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"Sworn to Carry Your Burdens"
🕑 Added 2024-12-09 03:49:47 +0000 UTCCW: Weight gain, slob, flatulence, implied graphic sex.
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In the long tradition of Nords ruling over Skyrim, Lydia carried the proud title of being a Housecarl. She was sworn to the Jarl of Whiterun, and the Jarl's servants--including the Dragonborn, savior of all Skyrim, who had slain the great dragon Alduin and retired peacefully from a life of adventuring. Nowadays, the Dragonborn ventured from town to town, enjoying a life of fame and adulation–and free tributes from his admirers–as a former adventurer.
And Lydia had been put in charge of the Dragonborn's affairs in Whiterun. At first, it had been a nice break from delving into dungeons and stabbing Draugr through their cold, rotting chest cavities. But it hadn't taken long for Lydia to get… well, a little bored. After all, she was a woman of action--a proud Nord whose combat prowess commanded fear and respect. But she now spent most of her time maintaining the Dragonborn's lush side-street home, Breezehome: arranging the garden, employing the best chefs for the kitchen, buffing and polishing the hero's many Daedric armor sets, and so on, and on, and on. But she could only prepare so much for the Dragonborn's periodic returns to Whiterun before she found herself getting a little dulled by having so much routine in her life.
And then there was the matter of tributes. Everyone wanted to show their appreciation for the Dragonborn's heroism, his stalwart strength in the face of evil–and so gifts continually rolled in to Breezehome: fine cookware and pottery, soul gems from wizarding apprentices, fine weapons and armor... And, of course, food.
Every chef in the all of Skyrim sung the Dragonborn's praise lately, and they expressed those praises in gifts of food--sweet rolls, cherry tarts, smoked salmon, and a dozen other delicacies regularly delived to the Dragonborn's door. But, of course, the Dragonborn was not home to eat them--and Lydia thought it would be a crying shame for them all to go to waste.
At first, she donated much of the food to charity, but even sending couriers with food to every village in Skyrim still left a mountain of treats larger than any one man could eat. So, what was she to do?
She couldn't simply cart all the food away and dump it outside of town--someone would have noticed, and it would have looked ungrateful. She couldn't pawn it off to friends; not even her friends with hearty Nord appetites could stomach so much rich fare. And so with a heavy heart--and she had to admit to herself, a little bit of sinful excitement--she settled on another tactic. She herself would have to dispose of it, the old-fashioned way.
This, of course, would be a doable challenge for a warrior of her talents. How many times had she eaten more than her fill at the local feasting halls, or raised more than her share of mead horns at the Jarl's court? And that was before she was in service to the Dragonborn; now she was an emissary of his will. And her body was that of a true hard-fighting, hard-drinking Nord--sturdy and muscular, but with enormous capacity for drinking and feasting, as with all her brethren.
Why not take it upon herself to dispose of the Dragonborn's excess tributes? She wouldn't want to disturb the Dragonborn with such trifles, after all… No, far better to simply chew through the hoard of food, and no one would be the wiser. She congratulated herself on the simplicity and cleverness of her scheme–finally, she would be rid of the temptation of sweet tarts in every cupboard of the house, constantly beckoning her with their seductive smells.
And so Lydia tucked into a weeks-long feast. She did so with relish at first, chomping and swallowing with genuine excitement… then with steadier and steadier grim resignation as she realized the scale of the task before her.
Roast fowl, rich mead and ales, endless decanters of wine, sweet meats and treacles and tarts and pastries... It never ended. And more arrived every day, a factor she had not included in her calculations. Her daily duties at Breezehome began to shrink, replaced by the increasing hours at the Dragonborn's hearth table beside his fireplace… tucking into larger and larger feasts with the stubborn, single-minded determination and fighting spirit that had made Nords so famous in Tamriel.
However, several months after starting this new method of carrying the Dragonborn's "burdens," Lydia began to wonder if--just perhaps--she might have made a bit of a misstep.
Swelled by weeks of feasting, her belly grew round and taut with food… and then began to soften, indulged and indulged until it lost its firmness and grew thick, plump and doughy. Lydia noticed this development with alarm at first, then with increasing apathy as she began to dip into the Dragonborn’s mead supply. The softening of her muscular arms, the rounding of her chin, the widening of her rear… Lydia couldn’t stop to focus on such foolish trifles. She had a job to do, a duty to discharge, and a few minor changes to her body were a small price to pay.
