Work Text:
Jaskier was drinking in a roadside tavern in the middle of nowhere when he overheard the two men next to him talking about a captured witcher.
“...and so the alderman decided he was to be the sacrifice to the goddess, due to him bein’ such a sturdy fella- lastin’ longer and such.”
“Pardon me, gentleman,” The bard interrupted, “Your conversation has caught my attention, and it sounds like an interesting tale. I am a bard by profession, you see, and the happenings of locals often inspire my work. If it pleases you, I would love to hear more about this witcher.”
The men told him that a few days’ ride to the southeast, there was a village that sacrificed people to the seven deadly sins. They believed that in doing that, the sins would be satisfied and would not try to tempt the townspeople into depraved behaviors. Each year was dedicated to a different sin until they cycled through them all before returning to the top of the order. This year, they appealed to gluttony.
Relief washed over Jaskier upon hearing that the ritual called for the tributes to immerse themselves in the unwanted habits in order to satisfy the deities. The individuals sacraficed to the sins very rarely lost their lives. If someone did succumb to the ritual, it was because their body gave out from overindulgence.
Under the guise of gathering more detailed information to inspire his ballad, Jaskier confirmed that the witcher in question was his Geralt of Rivia.
~~~
When the alderman led him to the temple where they paid homage to the sins, the first thing Jaskeir noticed was how large the witcher’s belly was. Geralt was reclined on a lavish cushion atop the short, wide altar made of smooth gray stone, polished and glossy. He was leaning on what looked like the back of a throne, also made of stone and lined with cushions, which made the platform appear more like a throne. Geralt himself looked like a gluttonous king. Though his face and limbs had remained unchanged, still as muscular and lithe as the last time the bard had seen him, the witcher’s once flat stomach had become an impossibly massive beer belly. It looked like he could have been pregnant with triplets if it weren’t so rounded at the sides. The witcher rubbed his taut mass idly; he strained to reach the middle with how he was laying, it was simply distended too far. The linen sleep shirt he was wearing was unable to contain it all. The fabric was tight against his swollen abdomen, too small to cover his wide, round stomach. It didn’t even reach his belly button, causing most of his girth to be exposed to the air. The bottom of his paunch was just as taut and round as the top, and so enormous that it hung over the waistband of his trousers significantly, forcing his muscular thighs apart.
“UUUURRRP!” Geralt belched, deep and guttural. He slapped his hard stomach and continued to lazily massage small circles into it.
One hand moved to rub lower on his gut. Slowly, his other hand traveled upwards and caressed the fullness there in soothing motions, clapping it every so often, hard as a rock from being filled to the point of bursting.
Geralt seemed to be in a blissful haze, looking at nothing through drooping eyelids, the pupils in his cat-like eyes blown wide, gaze devoid of lucidity, unconcerned about his current state. He burped again and released a breathy groan.
“As you can see, the witcher is in good hands.” The local pellar said, “The ritual will conclude at the next full moon, and he will be allowed to go.”
Jaskier was stunned. How much more gluttony could the villagers stuff into Geralt? He already looked filled to the brim, pinned down by the weight he had gained since the ritual began. Two weeks ago, the previous full moon. It would be another two weeks until the full moon the alderman had mentioned. The bard was powerless here. Tradition demanded the ceremony be finished. No doubt the entire village would rise against him if he spoke out against it. And at the end of the day, Geralt wasn’t suffering. He had often gone hungry in the past when contracts had been scarce. Being beyond well fed for an entire month was something the witcher deserved to be treated to.
In order to make certain that his friend was in the best hands, Jaskier requested that he be allowed to keep the witcher company until the village was finished with him. Luckily, the pellar agreed.
~~~
The next morning, Jaskier made his way from the inn to the temple around midmorning. He knew Geralt had probably been gorging himself for several hours. Rituals like these were often conducted continually from dawn till dusk.
The witcher’s belly had shrunk overnight, most likely due to his mutations. No longer was it scandalously huge and overwhelming, but it was still a sizable gut. Instead of a fat king, it looked more like the belly of a rich tavern owner who had allowed himself several tankards of ale every night. He was wearing different clothes as well. Snug trousers, secured with a button, hugged his hips. His underbelly hung over his waistband. They had layered a doublet over his chemise. It was also secured with buttons. The fabric bowed out slightly between the fastenings, but the shirt wasn’t in any danger of popping loose. Not yet, anyway. Geralt was in the same spot as the previous night. He burped and gave his belly a few good pats.
A low table had been put in front of him on the altar. On it were several bowls of hearty pottage topped with various things from berries and honey, to thick cuts of fatty bacon, to mixes of nuts and seeds. Hands gliding over the round expanse, the witcher leant forward and reached for the closest bowl. He didn’t spare a moment to investigate the food for contaminants as he was wont to do. The sounds of gulping, panting, and moaning echoed off throughout the temple.
