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Heir, Part 8
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Summary: Ian is the last in line to the throne, and the only way to pass down his family’s magic is by carrying an heir himself. Though the idea is unpleasant to him, and in fact, unheard of, Ian enlists several witch doctors and warlocks, who manage to get him in a state of pregnancy, but he constantly miscarries. As he goes on without an heir, domestic unrest grows, and the country is on the brink of a civil war. Ian's uncle enlists a unique warlock who utilizes both science and magic in his procedures, and Ian soon finds himself more fertile than he’d hoped or wanted. Contains: Male: pregnancy, breast expansion, butt expansion, weight gain.
-
Ian and Karina parted ways on surprisingly amicable terms.
She made sure not to touch him as she saw him off at his carriage. “You’ll take care of yourself, and those babes?” she inquired with a sorrowful edge to her voice.
Ian knew Karina was hurt, but she carried herself like a true princess. He nodded. “It has been a true pleasure, your highness.”
“Don’t call me your highness, Ian. I was moments away from being your wife.” Her smile was pained, but a smile all the same.
It made Ian more fond of her than he had been before. “Of course, Karina. My dear friend.” Ian resisted the urge to clutch his back, his body not accustomed to the sharp increase of weight now jutting out before him. He was embarrassed just to be standing there, in public, Karina, her parents, and all the palace’s staff and guards seeing him off for his journey home.
Karina dabbed at her eyes with a handkerchief, no longer able to contain her tears. As Ian saw it, he felt truly and dearly sorry. He’d never wanted to hurt her.
Her parents were a few steps back, deeming not to speak, as they wore bitter looks on their clenched jaws. It was for the best, politically speaking.
“This won’t end the alliance between our kingdoms,” Karina assured him. “The heart wants what the heart wants,” she added, throwing a glance at Derrin, who stood waiting by the carriage door.
Ian inhaled, and couldn’t come up with much of a response. “Well.” His magic was thrumming, eager to depart.
“You will have an abundant line and be an excellent mother,” she went on. “The Gelt kingdom, once barren and quiet, will soon be full of the laughter of babies.”
Ian refrained from grimacing. “It has been a true honor, Karina. I hope to see you again in the future. After…after all this.”
“You will have your hands quite full,” the princess assured as she curtsied. By then, Ian couldn’t nearly bow, but he managed to fairly deep nod.
“Farewell my lady.”
“Safe travels, Ian.”
He was finally going home. As he made his way to the carriage door, Ian gave a hard look at Derrin, warning him against assisting. And with some struggle, Ian heaved himself onto the miniature set of stairs, barely managing to duck through the too-small door, as the flanks of his belly rubbed both sides of it. He stumbled slightly once he squeezed his way through, then collapsed against the soft bench, breathing heavily, cradling his mass. He motioned immediately for a guard to close the door. Derrin would ride the way home on horseback. The little compartment just didn’t have much room for them both anymore.
Ian closed his eyes, truly relieved that his long journey was finally over. He had not been home for weeks, and it had been physically and emotionally draining to have himself paraded around the countrysides of two nations while feeling uncomfortable in his own skin. He longed for the safety of his quarters, and the softness of his bed. The privacy, as well. Yes, privacy, he was truly yearning for.
-
Ian managed to doze in and out during his journey home, but found himself consistently gasping awake, either by a hard bump on the road, or by his own body starting to teeter over, as his bench could no longer suitably accommodate him at his weight.
But he made do. After days of travel, dosing, and eating, Ian’s back was positively burning. His whole body felt stiff and sore after enduring being mostly cramped in the same position for days on end with only the occasional break.
They had made stops for food or to wash up, but had managed to largely avoid the public and the attention that came with it. Of course, that wasn’t an option on their arrival to the Gelt palace.
When the door was opened for him, Ian could hear exciting, chattering voices outside. Though he felt like he could pass out at that very moment, Ian tried to gather up any fragments of composure he could muster and plastered on a smile.
