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Fendwyr arranges his materials around him, checks every detail. It’s perfect, or as perfect as he can get it—he’s not a master. But he wants this.
Willpower has to count for something, right?
He looks over the words on the page, which he practiced under his breath. He wasn’t entirely sure about the pronunciation, and he couldn’t very well take the incantation to anyone else who practiced magic, but—he was able to figure it out. He’s pretty sure. No, he’s sure.
He lights the candles and begins.
The spell is like nothing he’s ever done before. And he’s done spells before—just nothing so advanced, nothing so consequential. Never reached across planes to summon something like a demon, something sentient and self-willed and malevolent. He was careful to take steps to keep it contained.
The power sings through the air, electric. It caresses his nerves and light emanates from his drawings on the floor. Fire carves itself into the air.
He expects—a portal to appear, or the floor to disappear, or something within the circle. Instead, as the magic reaches its very peak, it begins to migrate across the floor.
Towards him.
It’s terrifying—what does this mean? He did the incantation right, didn’t he?—but it doesn’t hurt. Actually, it feels transcendent. So much power—he’s channeling it, he’s the caster. He’s the one in command. It feels incredible, all that power singing through him, in his skin. Light writes itself onto him in what he recognizes as the symbols he drew on the floor. The energy in the air breathes into him, all of it, and it takes all of his strength to not simply fall to his knees and enjoy it, ride it out. It builds until his skin feels like it might come apart, and it all sinks towards his core.
His head clears, though his heart is still pounding, nerves still singing—the incantation is complete. Now for the results.
He looks at his arms in awe; the symbols have all written themselves on his skin, and they’re glowing hot like the spell is working. But why are they on him?
Abruptly, the muscles in his stomach tighten.
No, not tighten—though, they do in response, he realizes—they’re forced to stretch. Something forces them to stretch. He falls back against the wall behind him and tries to cooperate, suddenly panting—lets his belly stick out like he’s eaten an entire day’s worth of meals in five minutes. His skin tightens uncomfortably. There’s a weight inside his belly like—like there’s something in there.
There’s something in there.
He realizes that when it continues to grow, and he fully expects something to rupture, or tear—but it doesn’t. Horrifyingly—luckily?—his stomach just stretches around it. It’s barely visible through his robes—though, he’s always been trim, so it looks like he’s started to go to seed a little—but oh, the pressure of it. Just that amount of growth is almost unbearable. His body aches with the sudden changes.
The thing inside him swells. He can feel it distinctly, now—a firm shape in his belly that presses outward, upward, downward. Against his skin and organs, which slide to accommodate. It grows heavier, and heavier, and the shape of his belly swells under his robes. He slides to the ground, leaning back to watch, and against the weight that’s beginning to lean out in front of him. Beneath his robes, his trousers grow painfully tight across his stomach and pop open. His belly doesn’t seem to register any impediment. The sash of his outer robe is tight, and he’s struck insensate by the intensity of this change, so he merely watches as the sash begins to strain, stretches obscenely around the rising shape of his belly—and then tears. The outer robe begins to slip demurely to the side, belly leaning out in front of it.
His belly is rising under his inner robes like some kind of enormous scrying ball, and it feels about as heavy. The inner robes drape over it, visibly slide and tent as his belly swells up beneath it, larger and heavier every second. Soon, it takes up the front of his body—enormous, he looks like a woman with child. Waddling through town.
The thing growing inside him shifts tangibly, and something moves under the surface of his skin, visible through his robes. He realizes that might be more accurate that he meant it to be.
The thing growing inside him doesn’t stop at that size, though. Oh, no. It grows even larger, belly settling on his spread thighs and then sinking under its own weight between them swelling to fill that space, swelling forward out to his knees. His robes still cover it, but they’ll run out of room eventually. He can already feel the coldness of the floor against the bottom of his belly. For his part, he’s grateful to be able to rest the enormous weight of it anywhere other than his back.
The demon inside him—it has to be the demon—grows even larger, and by Fendwyr’s estimation, he could fit nearly an entire person inside his belly. Possibly with room to spare. He can hardly see over it. It’s escaped his robes; he can feel the air on the front of it, on the sides. As he tries to catch his breath, his robes begin to slide down the enormous slope of it to gather against his body.
The growth slows and stops. He pants, hands on his immensely distended sides. After a few moments, it doesn’t begin again, and he lets out a small sigh—whatever he’s able to, with his belly so huge. Sweat soaks his inner robes. Over the swell of it, the circle markings and wards glow and whorl steadily. Magic pulses through his skin. He realizes he’s extremely aroused.
The demon—seemingly as confused by its predicament as he is—twists and turns inside his belly, agitated. Kicks against the skin, against his organs. Somehow, it doesn't hurt, and the skin simply bulges obscenely with a far-too-large foot or horn. The spell holds.
And then the incantation circle starts to glow again.
Fendwyr catches his breath, tries to prepare to grow even larger than he already has—though, he can hardly wrap his mind around this, how can he prepare for anything more?
Instead, power floods him. Infernal power, the power he was out to borrow.
It’s so much; it’s too much. But he drinks it all up, into every cell of himself.
And every cell of himself changes.
His skin grows thicker, and then scales begin to form. He grows bigger, not just his belly—his legs lengthen, shoulders broaden, spine crackles and stretches. His bones grow heavier, denser. His robes, built for a slender mage’s body, strain and tear as muscle piles on muscle and his frame nearly doubles in size.
When it’s done, he looks at himself—what he can see of himself.
He still looks immensely pregnant. That’s not going to change. But he might be able to stand—emphasis on “might”. The wards and incantations still burn bright on his skin, never fading. The demon inside him hasn’t changed size, but he folds one hand over the squirming shape of it possessively, almost fondly.
Power crackles in his veins.
Slowly, he heaves himself to his feet. His belly sways far out in front of him, rising and falling heavily with his breath. It strains his new back muscles pleasantly, and he has to lean back against the weight of it. He waddles a few steps. His cock presses up against the bottom of his belly, hard and leaking and much bigger than before.
He smiles, baring rows of new teeth.
This will do.