A voice tore Jaskier’s attention away from the spectacle, “Be sure to not eat any of the food meant for the tribute.” It was the pellar. He was holding a soup pot of fresh pottage with a ladle in it.
“It has been enchanted with magics that will make the witcher succumb to pure gluttony, as is customary.” The old man explained and refilled the several empty bowls Geralt had already managed to wolf down.
Geralt paid no attention to anything around him. Pants turned into desperate gasps that accentuated long periods of ravenous guzzling. The strain on his shirt increased almost imperceptibly. Almost. A tankard of ale was set on the table.
“Mmph.” The witcher grunted, acknowledging the arrival of the drink.
He knocked back the remainder of the bowl he had been working on. Not wasting any time, he grabbed the tankard with his free hand and replaced the empty bowl in this other hand with a new one.
Geralt chugged half of its contents in one go, “ UUUUURRUGH! Phew!”
He smacked his lips and paused to catch his breath. Only then did the witcher seem to notice his friend for the first time.
“Bard? What are you doing here in the middle of nowhere?” He raised the bowl he was holding to his lips and filled his gob with the glutinous stew. His cheeks bowed out with the amount of liquid stuffed into it. Geralt swallowed, slowly and deeply. The bulge of food slid down his gullet, Adam's apple dipping dramatically, “ Woof,” he panted.
“I heard you had been captured and wanted to make sure you were okay. A dead muse is only good for sad and wistful songs, after all.” Jaskier explained.
“The rumor mill has screwed the truth, my friend,” The witcher gave his belly a good pat, “I- UURRP! am simply fulfilling a contract, though normally the rituals the people have me conduct aren’t so… lengthy.” He finished off the bowl he had been working on.
“May I approach?”
“Certainly. There’s nothing in the ritual that forbids me from companionship, I just have to eat from sunrise to sunset.”
He belched, “Though I do worry that I won’t be able to squeeze into my armor after this. But enough talking, I must return to stuffing myself.”
~~~
By that afternoon, Geralt had finished off two large pots of pottage and several jugs of beer. His belly had burst through the button of his pants halfway through the ordeal. The fabric folded over into two small triangles on either side. They framed the bottom of his girth and drew attention to how far his gut jutted out. It wobbled every time the witcher readjusted his seat. His belly rested heavily on his lap, so round that it forced his thighs apart and gurgled incessantly. There wasn’t much the poet could do while his friend crammed more food into his overfilled belly, so he sat off to the side, leaning on the same stone wall that he now knew to be a waist height podium for other ceremonies that were held in the village temple. The pellar generously provided his own cushion to sit on, though not as fancy at the ones that surrounded Geralt. Lute in hand, bard worked casually on his compositions, voiced ideas that the witcher could only grunt to in response, and documented the curious situation he had found himself in.
Geralt leant back, groaned, belched, and massaged his tight stomach. He clapped it a few times for good measure. Empty bowls littered the table, incriminating him.
“Are you alright?” Jaskier asked, “I’ve never seen anyone pack away as much food as you have, and, Gods above, I don’t think that doublet will survive another meal.”
If it weren’t for the undershirt, the skin of his belly would most certainly be visible. The buttonholes pulled against their fastenings. Fabric stretched and puckered against them. Distinct wrinkles stretched across his swollen abdomen and made his rounded belly look like a packed bundle of hay held together tightly by twine.
Geralt was panting, unable to take a full breath with how filled he had become, “It won’t. I have to eat myself out of my clothes as part of the- hic! ceremony.” He paused to catch his breath, “I’ll outgrow this one by the end of the week, but for now, the pellar’s daughter will reaffix the buttons to this one tonight so I can pop them again tomorrow.”
“Ughh- hic! ” He huffed, “Help me up, I need to take a walk to settle my guts before I begin again.”
The witcher found himself unfit to bend forward, so he was forced to roll to the side from his reclined position. His stomach was hard and full and didn’t squish or compress much at all when it made contact with the floor. It was truly like there was a child or two inside that resisted being crushed. He managed to push himself into a kneeling position and offered his hand to Jaskier. The bard wrapped his hand around his friend’s wrist in a secure hold and heaved, having to lean backwards to gain leverage. Geralt was immensely heavy, even without the addition of a massive belly.
The heavy weight in his middle made the witcher stagger. He straightened slowly, but overcorrected and started to fall backwards. An oof! escaped the witcher as the podium caught his ass. The hard edge pressed into the extra padding that had developed there. Geralt took a moment to rest and rub his protesting girth. Movement had caused the shirts to ride up somewhat, and the very bottom of his paunch became visible. He wrestled it downwards, but the round, globe-like potbelly peaked out the bottom and created a visible shelf between it and the split trousers, exposing a triangle of white drawers underneath. Geralt was thankful that he was already wearing his boots, because when he looked down, his belly blocked all view of his feet.