Getting out of the carriage was a tight, undignified squeeze. He had to shove and squish his belly through as it painfully scraped on the sides of the narrow doorframe. The fit was even worse than it had been days ago. No one had known this would be an issue. No one had anticipated Ian’s ludicrous rate of growth.
The chattering of the crowd abruptly ceased as Ian stood as tall as he could before them, his shoulders back and spine arched as he breathed heavily, trying to still look regal, somehow. In his disheveled, flustered state, it hardly worked. He was dressed in a tunic and some trousers he’d had custom-made by the royal tailors in Plethera prior to his departure, yet now the material no longer fit him loosely, instead hugging tightly to his skin.
D-cup breasts sat high on his chest, and he knew his backside had filled out some. Standing there, panting, straining to support the heavy weight of all these babies, Ian felt like a jester. A freak of nature. He was more pregnant than any person should have been. Despite only being a few months into it, he looked past term with twins. But then, he was carrying five.
The silence endured for a very long time. It air of shock was present and heavy, and Ian could do little more than stand there, frozen under the stares. The once handsome prince was now this…this cow. He felt gutted under their judging gazes.
All the while, he could feel the babes. He could sense there fitful magic radiating through him, and he didn’t know what to do with it all. He just tried to breathe, his hand unconsciously cupping low on his belly. He breathed and begged for their patience.
Then Derrin came to his side. “Behold, Prince Ian. You may have heard word from Plethera, but he is home, here to confirm it personally. The prince has single-handedly saved the monarchy.”
There were some murmurs, the people still ambivalent, but intrigued. They marveled at Ian’s transformation after his being gone only a couple of weeks.
“The prince has gone well beyond his duties to the kingdom. He has ensured a fruitful pregnancy and an abundant line of heirs. Look how pregnant he is, practically bursting. Soon he will give birth, and the royal line will be guaranteed for years to come!”
Ian’s face burned. He didn’t know why his advisor had to sell him so humiliatingly. Derrin, as always, was trying to guide public opinion however he could.
There was hesitation, then a couple of claps that didn’t catch. Instead there was more murmuring, people trying to form opinions. At least this distracted from Ian’s failed betrothal, the news of which was sure to have gotten back to Gelt by then.
“It has been a long journey,” Ian managed to call out despite his breathlessness and embarrassment. “I shall retire.”
Then Ian and his escort of guards filed towards the entry of the castle. Ian knew he was moving at a disgraceful waddle. His ankles felt sore and swollen from his seated position cramped in the carriage. He was moving painfully slow, though continued to resist any offers of aid from his entourage. He wanted to look strong. Proud. So he kept his spine erect and walked on his own, though he knew his guard had to slow themselves accordingly. He was just grateful for their flank and their numbers, concealing what they could of Ian panting, sweating, and terribly flushed. Steadily, he made his way inside.
Ian slept for a full fifteen hours upon easing himself down on his bed. For that time, he enjoyed a reprieve from all duties, and when he awoke, servants flooded his room with the offerings of food. Ian did not turn anything away. He was ravenous.
He took things easy again that second day, spending most of his time in bed, resting, eating, and continuing to have his meals delivered right there. His hands would cup his swell as he continued to process just how large it was and how rapidly it was growing. He could feel the heat and tension occupying it continuously. He still couldn’t help resenting what had become of him. All Ian wanted was to stay locked away in his quarters for the remainder of the pregnancy.
Yet some things could not be avoided.
His tailors put together some tunics and trousers that could accommodate his form without looking baggy and sloppy, even though Ian would have preferred something a little more loose.
Heirs in tow, Ian attended only the most critical of meetings—those that truly needed his attention. He would sit quietly, his belly perched against his lap while pressing into the table edge, as he listened to appeals for funding and legislation on different matters, and his cargo squirmed rather contentedly.
