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Heir, Part 6
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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.
-
Turner arrived within the day and set up shop in one of the spare rooms of Plethera’s palace. At seeing Ian, he was clearly surprised.
“The magic is strong,” Turner noted, blinking.
Ian just offered a nasty look as he entered the impromptu office. “Or the old sciences, as you called it? Clearly you took some liberties.”
Even Ian didn’t convince himself. He could feel magic’s reign on him growing stronger every day. It flowed through his veins.
“I heard about your recent engagement.” Turner chose to ignore Ian’s last remark. “Congratulations, your highness.” He gave a smooth but insufficient bow; more of a nod, really.
“Turner, thank you for coming.” Derrin swept into the room. “Our venture turned out taking much longer than anticipated. It seemed unsafe for Ian to be away so long without your oversight.”
Turner nodded, again shifting his attention to Ian. “I trust that the Prince is…well?”
Ian scowled.
“Indeed,” Derrin answered for him. “Though, as you see, he has been undergoing plenty of…changes.”
“Yes,” Turner agreed. “Only his highness has the tact and focus to juggle such substantial things as a magical pregnancy and a betrothal at the same time.”
Derrin’s expression grew stony. “Yes, well…” He cleared his throat. “We appreciate your aiding these very joyous events.” It came out deadpan.
“Joyous, indeed,” Ian spat. He was seething. At that moment he should have been hidden in his quarters, sprawled in bed, waiting for the boulder attached to him to pop. Instead he was looking towards public declarations, diplomatic chattering, celebratory parties, ceremonial exchanges, and a marriage to boot. He would relentlessly be in the public eye, and so would his condition.
“Shall we get started?” said Turner. “Prince Ian, please lie down if it suits you.”
Ian sent a glare towards Derrin, but Derrin gave no indication that he was leaving, which only caused Ian’s scowl to deepen. Yet Derrin was unfazed, and Ian thought best not to open his mouth lest he start spewing curses.
So he got on the raised bed in the center of the room. It was terribly awkward, and he was embarrassed that he fumbled somewhat between his weight and the awkwardness of his body, that rapid increasing dimension, his belly round and protruding. It was just alien to him.
When he was lying back, he grew breathless from the heaviness of his five babies resting back against his torso.
“Are you eating enough?” Turner asked as he reached down and carefully slid up Ian’s tunic, so that Ian’s his naked belly was exposed.
“I think all I do is eat,” said Ian indignantly, trying to distract himself from the embarrassment of his body.
“Well, you’ve a lot of little mouths to feed,” Turner said. “Resistant though you may be to your blooming maternity.”
Ian shot Derrin a look, wondering if his uncle would acknowledge Turner’s insolence, but Derrin just stood back, watching on silence.
Ian had been a fit young man only weeks earlier, his body slim and lean, gentle muscles where his swollen belly now sat. “I’m not a mother. I’m to be King when this is all over,” Ian bit out, though he didn’t know why he allowed himself to be baited. Perhaps King Reese had gotten in his head.
Turner’s hands were examining Ian’s belly, cupping, pressing, exploring every part of it. “Hasn’t started to drop,” Turner noted. “Doesn’t seem you’re near finished.”
A particular stroke left Ian tensing, and he was horrified to feel himself getting aroused. But it wasn’t Turner. The man was gray and unpleasant. Ian hadn’t been touched in a while. He swallowed and tried to get a hold of himself.
“It’s okay,” said Turner. Somehow he’d noticed. “All the hormones and pressure, it can be quite…bothersome.”
Ian felt his face heating. Derrin threw them a look of curious puzzlement. Thankfully, he hadn’t figured out what Turner was talking about. Ian squeezed his eyes shut, completely mortified.
Ian tried to change the subject, one of his hands unconsciously sliding to the underside of his belly. “This is…it’s quite substantial. The size, I mean. How…how big should I expect to get?” he managed.
“It’s impossible to say,” Turner responded apologetically. “The magic seems to have taken the lead, and as you know, it is quite unpredictable.”
When Ian looked down at himself, he thought he looked at term with child. Which was even beyond the maximum size that he had anticipated he would endure when he had first agreed to all this, back when Derrin had first proposed it. He had expected a small pregnancy at best, one that would end a bit prematurely. He wasn’t made for this, after all.
Ian’s breath hitched when he felt contact on his chest, his eyes flying open. He saw that Turner was sliding Ian’s shirt further up. Ian grabbed hold of his hands, stopping him.