“I want to check on Roach… make sure she’s getting proper care- ugh, ” Geralt groaned. He pushed himself forward and began to waddle .
Jaskier could have laughed at how ridiculous it looked, “You could give birth any day now with how absolutely gargantuan you have become!”
All he got was a grunt in response. Geralt’s stomach was too tight and full to manage full steps. Taut skin protested against the pressure. His belly gurgled noisily. There was a sort of rhythm to the way he walked; swinging his pelvis instead of stepping straight forward, cradling his underbelly with one hand and holding his lower back with the other. Leaning into the sway and using the momentum to pivot his other leg in front of him. A picturesque pregnant waddle. He expelled a bubbling, forceful belch and sighed.
They walked slowly out of the temple and onto the main street of the small village. Geralt was already breathing heavily, but he knew the light exercise would help stretch his strained body and release more gas in his system. As if on cue, he farted.
“You’ve become quite the instrument,” Jaskier chuckled, “Perhaps I can incorporate you in my next performance!”
Geralt gave an amused huff and massaged his belly with more of his strength and felt his guts shift inside him, “ BELLLUUURRRRPPPUHH!” Erupted from his throat, the loudest belch yet. If the townspeople weren’t staring beforehand, they certainly were now.
“Bravo!”
The bard gave the witcher a wide berth to account for the dramatic swaying of his friend’s gait and continued down the road.
“Hic! Ugh, damn i- hic! it.” The witcher cursed at the fit of hiccups that had krept up, “Let’s re- hic! st over there- hic! on that bench outsi- hic! de the tavern- hic! woof. ”
The spasms that plagued his belly caused the witcher to move even slower.
“Hic!”
His steps became shorter. His waddles were closer together.
“Hic!”
Sluggish, deliberate movements eased him onto the wooden seat that creaked under the impressive weight of its patron.
“Hic! Fuck.” He moaned and rubbed his spasming stomach. It was an exhausting battle.
Geralt, leaning on the wall the bench was against, hadn’t noticed his friend had left until he had returned. He heard his name called and opened his drooping eyelids.
“Hic!”
“Here, drink.” Jaskier said, handing him a tankard of fresh water, “How can I help?”
“I- hic! need someone to relieve the pressure- hic! burrup! , massage my gut. I’ve grown too bi- hic! g to do it myself. Under my navel if you- hic! will- urrrup! ” He replied, struggled to lift his leg over the bench to straddle it, and reclined back against a stack of barrels beside the bench.
Jaskier had seen how packed the witcher’s stomach had become, but it was different to feel how stuffed he actually was- it truly felt like a pregnant woman’s (he would know, as it was usually him who kept indisposed court women company while their husbands left to fight). He placed his hands low on his companion’s belly and pushed in firmly with his palms while making soothing motions with his thumbs. Quiet swallowing, interrupted by periodic hiccuping, was the only sound between them as Geralt swallowed mouthfuls of water, taking care not to guzzle it all in one go. His gut jerked against his friend’s strong hands. They pressed into him again and moved upwards, slowly. It was a long road to the top of his belly. The board honored the journey with firm circular motions, then began the descent. He pressed into the sides of his friend’s rounded form firmly, and was rewarded with a belch.
“You know,” Jaskier began, “these clothes aren’t helping the pressure in your guts.”
“I know,” Geralt panted, “But I mustn’t take them off. The ritual demands that I bust out of them. Let’s go to Roach so that can be sooner, rather than later. I’m in the mood for a snack anyway.”
“You stay here, calm your belly and finish your water. I’ll go check on your girl- I’ve known you bloody long enough to be intimate with your standards of care.”
~~~
Lunch began as soon as the witcher fell back into his throne. The pellar and his daughter brought out huge platters stacked with hand pies in a pyramid formation and set them on the table. With it was an entire barrel of beer and a clean mug to dip into it.
“What is on the menu today, good people?” Jaskier wondered.
“The usual, Master.” The pellar answered, “Pork in various forms, pie this time, for we slaughtered and prepared an entire pig just for this occasion. The witcher is to eat all of its meat by the next full moon to satisfy Lord Gluttony.”
“Sweet Melitele, sir! That’s several months’ worth of meat!” Jaskier exclaimed.
“Aye, and he’ll have managed about half of it after tonight’s meal. No human could ever achieve such a feat, but the gods have blessed us with a remarkable tribute.” The pellar beamed.
Geralt had already begun eating, moaning, belching, and clapping his hard, round stomach. One after another, he shoved entire pies into his mouth. He slurped from the tankard as he chewed the puff pastry and diced meats with unparalleled gusto. Half of the pies from one of the trays had already vanished down his gullet. It was almost violent, the way he wrenched food down his throat.
