Medication, Part 1 (Patreon)

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Summary: All his life, Tristan’s mother forced him to take a daily medication, but never really told him why. After Tristan goes off to college, he starts skipping doses, and finally realizes just what the medication is for. Monthly mpreg. Contains: Male: belly expansion, breast expansion, butt expansion.

-

“Yes mum, I got the care package—” Tristan was interrupted when a small belch escaped his throat. “Oh sorry,” he said, abashed. He absently rubbed his stomach, his other hand still cradling the phone to his ear.

“Have you been taking your medication?” said his mother. Her voice was filled with concern.

Tristan rolled his eyes. “Yes, mum. It’s just a little indigestion.” He covered the mouthpiece just in time to release another belch. He had been getting a lot of it lately, his stomach for some reason warring with his insides.

“Are you sure…”

Since Tristan had been in middle school, his mother had been forcing him to take a daily pill for reasons beyond his comprehension. She had always refused to disclose what the pill was for, or where she had even acquired the unlabeled bottles of medication. As Tristan grew older, he had come to suspect his mother was a bit paranoid. She seemed jittery, and was always peeking through the scarcely-opened house curtains, as though fearful of the arrival of something. Tristan loved his mother, of course, but even he could not deny that she was a little unhinged. He still took the pills she sent him, if just out of obligation, but he found that he was a lot less scrupulous about it. And being away from her hawkish scrutiny was a relief.

“I’ve been taking the pills,” said Tristan acerbically, leaving no room for argument. “And school is fine. I know you worry, but don’t. I’m actually having a great time.”

After reassuring his mother for another twenty minutes, Tristan wished her a good night and hung up with a sigh. He leaned back on the couch of his dorm, feeling drowsy even though it was only six in the evening. He supposed his mother could have that sort of effect on people, especially now that he wasn’t so accustomed to her overprotectiveness anymore.

Across the room, Tristan’s roommate, Rich, sent a grin. He twisted his pointer finger in circles above his head and mouthed, Helicopter parent.

Tristan wearily smiled back, and nodded, before allowing his eyelids to drop. He didn’t wake up again until the next afternoon, by which point he had already missed two classes.

-

In addition to suffering drowsiness and indigestion, Tristan suffered a general feeling of malaise over a few days. He found himself somewhat nauseous, especially in the mornings. Fortunately he never reached the tipping point of actually puking.

During the periods in which Tristan wasn’t nauseous, his appetite seemed to surge, and he was helpless but to indulge it. Soon Tristan found himself uncharacteristically putting on weight.

Day 11…

He examined himself in his bedroom mirror one afternoon.

He had always been a thin guy, but now he looked somewhat softer in ways he couldn’t pinpoint. His usually lean chest certainly seemed less defined than usual, and he had acquired some fullness to his abdomen.

He felt bloated more than anything. Like he was packed full even though he hadn’t eaten lately. He stomach had taken on a rounded appearance which didn’t seem consistent with normal fat gain. Tristan decided to increase his workouts on the school track. He did a few laps every evening, though the numbers on his scale continued to rise steadily.

Day 13…

“You’ve gained some weight, Peterson.”

Tristan felt his cheeks redden, though he suspected his skin was still flushed from practice. Coach had pulled him aside after all the other players had left, and he didn’t have to wonder why. He had underperformed, missing passes, and failing to make any goals even though he was usually the college soccer team’s star player. Today he had been sluggish and winded, barely able to catch his breath following even short sprints about the field. For the past few practices, his teammates had whispered and stared. It had only been a matter of time before coach felt the need to pull him aside.

“What’s going on? This isn’t like you,” Coach continued.

Tristan self-consciously looked down, and found his eyes focusing on his belly. He stared at the way his jersey was beginning to stretch over the intrusive mound. He really was getting fat. He pressed his lips, embarrassed.

“I’m going to have to bench you.”

“What? No!” Tristan looked up.

Coach patted his shoulder. “You’re not leaving me with much of a choice, Peterson. You have to get into shape. It’s a shame. I was eying you for captain.”

Tristan’s heart clenched.

“Clean up your act, Tris. No more drinking. I’ll work out a customized meal plan for you. You’ll be back on the field in no time.”

