Heir, Part 1

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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, Connor 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. Connor’s  uncle enlists a unique warlock who utilizes both science and magic in  his procedures, and Connor soon finds himself more fertile than he’d  hoped or wanted. Contains: Male: pregnancy, breast expansion, butt expansion, weight gain.

-

It was terrifying. Mortifying. In short, his life had become hell.

"Another miscarriage," said the witch doctor mournfully.

Ian could do little more than grunt in response. He was drained physically and emotionally. His body felt absolutely wretched. It was his fifth miscarriage at the ripe age of twenty-six.

"I suppose we'll just have to try again," said the witch doctor.

Ian tensed. "Again?" He was at the end of his rope. "I think this has been quite enough." He dropped down from the exam table and began to pull on his tunic and trousers.

"But your line, sire--your family's magic--"

"This isn't working!" Ian snapped, a surge of energy crackling through the air, causing the lamps to flicker. "Men aren't meant for this. It's just unnatural. Impossible!" he concluded, as he stormed off.

He was done.

With the deaths of his parents a year prior, Prince Ian was the last of his family's bloodline. In addition to that, he could only inherit the mantle of King when he produced an heir of his own. The royal family had always been comprised of powerful mages. That was just how things had always been. Always would be.

Ian was now the last mage, and his family’s magic could only be passed down through the mothers in his line. Which was precisely Ian's problem.

The monarchy was on the brink of collapse and he was just exhausted.

But perhaps it was time to just embrace it. He was tired of being experimented on. Disgusted every time he was told that an actual fetus was inside of him. It was unnatural. Unheard of. In the third attempt, he had actually developed a small bump under his robes. Everyone in the palace knew what was going on, and they had stared at him like the freak he was. This had, of course, been before he'd miscarried yet again.

It was over. Everyone knew it was over. The monarchy was crumbling. Civil unrest was surging. Soon everything would descend to chaos and anarchy. Ian thought he might as well enjoy his life here while he still could.

He hadn't been out in a while. Ian had long been partying at the most exclusive clubs with the ultra-wealthy who couldn't be bothered to harass the royals. And he had a full security detail if they did.

Time to take a break from maternity,Ian mused wryly. He wrinkled his nose at the thought. He almost felt guilty that the latest parasite was no longer inside of him. He had been banned from parties, drinking, and anything remotely entertaining, all while suffering a general malaise that inherently accompanied his fleeting condition.

He was glad it was over. It was a relief to surrender. Ian pulled on some casual robes, and headed our for a night of decadent indulgence.

-

His head was pounding, but from drink and not fragile pregnancy. That in itself made the headache well worth it.

"What do you think you're doing?" a deep voice demanded. Boots clacked against the marble floors of Ian's quarters. There was the sound of curtains being drawn, then the room became obscenely bright.

Ian buried himself deeper under his blankets. "Uncle," he grumbled.

Though Ian and Derrin were not biologically related, the two were practically family. Derrin's line had supported the monarchy for centuries, swearing loyalty and serving as their most trusted advisors.

"You refused the magical insemination?" said Derrin.

Ian cringed at that word.

"I know the miscarriages have been hard—"

Another gross word.

"But you have to keep trying. The country is at stake."

"Uncle, this whole enterprise is pointless," said Ian, finally sitting up. He let the blankets drop around his thighs and pulled some of his tousled hair out of his face. "Men are not meant to carry babies. It's absolutely ludicrous. And it's time to accept the fact that it's never going to work."

Derrin frowned at him in pity. "But the Kingdom, Ian. Everything your family has built—"

"Can we not speak of my family," Ian cut him off. It was a sore subject. "I am all that is left, after all. Let's not dwell on the past."

Derrin sighed. Then he took a breath, seeming to steel himself. "I have consulted with a new doctor. He's different from the others."

Ian hardly refrained from rolling his eyes.

"A warlock," Derrin continued. "He utilizes not only magic but the old sciences. I have heard that he's achieved incredible things."

"Gods, Derrin," said Ian, his patience thin.

"Perhaps you can meet with him this evening—" and before Ian could refuse, "—one final attempt. If this fails, I will never ask you to attempt it again."

Ian drew a long, deep breath. Eventually he nodded once. "Fine," he said quietly. "One final attempt."

-

Evening came rapidly, partly because Ian spent most of the day sleeping off the drink. He arrived to the palace's small medical wing as arranged, only slightly late and gently rumpled. There Ian encountered a man who looked like anything but a warlock. Despite his hair and skin both being a pale gray color, he looked relatively young, perhaps a decade Ian's senior.

"Hello," said Ian. "Introduce yourself."

"Hello, my prince." The warlock gave a shallow bow. "They call me Turner."

"Right, then," said Ian uneasily. "Shall I take a seat?"

"Please, sire."

Ian got onto the medical bed.

"Your advisor has discussed your unique issue," said Turner. "I proposed a more practical approach. Dose you with high amounts of female pregnancy hormones—a chemical component women naturally have in their blood to make their bodies more hospitable for offspring. We'll give your body time to build up the hormones and attempt the magical insemination once you've reached a suitable level."

Ian sighed, all but eager. "Fine. What does all this entail."

"An injection. You see, I will pierce your skin with a thin needle—"

"That's barbaric!" Ian interrupted. "You want to injure me?" he said, aghast.