Then there was the royal portrait. It was…an uncomfortable tradition. In the weeks leading up to the Kings inauguration, a painting was done. Being that Ian would become King as soon as an heir was born, that time was now. Ian had been getting insistent messages from various parties to get this done so that his likeness could join the paintings of his parents, grandparents, and all his other predecessors in the royal line.
Though Ian was neither keen nor enthused, it would possibly cause a controversy to break this tradition after over fifty generations of it. After all, he was already decidedly breaking a lot of other traditions. Getting pregnant himself. Becoming this obscene, breeding King. It would be diligent to keep his subjects on his side, lest they lost their patience with this new and bizarre style of sovereignty. The last thing he needed was another uproar.
Ian was adorned with flowing golden robes. He thought this would be an improvement and perhaps temper his extensive abdomen, but it didn’t nearly. The jut was so round and huge, it bulged blatantly out.
“I will require a chair,” Ian noted on his first session with the artist.
The painter looked scandalized. “Every prince has posed tall and strong for the portrait. They were all magnificent. Do you know that I painted your parents? Trust in the process, Prince Ian, you must stand.”
Ian made a face. “I will, require, a chair,” he said, definitively, as he tried not to show how truly arduous it was to be standing at that moment.
He was anything but strong.
-
Ian limited his days to a maximum of only a few engagements, but he was always fatigued when he returned to his quarters, whether that was in the afternoon or deep in the evening. The portrait was coming along. Ian wearily tried to undo his robes, thick and heavy on his overheated body.
There was a knock on his door.
“Come in,” Ian called, as he already knew who it was. Few people were allowed to knock on his door.
Derrin walked in with his usual brisk stride. “I’ve caught you changing,” Derrin noted, his eyes doing a quick swoop down Ian’s body. Typically this would not be an issue, but now…things were different. Ian’s body was different. Full and curvaceous, and somehow not as decent as when he had been a skinny lad.
“It’s not anything you haven’t seen,” Ian muttered, working his way through buttons, allowing his robes to progressively fall open. He felt Derrin’s gaze sweep over him again and could not help his self-consciousness. “Is it not disturbing?”
“You look incredible,” Derrin said plainly. “It’s a testament to your noble task and your powerful magic. And besides that, well — you look incredible.”
Ian lifted his gaze to meet Derrin’s. His robes hanging open revealed the thin tank top he had on that didn’t nearly cover his body. Well, it covered his chest, but still hugged against the round mounds there, swollen nipples bulging against the semi-transparent material. The curve of his belly protruded out, smooth, round, unblemished, and entirely huge.
“How could you think that?” Ian said.
“I think a lot of things of you,” Derrin admitted, stepping forward, closing in.
And so the affair continued. It was highly inadvisable and irregular, to the point of nearly being illicit. Ian was a crown prince, and Derrin, just an advisor. Yet Ian could not deny how good it felt to be touched and revered, as though he wasn’t the abomination he thought himself to be. Derrin loved all his curves, constantly cupping and rubbing them. He seemed to savor every moment of their tryst. He ran his tongue along Ian’s breasts, causing Ian to shudder and gasp out.
“They’re very plump,” Derrin noted, voice a mumble against Ian’s flesh. “Do you know what that means? They’re full of milk.”
Ian’s flesh was hot and dewy, breasts swollen and aching. He gave a hum, his eyes squeezing shut as Derrin circled his nipple with his tongue.
“Shall I taste?” Derrin asked, and he didn’t wait for response. He sucked.
Ian groaned, arching, while pulling Derrin harder against him. Derrin sucked and drank as the pressure eased, but Ian’s loins hardened, and he found his hips bucking.
Derrin stilled them with his hands. “Soon,” he murmured, before taking another draw, a long moan escaping Ian’s lips. Ian’s face was hot, body tingling against the unbelievable pleasure. He just tried to hold on, breathe through it. Finally, Derrin had sucked until there was not more to drink. He gave a smirk as he wiped a stray white droplet from his lips. “You’re delicious,” he told Ian, before moving on to his other breast.