Tristan sighed and mumbled his gratitude.

-

Tristan followed Coach’s meal plan religiously.

Except on the nights when he woke up in anguish, his stomach grumbling to remind him how unsatisfying his meal of steamed broccoli and chicken breast had been.

These nights brought Tristan to the 24-hour campus shop in just a baggy T-shirt and faded jeans that could no longer seem to button.

Tristan would fill his basket with chips and packages of pastries, cup noodles, and whatever other decadent things he seemed to be continuously craving.

Afterwards, Tristan would return to his dorm, and eat it all in a frantic episode that he refused to qualify as a binge. Was it his fault that Coach was practically starving him? Or that his stomach now seemed to have a mind of its own? And, oh god, his weight was surging!

Tristan’s late-night food ventures occurred more and more frequently, until it was nearly a nightly occurrence, and Tristan could hardly fall asleep before he was properly stuffed.

He continued to attend every soccer practice, where he dutifully kept the bench warm for his fellow players. Coach was not impressed by Tristan’s ever-rounding physique.

Day 19…

“Tristan, we’re going to have to send you in.”

Tristan’s jaw dropped. “I haven’t been on the field in weeks.”

Coach looked almost pained as he continued. “I know, but we have no choice. Fernandez is out, and I’m pretty sure Noles’s ankle is broken. I wouldn’t ask you to do this if I had any other choice.”

Tristan gulped, stood, and stripped his jacket. He revealed a rounded belly that looked as though it had been fostered though decades of beer-guzzling. Strangely enough, Tristan hardly drank at all. Yet all his weight seemed to go directly to his stomach, where it sat firm, strange, and uncompromising. He absently trailed his hands over the obvious bump tightly stretching his jersey, still stunned by how rapidly he had acquired it. He looked up at Coach, and blushed to see that he was staring as well.

Coach seemed to snap out of his reverie. He swallowed, and managed a curt nod. “Do us proud,” he said remorsefully. He gave Tristan’s shoulder a quick pat.

Tristan detached his hands from his belly, despite a strange compulsion to keep them firmly planted there. “Right,” he said, before turning around. He took a deep breath and sprinted off onto the field.

-

They won the game, by which time Tristan was ready to pass out. He was slower, less coordinated, and more uncomfortable than he was used to being. His back twinged horribly. He found that the other players were often too busy staring at his rounded gut to pay much attention to the ball. In consequence, Tristan landed a few (uncoordinated) goals, and brought the team one step closer to the title.

Too exhausted to celebrate, he dragged himself directly to his dorm. He felt as though he was getting fatter by the moment. Fortunately, he was too drained to even think about food. Tristan collapsed to his bed and fell asleep, vaguely wondering whether he should be more concerned. Maybe he should see a doctor. Maybe he would put it off for another week.

Day 25

Tristan was huge. There was no other way to put it. He was pounds heavier on a daily basis, his weight surging out of control.

He had stopped going to soccer practices, so mortified that he hardly even left his dorm anymore. His friends left him messages. His professors were sending notices. Tristan didn’t know what to do.

He examined himself daily in the mirror, marveling at his continuously changing physique. His largest T-shirts were skin-tight on him, and revealed several inches of his lower belly. He was wearing a pair of basketball shorts that were jammed low on his hips by the abrupt protuberance of his abdomen.

Tristan pulled his shirt up. His stomach looked like a ball, nowhere in the realm, of normal, not even seeming to resemble weight gain anymore. He looked as though he was pregnant, his belly button bulging out the way his aunt’s hand when she was nearly at term with his cousin. And his mound was littered with strange squirming, tickling, and tapping sensations, that sometimes distorted his skin, and scared the living hell out of him.

Tristan resigned himself to seeing a doctor, he just had to—to work out what he would say. He would give it another few days—god what if this was some sort of tumor!?—whatever it was, another few days wouldn’t harm him.

Tristan glided his fingers over his pecs, and shuddered. They had gotten yet softer. Somewhat pudgy as well. His nipples were swollen and tender, and protruding evidently in his shirt. Tristan slid his fingers back down from his chest to absently stroke his stomach.

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