Medication, Part 11 (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.

Previous Chapter

-

“Tristan, we’re having senior medical staff transported in to clear you for travel,” Derek said. “The details of your return are going higher and higher up the command chain. You’ve been missing for months and were declared dead a week ago. You know the media’s going to be all over this.”

Tristan’s face fell. He looked down at his knees.

Derek sighed. “But we’ll do our best.”

Their best wasn’t good enough.

Tristan packed what few things he had. Two days later, he and the babies were helicoptered home. But the moment he got out onto the helipad of the city’s best hospital, he was swarmed by reporters. His heart sank, and he began to feel nauseous.

“UXG News, here with the boy who can give birth, and give birth rapidly!”

“Is it true that you gave birth to five babies in the past two months, sir?”

“Tristan! Tristan, a word?”

“It is our understanding that some of your children are only a month apart in age. Can you confirm this, sir?”

“Tristan, what went on while you were missing in the jungle?”

“How do you explain your medical anomaly? This sort of thing has long been considered impossible.”

“Tristan, were you born male or female?”

“Which of your classmates is the father of your children?”

“People were at risk. People went missing, or even died. And you were busy getting it on during a humanitarian expedition?”

The camera flashes were blinding. And they got all the evidence they needed. His fat belly, still rounded after the birth. The engorged DD-cups on his chest, pushing out against his tight sweatshirt. He was sure that he would start leaking at any moment. He could hear the babies wailing behind him, being carried behind him by various attendants.

Up ahead, a blonde-haired figure was fighting through the crowd. Tristan recognized her immediately, and he struggled his way over. Soon he was wrapped in his mother’s embrace, clutching her desperately, sobbing into her shoulder. He couldn’t lift his head up, he just held onto her for dear life.

His mother was crying as well. He could hear it in her words. “Let’s go inside, Tristan,” she urged.

The crowd seemed to press harder around him, reporters and medical staff attacking from all sides.

“I don’t want to,” said Tristan morosely. He had become a freakshow, an attraction. People wanted to poke and prod him, and find out how he worked. “I just want to go home.”

His mother ran her fingers down his back. You were sick, Tristan, with a deadly disease. We need to make sure you’re okay. We need to have your—your new babies checked out as well. I don’t want to lose you. Not after your father.”

Tristan nodded against her shoulder. After a pause in which he drew a long, shaky breath, he pulled away from his mother, ducking his head as he shoved through the crowd, and was ushered into the hospital building, nurses and doctors flanking him, seeming to overwhelm the reporters now.

Soon he was lying down in a private room after having been put through a multitude of tests. The quiet was pleasant, but he still felt a stitch of tension in his chest whenever his door cracked open, and he could hear the garble of yammering voices out in the corridor. But he breathed through it.

Tristan frowned down at the curve of his lower belly. At the swell of fat, and…and baby. He wondered if he would be having twins again. Resigned, he cupped the bump with his hand.

“Oh honey,” said his mother as she entered the room. She had some wrapped sandwiches in hand. Setting them down on his bedside table, she took a seat and reached over to stroke his hair. “Everything is going to be okay.”

Okay, but decidedly difficult. Now he had seven children to mind—with more on the way—and he wasn’t even sure if he would be allowed to graduate from college after the humiliating fiasco in the forest. “I was stupid,” Tristan said. “I don’t know why I thought I could do this. I should have never gone on the trip.”

“Never regret living your life.”

And now he was crying again. It must have been hormones or something. He impatiently wiped his arm across his cheeks.

“But no more adventures for a while,” said his mother. “I just want you to recover.”

-

Tristan and the babies were discharged only a few days later. He left the hospital in the middle of the night, by which point the presence of reporters had thinned considerably. He was exhausted, but glad to be home again.

His mother’s home, of course. After all, he couldn’t have done this without her.

His life had taken a turn he never would have imagined. Suddenly he was living as a stay-at-home parent, attending to his hoard of infant offspring. And he was growing rapidly, already midway through his new pregnancy. The media was persistent, reporters popping up when he least expected it. So Tristan stayed in, mostly. He had decided to after he heard himself being dubbed, “Boy Breeder.”

He tried to stay away from the media.

Tristan had always been meant to go places, to do great things. It was odd to just be home, with everything so weirdly domestic. All because of a few missed pills. Yet it was nice to be apart from the rest of the world, if just for a little while.

His pregnancy was moving along. His delivery was scheduled to be in the hospital, and everything. It was odd and new, and would certainly be mortifying to be laboring in a medical setting. But at the same time, it was also a relief not to be hiding things anymore. To have the security of modern medicine. It made him feel a lot safer after his ordeal in the forest. It was odd to talk about delivery as well. It was usually something he did alone, not even reaching out to his mother to discuss his fears, his expectations, and his preparations (or lacktheof).

