold was blushing too, grinning sheepishly before he cleared his throat. “Well. You said you had a thought. I think I have the same thought, too. Remind me, and I’ll empty out of the register Halloween Night. But I won’t let those two go empty-handed.”

Come Halloween night, Franklin and Harold were tending a booth in the churchyard. Witches, ghosts, superheroes, knights, werewolves, and every other kind of monster were running around at the village fair, between games, slides, and a vast array of treats. Harold’s pastries were selling very well; it was a good night, and Franklin, manning the register, was keeping busy. The otter tugged on his apron; it was tight across his belly, and felt tighter every time the fox fed him a slightly marred pastry. But then, Harold’s apron was tight, too, straps taut over his thick chest… it wasn’t an unpleasant sight.

“MILLER! HAROLD!” 

Those milling around Harold’s booth jumped as Daniel and Charles pushed their way to the front. The hyena and badger were dressed all in black, but their heads and upper bodies were drenched in a dark, gooey liquid. “What the FUCK did you two fat wankers soak us in?!” the hyena stormed, absolutely incensed.

“Language!” The vicar, a lean and elderly greyhound protested, inching closer. “This is a churchyard, and there are children around here!”

Harold winked down at Franklin and reached out, running a finger up Charles’ cheek and tasting it. “Tastes like black treacle.” The fox snapped his fingers. “Ah, I was wondering where that bucket had gotten to. We were running low on treacle tarts. Would you like one while they last? Half the proceeds go to charity.”

“You rigged your shop!” Charles thundered.

“What were you doing by the bakery?” Franklin asked innocently. “Everyone knew that his shop would be closed.”

“You bloody traitor! You…” Daniel turned around, realizing there were at least a dozen pair of eyes on him. He straightened up, and he and Charles stocked out of the fairgrounds.

“What was that about, Mr. Abbott?” the Vicar asked.

Harold shrugged. “Haven’t the foggiest, sir. I just asked them to bring me some black treacle from the shop. Speaking of, I saved one tart just for you.” He slid a flaky pastry over to the greyhound.

“Ah, you know me too well.” The Vicar grinned, eagerly snatching up the treat. “Keep up the good work.”

The fairground returned to normal, and in a lull of business, Harold stepped out back, producing a bottle of pear cider. “Oi, time for a quick breather.” He nudged the otter, pouring him a glass. “I traded Mrs. Frances some of my strawberry scones for her cider. It’s the best in the county, so, cheers.”

Franklin grinned, inching a little closer to Harold as they clinked glasses and drank down the cider. “Happy Halloween, Harold.”

“Happy Halloween, Frank.”