"It's the way of the old sciences," Turner responded apologetically. "It was quite common back in the day. The pain is brief and fleeting. There won't even be a visible wound."

Ian still wasn't happy. After a moment of pained deliberation, he finally forced out, "Fine."

"Then shall we proceed?"

"Now?"

"The sooner we get started, the sooner all this will be over."

Perhaps the warlock noticed his lack of enthusiasm. "Very well," said Ian.

The warlock rummaged in his large medical bag, withdrawing the needle, which was attached to a plastic contraption of some sort that Turner characterized as a “syringe.” Just the sight of the needle's length made Ian wince.

Turner pulled off the cap and had Ian roll up his sleeve. Ian grimaced as his skin was pierced. But it actually didn't turn out being very painful. And Turner was right. The discomfort went away as soon as the needle was withdrawn.

When the procedure was over, and Ian sucked in a long breath because, he only then realized he had not breathed at all for the duration. Turner gave a vaguely amused look and Ian felt embarrassed by his conduct. "What's next?" said the prince snappishly.

"That's all for now," said Turner. "I'd like to meet with you again in a week for a second dosage."

Ian was relieved to have at least several days to not think about this.

He slid down from the bed and examined a tiny bandage on his shoulder. He rolled down his sleeve with a frown. "I should be ashamed, you know. Trying to manipulate nature."

"You'd hardly be the first person." Turner had discarded his tools and was now removing his gloves. "Besides, nature has always taken guidance. Everything goes is hand in hand."

-

Over the next few days, Ian suspected he was feeling some of the effects of the treatment.
He felt flushed and warm most of the days, and at times it felt as though his body was tingling. He also found himself getting aroused with uncomfortable frequency, but by the end of the week when he was due for a second dosage, he was too embarrassed to complain about it.

"How are you feeling?" Turner inquired.

"Let's get this over with," Ian grumbled, rolling up his sleeve.

The hormones didn't seem to be harming him but the side-effects were increasing. By the end of the second week, Ian could hardly fit into any of his trousers. He could no longer deny that he had gained an awkward amount of weight, in his posterior, specifically. It had accumulated so abruptly, it had startled him. Now he tried to cover it up with loose robes and long tunics, but he was frankly disgusted with what was going on.

"Yes, the treatment might cause some weight gain, in places," Turner said during their next meeting after Ian inquired about it. "It's a good sign. Your body is building up the hormone. But yes, you might see some weight gain or redistribution. They're female hormones after all."

Indeed they were. This whole charade was a violation of Ian’s very gender. He almost refused to give over his arm for that day's rejection, but then he remembered duty, legacy, the stability of the country, and all those other things that obligated him to at least give this a shot.

-

It was the fourth week, and Ian's backside was only getting plumper. But there was another unpleasant change he was dealing with. Now weight was manifesting on his chest and he was developing small breasts like one of those fat, indulgent lords living in the upscale mansions on the countryside. The difference was that the rest of Ian's body remained comparatively slim, so it looked very blunt indeed. He began to layer undershirts, quietly horrified by the ongoing developments.

This felt like a punishment. Or a nightmare at the very least. Yet he was being told continuously that this would yield reward. He needed an heir to continue his bloodline and bring stability to the country. And for some reason those future prospects mattered when Ian was in the present, suffering. He was young, healthy, and attractive. He preferred to spend his time around friends, music, and drink, not buried under layers of clothes as he became increasingly withdrawn due to sheer embarrassment.

He despised seeing himself unclothed now but it couldn't be avoided. In the mornings, he would sit up and groan at the sensation of his nipples dragging on his t-shirt. The nubs had not only swollen, but gotten darker, and were extremely tender as well. When he carefully pulled up his shirt, he could see how his breasts were growing plumper. It was disgusting. They were almost like a woman's. People were noticing how they bulged under his tunics, giving Ian queer or curious looks. Some just appeared to be offended. Others, puzzled. Many knew what he was attempting and probably thought he was insane.

He felt insane. Only a mad man would do this to himself.

Then one morning Ian woke up and his chest wasn't just tender. His nipples were aching and his shirt was...wet? At first he thought he was just sweating, but there was a pair of damp spots on his shirt weirdly aligned with his nipples.

His mind turned off. In a dumb haze, he pulled up his shirt and witnessed in morbid fascination as white liquid materialized at the tips of his nipples, seemingly from nowhere, before accumulating and dropping free onto Ian's thighs, one droplet after the next.

He was lactating.

-

Ian's self-consciousness surged. He wrapped his chest in bandages and found himself frequently folding his arms, hunching, or just hiding away to avoid anyone's attention towards the unpleasant new development. He had thought that the worst he'd have to deal with was a belly, but now he had milk leaking out of a pair of B-cups that had popped up out of nowhere.

Turner was all but concerned during their next meeting. "This is a good sign. I'd say you're ready for the procedure."

Ian hadn't been expecting that.

"Your magic is by far stronger than mine or anyone else's, your highness. Perhaps you yourself can anchor the spell."

"I, well, sure, let me see it," said Ian, trying to conceal his unease. This all seemed queasily logical. It reeked of potential. Ian accepted the scroll and read over the simple incantation. "When should I cast?"

"Directly following the insemination." Turner pulled out a syringe only there was no needle attached. It actually resembled a turkey baster. Ian didn't like the look of that at all.

"Alright then," said Ian with growing dread.

"Lie back. Pull down your trousers."

And that marked the beginning.