She struggled to keep this in mind as she felt herself moving slower and slower, her mind and body both dulled from constant feasting. In order to take her mind off the monotony of her task, she began having a whole tankard of mead with her meals… then two… then three… then four. Soon entire days began to vanish into a comfortable, fuzzy black hole of memory where the only constant was Lydia lifting food to her mouth. Unbeknownst to her in her drunken den of gluttony, the Dragonborn’s course took him step by step back towards Whiterun… and towards what remained of Lydia.
THUMP THUMP THUMP.
“Bluhhh… Whuzzat? Who’zere? BELCH.”
A dim knocking sound interrupted her daily food coma. Lydia groaned, slowly coming awake, lifting her head from where it had lain on the Dragonborn's hearth table. The fire, once blazing with light, now smoldered with embers at day's end.
Her arms felt… So heavy. In fact all of her felt heavy, a sensation she had been leaning on alcohol to dull until it went away. Now she was sobering up for the first
She brushed strings of hair from her pale face as she answered, "It'sh unlocked… URrrrRP."
The door creaked open... and then stopped, the door catching on a pile of wine bottles on the floor.
Lydia winced, realizing how messy the place looked... and while she was still quite drunk, she was concerned about how she looked as well. She had put on quite a bit of weight since the last time someone had visited… that much she knew, from the sight of her plump hand on the table, the sensation of her heavy girth against the table’s edge and spreading out heavily on the wooden bench. By the gods, she hadn’t checked a mirror in what felt like ages…
"Housecarl Lydia?"
It was the voice of a local page, a nice young boy named Baldir whom Lydia had paid to get advance news of any doings involving the Dragonborn. She wanted to know, of course, how her liege--definitely not her crush, that would have been an unprofessional thing to think, much less say, no matter how true it was--she simply must know of her liege's comings and goings across the realm. It was, after all, her sworn duty to look after the Dragonborn... and the nightly pleasures she took in bed, while reading about her iron-muscled, dragonborn-armored liege's adventures, certainly didn't hurt her morale as a housecarl either.
"Y-yes... URRRP... what is it?"
Darkness mercifully covered her, hiding her softened body even from her own sight, so at least if Baldir managed to come inside he wouldn't be able to see her very well. But she couldn't disguise the sound of the wet, indulgent burp that floated up from her guts, jammed as they were with the Dovahkiin's daily tributes.
"It's me, Housecarl, Baldir the page... I wanted to let you know that the Dragonborn is returning to Whiterun…"
"Oh, good, finally."
Lydia pounded her chest with one meaty fist, shaking loose some errant gas. The motion had become fluid and instinctive at some point, something she did without thinking. When had that happened?
"BRELLCH. That's wonderful news, Baldir. When is he returning?"
"Uh... Right now, Housecarl. He just passed through the city gates."
“What?!”
Panic flooded Lyida's veins like ice water. She'd assumed she would have days to clean up before the Dragonborn returned--the place was a mess, empty plates and bottles everywhere, the musky lived-in smell of a food hoarders' lair infusing everything. This was a disaster!
"How--URRP--how did you not know of this sooner? Ugh, nevermind. Baldir, there’s... HOOooRRP, there's a gold piece in it for you if you can uhh, delay his arrival back here!"
"What should I tell him, Housecarl?"
Lydia groaned, struggling to stand up from her chair. In the darkness she could see the pale globe of her belly as it nudged the edge of the table, and she winced. She hadn't been near a mirror lately, but she knew she was looking... different. Quite different.
"Tell him anything! Just slow… huff, huff, slow him down!"
The page murmured his assent, and closed the door, much to Lydia's gratitude, because the moment he did, her slight movements sent a rumbling fart out of her hide-armored backside, which ruffled the hanging furs of her too-tight armor and made the air warm with an unpleasant stench.
FRARRRRPTTTFFF.
"Eugh... by Sovngarde, I really have been... HUrrrRRP, much too indulgent lately… Gods, the smell…"
She stoked the fire, and reached for a polished silver plate mounted above the mirror--a prize the Dragonborn had retrieved from the table of a mad Daedric god in his adventure to secure the Wabbajack. She held up the plate to the glowing fire, peering into it, hoping against hope she would find herself as hale and hearty as she always had been, strong cheekbones, pouting lips, warm brown eyes... the strong Nord she knew would appeal to her beloved--er, to her Dragonborn.