He met the warlock’s calm eyes. Ian was suddenly embarrassed by his squeamish reactions, almost as embarrassed as he was by the deformed state of his body. Ian lowered his hands and allowed Turner to proceed, trying not to shudder as the fabric dragged on his swollen nipples.
Womanly breasts were exposed; round and bloated, supple and young. C-cups, Ian thought. From his peripheral vision, Ian could see that his uncle hadn’t the shame to look away. Well, it wasn’t as though Derrin hadn’t glimpsed them already in recent days. Ian bit his lip and looked off, the heat of his face only intensifying.
He hissed out as Turner grazed the flesh with his fingers, sliding along it, to finally close in on a nipple that was terribly sensitive, tender, and plump. Turner gave a gentle squeeze, causing a groan to come up Ian’s throat.
Moisture. Ian closed his eyes as he felt his milk releasing, a droplet rolling down the underside of his breast. This was humiliating.
“Lactating prematurely,” Turner noted. “Though it isn’t surprising. You are a very, very pregnant young man.”
“Carrying five,” Derrin agreed, where he still stood several feet back from them. “He was nursing a babe back in Anbrotha.”
“Was he?” Turner sounded genuinely surprised. “Getting an early start? You may be embracing maternity yet.”
“I don’t have to embrace anything,” Ian said irritably.
There was a pause. Ian turned his attention to the ceiling, breathing heavily. He could feel his chest rise and fall, and his breasts wobbling slightly.
“Prince Ian, you must realize, there is more to this than just incubation.”
“Are you quite finished, warlock?” Ian inquired.
Turner sighed. “Yes. You are healthy. All seems well with the children.”
Ian braced his hands against the bed to help heave himself up to a sitting position, though it took a good amount of effort. He glared when Turner looked like he might try to help.
“It would be wise to be mindful. Calories are lost through nursing,” Turner noted.
“Do I look like I am nursing anything?” Ian snarked back as he pulled down his tunic, hating the way his nipples bulged out visibly against the fabric. He laid his hands against his abdomen, wishing he could push it back in; hide it.
“Look at you, a doting mother-to-be.” Derrin nodded to the gesture.
Grimacing, Ian eased himself off the bed. “I did it, uncle. This is what you wanted, isn’t it?” He motioned to his belly. “And yet you mock me. What more do you want?”
Derrin’s face fell. “Ian, it’s all in good spirits.”
But Ian had heard enough. He turned and left.
-
“Isn’t it all so lovely?” Karina asked as they strolled together along the garden path. The long skirts of her pink dress dragged along the cobblestone behind her. “We will have plenty of peonies for our special day.” She paused, looking thoughtful. “Or perhaps we should hold the ceremony outside?”
“I’m sure that anything you choose will be splendid,” Ian responded politely. He was hot and uncomfortable, his back aching, and it felt increasingly difficult to maintain a smooth stride. He found himself repetitively resisting the temptation to place his hands against his belly, not that this offered any actual support.
He noticed that he and Karina were close to the same height. He’d always been short and slim, compact and athletic.
“This is such a perfect day,” Karina noted happily. “Not a cloud in the sky. Is it not delightful, Prince Ian?”
This kingdom held many traditions and niceties that Ian didn’t have much patience for back in Gelt. But he wasn’t a fool when it came to diplomacy. “I can seldom look at the sky when you’re in my presence, Princess.”
This was a farce. A circus. He was exhausted and just wanted to lie down. But when the Plethera Princess invited you for a walk in the gardens, you did not decline it. Especially not when she was your fiancé.
Karina beamed at him. He appreciated her generously slow pace. Maybe she wasn’t as oblivious as she behaved. The two emerged into a courtyard with some tables and seating. Settled there was Derrin having tea with the King and Queen.
Ian and Karina joined them. Ian bowed as gracefully as he could manage. The Queen offered a brittle smile and the King just scoffed as Ian and Karina took their seats. Two servants hurried over to poor them tea and serve them biscuits. Ian could hardly keep himself from stuffing it all into his mouth like a glutton.
“Ian, do you know that in this garden, we grow many herbs that are quite medicinal,” Karina told him in her perpetually happy tone. “Why, there is even a rare plant that is meant to aid women in producing milk from their own bosoms.”
Ian choked, and this time he failed to hide it. Palm against his naval, he blinked back at Karina. “Ah, that is — that’s quite interesting,” he said as the King glared at him. He was suddenly very conscious of his chest, but didn’t dare look down at it. He prayed that it didn’t come up in this topic.