“Ugh.” The witcher moaned. The sound of fabric fighting a losing battle floated in the background. Every time Geralt swallowed his doublet became tighter.
He grabbed the first pie from the very top of the second tower. Panting, he attempted a full breath as he raised it to his mouth.
Prip!
The button above his navel popped off, and his doublet snapped open. Geralt moaned loudly, sensually, at the instant relief it provided, but the other fastenings continued to press into him. The extra room encouraged him to try again to take a full breath.
Pink!
Pop!
Geralt’s euphoric groans, breaths, gasps, and moans echoed off the temple walls. He belched loudly, huffed a chuckle, and stuffed two pies in his mouth, one after the other. His hands clapped against his hard, overfilled belly. The chemise he was wearing underneath the now-ruined doublet was stretched taut around his center, and only continued to ride up with every heaving breath.
“Don’t choke now, witcher!” Jaskier warned, but Geralt didn’t seem to hear him as he moaned into another pie.
His pupils blew so wide that only a sliver of gold lined them. It was the gluttonous magic the bard had been warned about.
Geralt voraciously gobbled down pie after pie and poured tankards of ale down his throat, usually simultaneously. As the magic took a stronger hold on him, so did his appetite. He was ravenous. Platters were finished and replaced at astonishing speeds; a new tray of fresh pies being set in front of him before they were completely done cooling. Not that it mattered, as a fresh barrel of cold beer cooled the steaming meat in his mouth when he drank between bites. He belched. Satiation had become a foreign concept.
‘More,’ Geralt’s mind told him, ‘ It’s so delicious. Stuff yourself. Fill your guts. Do not spare a single bite.’
~~~
Someone was rubbing his large, round belly, but he couldn’t see who. He had reclined so far back that one could argue he was laying down, which meant that most of what he could see was his own impossibly swollen stomach. He brought a cube of juicy meat to his gob and chewed lazily on soft, roasted pork that practically melted in his mouth.
“ Buuuuuuuuuuuurpuhh.” He burped, long and halfhearted, letting it escape under its own power.
“There we go, get it all out, you’re doing great.” said a voice from behind his gut.
~~~
During the final 24 hours of the ceremony, Geralt glutted himself without stopping. Villagers came to visit, rubbing his belly and giving him offerings of food and drink as if he were Lord Gluttony himself. His body had grown too big for any clothes that could be found in the village, so the pellar’s daughter had outfitted a crude shirt out of a blanket. She had sewn the thick, wooden buttons impossibly tight openings, so that there was no chance they would slip free. The only way they were going to be undone was by bursting through them. Geralt was dressed in it by slipping it over his head and yanking it down his bloated belly, which was now as big as when Jaskier had first laid eyes on it even when empty. The bottom of his absolutely enormous, supersize paunch rested on the floor cushions and pushed his legs into obtuse angles. A large triangle of fabric had been tailored to the groin of his trousers to allow for them to reach across the expanded area and be tied on one side. For the last few days leading up to the holiday, two men had to be called in to grab onto either arm and assist the witcher in lifting his weight off the floor. Geralt’s massive belly was a perfect, stiff orb that the bard had taken to caressing for him while his friend gorged himself. He had become too large to massage the right areas anyway.
When his last tunic became strained the townspeople put the rotund witcher on a simple palanquin and carried him to the village’s plaza. People laughed, danced, and ate. But mostly, they handed food to Geralt, glutted and portly with the back leg of the slaughtered pig in his hand, having been roasted over a fire for him earlier. His maw was never empty. Bite after bite, mouthful after mouthful, slurp after slurp, he ate, belched, and moaned.
Rip riiiiiiip poof!
His gigantic gut had broken the tight stitching holding the buttons together and bursted forward immediately after that, unable to contain the intense pressure. The crowd cheered as his belly surged forward and settled into its final shape. The final morsel of pork slithered down his throat; the ceremony was complete.
Geralt slapped his hard-stuffed mountain of a stomach and ran his hands over the vast expanse. Jaskier was there where he couldn’t reach, massaging his belly and making music to the sound of the burps and belches he was able to coax out of his companion.
They left the next morning. Riding Roach was out of the question, but along with a heavy coin purse to pay the witcher for his work, the village gifted him a small wagon padded with hay that they affixed to his horse. Getting into the cart was no small feat. His astounding corpulence forced him to waddle in small steps, his massive ball belly eclipsing his thighs and wobbling as he swayed. He patted and rubbed circles into it, burping incessantly as he walked. The wood groaned when he sat on it, but held. Two men grabbed under his arms on either side and pulled him into the small carriage as Jaskier pushed his belly.
They bade farewell to the village and Jaskier climbed atop the roach. Geralt was soon dozing off into what could only be the world’s most intense food coma, long overdue after a month of stuffing his guts. The wagon rocked him to sleep, and his belly rocked with it.