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A sly, scheming courtier named Myro had designs on the throne and decided to make his dream come true the old-fashioned way: by seducing the king into knocking him up, then blackmailing his way into marriage.
Most kings would simply instruct their right-hand man to discretely disappear a bastard-carrying harlot, but Myro was lucky to live under a fair, honourable king. The only downside being that such a man would be difficult to seduce once, not to mention enough times to ensure conception.
He'd need an advantage, and he found it in a poky, dusty, cluttered shop in the seedy part of town. The witch who ran the shop seemed unconcerned with ethics, and when he explained that he would need to be extremely fertile for one night, she brewed him a potion that would guarantee a pregnancy.
Now he simply had to wait for the opportune moment to arrive: the yearly masked ball. It was already known as a night of debauchery and excess; the most likely time for a straight-laced king to misstep. Between the masks and the copious amounts of alcohol consumed, no one would notice two people slipping off for an hour or so.
If they got married as soon as Myro started to show, no one could deny that he had simply gone into labour quite early, a mere six months after their wedding night. He wouldn't be the first newly-crowned royal to do so, or the last.
Finally the eagerly-awaited ball arrived, and Myro had been jittery with nerves all day. He'd had a steadying drink or two before he even arrived, knowing that he'd only have one more that night: the potion safely stashed in his elaborate costume. As his carriage pulled up, he drank the entire thing in one big gulp, frowning at his sloshing stomach. Then he sat up straight, imagined the moment the crown would land on his head three months from now, and donned his mask.
He mingled for a while, observing the comings and goings, knowing he would need to pounce at the correct moment.
It was the most attended event of the year, and it was oppressively crowded and hot. Myro felt himself flush, a fine sheen of sweat on his face. This was as expected, until he felt a warmth deep in his core, spreading down into his groin and making his skin tingle. A side-effect of the potion, no doubt. The witch could have warned him. But at least it was working.
Getting a little lightheaded, he decided this was the moment and made his way through the crowd.
Myro awoke when the rays of the sun reached his face, stabbing into his lidded eyeballs like shards of glass. He groggily opened his eyes, and moaned in agony. Head pounding, mouth dry, body... sticky. Lying in bed, next to a loudly snoring man. All according to plan. Now to slip away quietly, so no after-the-fact measures could be taken to prevent the king's seed from sprouting in his belly.
He almost forgot the most critical step: leaving his mask behind, accidentally on purpose, in an obvious place. Three months from now, the king would ask him to prove they had lain together, and he would describe to the minutest detail the mask that was surely still in the king's possession.
Hanging it on a bedpost seemed fitting.
Then he gathered up all the frilly layers of his costume and stumbled out, feeling like a shambling corpse, finding his way to his quarters by instinct and collapsing into bed instantly, ready to sleep off the previous night.
He never quite remembered the events of that night, but there was no question as to his success: weeks later he was throwing up into the chamberpot with a smile on his face.
There had been no opportunity to speak to the king, but he'd seen him in passing or from a distance plenty of times. It had to be said: the man was acting absolutely ordinary, like he hadn't woken up to the aftermath of an ill-advisedly raunchy night at all.
Desperate for any information he could get, he'd built a rapport with the captain of the guard, who reported to the king in person every day. But Myro had yet to receive any confirmation there was something amiss at court. No matter, he would reveal himself soon enough.
Every morning he stood naked, looking-glass in hand, impatiently examining his belly like it held the secrets of the universe.
Soon enough, there was evident bloating.
It felt like an age before he looked undeniably pregnant, but finally the day arrived.
He opened the chest that his costume had been haphazardly shoved into the night of the ball, to retrieve the jacket that so perfectly matched the abandoned mask. Instead, he found something altogether different atop the pile of clothes: a richly decorated tabard. The coat of arms was instantly recognisable.
It didn't belong to the king.
Shit.
After a full hour of fruitless pacing, trying to remember that night in any detail, and punching and throwing pillows most unbecomingly, he looked at his rounded belly in despair. Then he looked at the tabard, still undeniably bearing the captain of the guard's coat of arms. Then he looked back at his belly.
A traitorous part of his brain was picturing the captain— much younger, taller, and more handsome than the king— wearing neither his tabard nor any other piece of clothing. His hands tingled at the sensation, remembered or imagined, of running down muscled arms, scrabbling at a broad back, tangling in long hair. His groin throbbed at the thought of being mounted by a big, strong man, knowing his seed would take.
The rest of Myro was watching his dreams of prince-dom vanish into nothing. Now he really was a bastard-filled harlot, not even noticing who had bedded him. Would his plan even work with a different man?
The captain was a noble, at least, though no royal. Myro would be climbing the social ladder, though he'd only rise by a rung or two.
But what choice did he have? There was no chance of him convincing the king now. He'd probably gone to bed early after a drink or two, perfectly lucid.
He could disappear for the better part of a year, say he was visiting family and return to court after a short detour past an orphanage.