But no. Instead she saw the round, flabby, pale face of a glutton who had spent far, far too much time at feasting... and no time at all, she realized with a pang of guilt, actually maintaining the household or adventuring on the road. Her once-narrow face had ballooned, fat jowls and a heavy triple chin ruining the once-flawless good looks she had enjoyed since her coming of age.
She tilted the plate, looking down at the rest of herself, and was met with more disheartening sights: A massive, swollen, hanging belly that hung down to her knees, its multiple rolls and folds of flesh jiggling like so much of the Jarl's cook's jelly when she moved. A pair of enormous, cellulite-covered thighs peeking out from under her hide-armor skirt.
A belt she had replaced, and replaced, and replaced again now hanging un-fastened on each side of her swollen, gurgling gut. Thick lower legs and chubby ankles met her hide-armored boots, and her once-toned and muscular arms now hung with excess flesh, flabby biceps drooping in curtain-like folds of pale meat on either side of her.
"By Talos... BELLLllllCH, what have I done to myself?!"
Horrified--but more guilty than anything, she had seen this situation growing day-by-day but had ignored it in her drunken stupor--Lydia set aside the mirror and busied herself trying to fix up the house. But two things kept her from discharging her duty.
Firstly, she found herself utterly unfit, so out of shape that even the slightest effort made her wheeze, huff and pant, sweat gathering in her blubbery armpits as she struggled to sweep, clean, and even ascend the stairs to the second floor.
This last task nearly made her so dizzy as to pass out; she leaned on the wall, struggling for breath, and fumed in embarrassment over the doughy, blubbery disgrace she'd become. Surely she would work off this weight when the Dragonborn returned, and the two of them began adventuring together again…
But another problem reared its head as she waddled through the house, struggling to clean: the food. And the ale. There was still so much of it, and so much was stale, or had gone cold since its delivery this morning.
She began snacking at first, out of stress, then chomping greedily, and at last she found herself back at the table, swilling ale and gnawing on a rabbit's leg, filling her belly in a complete panic. She couldn't possibly let the Dragonborn see her like this--and yet, her new food addiction would not be denied.
Lydia swigged ale, belched and hiccuped, and gobbled ravenously, her cleaning tasks soon falling to the wayside. Cleaning up food was still technically "cleaning," right?
Finally, as she groaned and leaned back with a swollen packed gut and a gurgling, gassy belch of satisfaction... the door creaked open.
Lydia squinted into the sunlight, an unusual sight inside Breezehome these days, and saw the thick-muscled frame of her darling--er, her liege--standing in the doorway. Mixed shame and arousal filled her as she saw the Dragonborn was dragging a full-grown dead sabertooth tiger behind him--what a specimen of manhood!
And she, his complete opposite, sat there like an obese pile of blubber. A disgrace on his home, a shame on his legend… Her cheeks burned as she struggled to apologize.
"Dovahkin! I'm so sorry, I, er... They kept bringing food, and one thing led to another, and uh... I may have been, HICCUP! a little lax in my duties..."
FRRRrrrrrRRRPPPPT.
Lydia winced as a rancid fart escaped her. She did her best to sit up straight, despite the weight of her belly pulling towards the floor, and asked the same question she had always asked the Dragonborn... admittedly, in different circumstances.
"So... What HURRrrrRP, burden may I carry for you, my liege?"
FRRRrrrRT…
From the look on the Dragonborn's face as he closed the door, Lydia though, she might be receiving quite a burden tonight... because arousal was written on every aspect of his features as he took in her reeking, jiggling bulk.
Lydia blushed and gasped as the Dragonborn moved to embrace her, her loins stirring... but she couldn't help passing wind as their lips met, a thick rumbling fart escaping her as the passion of the moment caused her to lose the last self-control she had.
FRRRAAppppptttfFFF! BLRRRT.
Well, she thought, maybe she hadn't been a perfect Housecarl... but if the rough callused hands playing with her gut were any indication, she was certainly a perfect something for her Dovahkin…
Perhaps some burdens should be set aside. Maybe pleasing her Dragonborn meant... well. Carrying a very different sort of burden.
Several hundred pounds of it, in fact.
“Oh, Dovahkin… Mmmf, yes… I warn you, the bed may not be able to hold me anymo–Oh! Oh, my…”
But as it turned out, they didn’t need the bed after all.
The floor served just fine.
FRRRrrrrUMMMMpppPPTFF!!
-END-