“Would it not be wonderful if I could nurse the children you carry?” Karina said. “To mother them properly.” She reached out, laying her hand against his belly. His magic did something odd, sort of heaving, his insides twisting, then he could feel the…the children…moving?
It was more like a writhing. Karina released a surprised laugh as Ian sat frozen, stunned by the forceful squirming that littered his insides. It was not nearly comfortable. Babies,he registered, a bit numb.
“I’m afraid that might not be wise, Princess,” Derrin interjected, and to Ian’s relief, the princess withdrew her hand.
The movement settled, and Ian inhaled against the feeling of nausea deep in his throat. Ian forced a smile that he hoped came off as pleasant and not queasy. He lifted his tea cup.
“You see,” Derrin continued, “it is essential that the babies feed directly from the mother.”
Some of Ian’s tea spilled over the edge of his cup. He tried to steady his hands.
“For the development of the magic. It is critical for their survival.”
That couldn’t be true, could it? It wasn’t as though Ian was a scholar of magical pregnancy and child development. He swallowed against what felt like sand in his throat. If what Derrin claimed was true, he would be involved in this maternity nightmare for longer than expected. Ian hardly noticed the Queens frozen expression and King Reese’s clear disgust.
Karina’s own face had fallen. “That’s a bit of a disappointment…” she said, staring off for a moment as she twisted her lips to one side. “Of course, it is understandable. I will simply do my best to nurture the children as their caretaker and mother. I will shower them with my love even if they must drink only from my husband’s breast.”
Ian very much wanted to leave.
“My Princess, you must understand that the bonding between birth mother and child, particularly when there is magic involved, is also quite essential,” Derrin said. “The Prince will need to be their main caretaker at least for the first couple of years. He will need to be as close to them as possible, for the continued development —”
“Of their magic, yes, indeed,” Karina said, appearing rather miffed now.
Ian took a long drink of his tea. He would have assured Derrin that he was quite insane were there not others present. How could he possibly be expected to nurse one child, let alone five? He had but two breasts and two too many. He was a man, not some cow.
The Queen was staring on in morbid fascination but then seemed to come out of her trance. “Do not fret, my dear,” she said as she patted Karina’s leg. “Everything will work out fine.”
“Yes…of course,” Karina responded, her peevish demeanor not receding.
“The sky really is quite clear, isn’t it?” said Ian, finding himself unable to meet any of their eyes.
-
Karina desired a dashing, chivalrous prince. Someone masculine so she would take her role as matriarch. That was what she was meant to be. However, Ian’s body intervened at every opportunity.
It was the eve of the wedding. Ian stood stiffly through his final fitting for his suit. It seemed like every day that fretful hands were upon his belly, trying to make it smaller; make it fit where it could not.
It didn’t help with his inability to accept the thing. His burden was often the source of frustration. He saw it in the royal tailor, who was quietly panicking. Ian was to be wed in just over twelve hours, but his buttons were straining. Ian had outgrown his suit in only a few days. The tailor could attempt to bring the suit out, though that could be seen as insult.
“Why I’ll…prepare something fresh for the morning,” said the tailor, sweating now. “You will be the dashing groom, Prince Ian. Leave it to me.”
Ian gave a curt nod. As the tailor gathered his materials and scurried off for a long night of work, the door swung open once more in his wake and Derrin entered Ian’s quarters.
He walked around, surveying his nephew. “If you grow another breath, I think those stitches will split indeed, my Prince.”
“You never tire of your quips.”
“Just happy that the children grow strong.”
Ian started to unbutton the ill-fitting suit, a frown on his lips. “It seems you take every opportunity to insult me these days. Is it that wonderful to see me vulnerable?”
“Not at all.”
“You must feel so small, Derrin,” Ian noted, looking up to meet his eyes. “Ever the servant to great magicians and monarchs.”
“It is an honor,” said Derrin, coming to face Ian. “We are family.”
“You are not my real uncle,” Ian snapped. “Just an advisor. An underling.”
“My family has served the throne for generations,” Derrin said, moving forward and peering, as though intrigued by every sound that came up Ian’s throat.
“Well maybe it’s time they didn’t. You have become petulant and waspish. A true curmudgeon at the old age of forty-two. I say it’s time to retire you.”
“Would you prefer another sycophant, your highness?”
“I’d prefer anything else.”
Then Derrin kissed him.
Ian’s magic thrummed, like a heartbeat.