All his plotting would be for nothing, and he'd have to lock himself up in his aunt's house for months, hiding his growing belly.
Better to risk the captain's ire.
...and how much of a risk would it really be? Looking back at the past weeks of talking to the captain (fishing for information), there did seem to be some... interest in the captain's eyes that Myro had perhaps not accurately interpreted before. Was it possible that he did remember that night, where Myro had forgotten?
With a heavy stone sitting in his stomach, he folded the tabard into a neat, unidentifiable parcel and prepared to follow the captain to his quarters after tonight's banquet.
He'd hardly eaten, queasy with nerves and the irrational fear that everyone at court could spot his slightly distended belly through several layers of clothing. The few bites he'd had sat like lead pellets in his stomach.
Twice, he'd accidentally made eye-contact with the captain across the banquet hall. Each time he'd felt like he'd been totally exposed. He was sure he was blushing furiously.
It took every ounce of his courage to make his way to the captain's quarters minutes after the man himself had retired for the evening. Had he thrown a look Myro's way before he'd left? Or had that blinding smile been for the room at large?
He didn't have to wait long for anwers, as the captain opened the door after a single knock and beamed down at Myro like the sun. A second later, the door slammed closed and Myro was pressed against it, strong hands cradling his head and passionate lips on his.
They kissed until they had to come up for air. Hearing the captain pant in his ear, catching his breath just enough to whisper: 'I was starting to worry our first night together had been a dream', was enough for Myro's knees to give out.
The captain caught him effortlessly and carried him to the bed he'd snuck out of that night, depositing him on his back but pausing when the parcel slid out of Myro's robes.
'Your tabard,' panted Myro, already embarrassingly out of breath and rock hard.
'Thanks. Your mask is around here somewhere, I'm sure I could—'
But Myro was already pulling ineffectually at the captain's belt.
Taking both of Myro's hands in one of his, he pinned him down and looked down with that same sun-bright smile, which looked quite different with the captain's cock tenting his pants.
The other hand slid up Myro's robes, not relenting until it reached smooth skin it could slide down. Yet the captain stilled when he reached the subtle but undeniable curve of the lower belly that Myro was now remembering he had.
In a single move, the captain kneeled against the bed, both hands lifting cloth until Myro was sure his secret was on full display.
He covered his face in shame, babbling incoherently until the feeling of a warm tongue tracing up his belly and blunt teeth scraping down made him moan obscenely instead.
At the sound, the captain's warm breath disappeared from his skin and reappeared at his ear so suddenly that Myro heard himself shriek.
The captain's breath shuddered out of him, and it took him several tries to ask, 'that one night?'
Myro nodded mutely, frantically, something like fear creeping in at the hands—much stronger than his—gripping his biceps.
A low growl in his ear: 'Mine?'
A silent nod.
'You came to tell me?'
Another nod.
Nothing happened for some excruciating moments.
'C-captain...?'
The captain huffed a laugh into his ear.
'I think we can drop the titles.'
With that, the looming weight lifted off Myro, who didn't dare open his eyes and was aware only of a rustling of cloth. Next thing he knew, his robes were pulled off, and he was covered in a mountain of smooth, naked skin.
Minutes later the captain, 'Lance' to his friends, after an amusing lance-based incident during his days as a squire, filled Myro like he'd done weeks ago.
Unlike weeks ago, both of them were perfectly sober and lucid, Myro was moaning Lance's name in his ear, and there was a little belly squished between them, blushing from all the attention.
Lance didn't pull out until he'd spilled his seed into Myro's waiting body a second time, both secretly imagining his belly a little rounder and more sloshly than an hour ago.
Soon after that, Lance's face was between Myro's legs, big hands covering his little belly entirely, arms clenched against his sides and nearly holding him upside down, as Myro screamed in pleasure, then screamed again when he imagined doing exactly this again with a much larger belly.
The next morning, he woke up with a very attractive, very naked man curled around him and possessively holding his pregnant belly, and mumbled, 'So, are you going to make an honest man out of me? Because I'm already planning our wedding.'
During the immediately ensuing round of very spirited fucking, he gasped between thrusts, 'Is tha— Is that a yes?' And heard several muffled swears from the man currently bending him in half.
After they had disentangled, Lance laying face-down on the bed, Myro could just make out: 'You're going to annoy me every single day, aren't you? Yes.'
After a few, for Lance, blissfully silent minutes, Myro said: 'Go on then.'
'What?'
'Ask me.'
'I already said yes!'
'I'm carrying your child, the least you can do is ask properly!'
With mock-annoyance, Lance pushed up on his arms, rolled off the bed and came down to one knee.
'Will you marry me?'
Something flipped in Myro's belly that had nothing to do with his stuffed womb.
'Hmmm, let me thi—'
He was being kissed, passionately, as a hand possessively stroked up and down his swollen belly.
'Screw the king.'
'What?'
'Nothing.'