“Now don’t let them convince you to do a cesarean,” his mother was chattering over breakfast one morning.

Tristan was silently munching his toast. He felt heavy, lethargic, bloated, and a little embarrassed. He wasn’t used to people really seeing him like this, at this late stage. Yet here he was, in pajama pants and a top that stretched over his round belly which, in turn, was perched against his lap.

The top of his shirt was unbuttoned, one of his newborns nursing. It wasn’t comfortable to nurse while trying to eat (or nurse while doing anything, really), but he had learned the necessity of multitasking now that he was juggling five newborns and two toddlers.

His breasts were bloated, nipples sore. His whole body ached, and he felt unbalanced at times. He was too narrow for the immensity of his condition, and the strain it posed on his body.

“…’ve been giving birth naturally just fine. You don’t need them to start cutting you up every time,” his mother went on.

“Mum, this is the last time. I’m never doing this again.”

His mother gave him a sympathetic look. “Of course, dear. But what about scarring?”

There was a wailing sound in the next room, which immediately became a chorus of voices. To Tristan, it had become background noise, but his mother reacted, getting up as she simultaneously wiped her hands on her napkin.

“I don’t care about scars,” Tristan called as she left. He sighed, and arched, stretching his sore back. He felt short arms wrap around his stomach, and looked down at his oldest, who was now up and yawning.

“Saying good morning?” Tristan smiled despite it all.

“G’morning to babies,” Erica mumbled against his stomach. “And mornin’ mommy.”

He hardly contained his wince. He didn’t know where they had gotten it, but his eldest two had taken to calling him “mommy” rather than something more respectable like “dad.” His efforts to correct it had yielded no results except to upset them. He supposed he wasn’t an impressive representation of masculinity when he was barefoot, pregnant, and busty. But maybe they wouldn’t remember this when they were older, and he could revert to being their “father” over time.

His mother came back into the kitchen, impressively balancing a baby in each arm. “I just don’t think it’s worth it to get surgery—or, good morning, darling.” She threw a weary smile at Erica.

Tristan rolled his eyes. He didn’t even know why he was arguing with her. As undignified as he found natural birth to be, the thought of surgery was unnerving. Natural birth was something he had gotten used to.

There was a knock on the door. His mother frowned. “Who could that be?” She looked helplessly at her arms, and went back to the nursery. Tristan couldn’t have balanced both babies even if he wasn’t nursing. He didn’t think he could have gotten up and answered the door either, not fast enough that their visitor wouldn’t have assumed that no one was home and departed.

It’s probably just another reporter, Tristan thought in annoyance. “Ready for breakfast?” he asked Erica, glancing around for her cereal.

Erica ignored him, which she had been doing a lot of lately, especially once she realized that Tristan couldn’t take chase anymore. She hopped off towards her bedroom, either to wake her brother or play with toys.

Tristan frowned after her.

His mother hurried past him again, her arms free as she walked off to the living room. Tristan could hear her answer the door, the bolt drawing, the knob turning, and then there was a gasp, and hushed words. Tristan furrowed his brows in concern.

He realized the infant on his chest had stopped feeding. He gently burped him, then as he began to carefully set him down in the bassinette beside him, his mother returned to the kitchen. Her face was white.

“What’s going on?” said Tristan, wondering if someone had died.

“He’s here,” she said blankly.

“Who?”

“The magician—Adam.”

“I—what?” said Tristan, stunned. The magician who had cursed his family—the one who was at fault for his monthly pregnancies?

“Adam is here,” said his mother.

At first Tristan thought it was a joke, but then he remembered that his mother rarely ever joked, if at all. Still, the thought was ludicrous. Adam seemed like some sort of spiritual being, not some person who showed up in the suburbs and knocked on your front door. “How do you know it’s him?” Tristan managed. This was just too much for him in his state. Couldn’t this have waited another few days? Anxious, Tristan rubbed his belly.

“I don’t know, I can just feel it.”

Why this, why now? Wasn’t Adam supposed to just be—gone. Dead, or something? Tristan almost hadn’t believed he was even real. “What does he want?”

“I don’t know. To see you.”

“Don’t let him in here.”

“Tristan…”

“I’ll come out.”

The baby in the bassinette was settling, slowly falling asleep. Heart clenching, Tristan tore his attention away. Planting his hands firmly against the kitchen table, he heaved himself up with a grunt. His mother came up beside him in case he lost his balance.

Giving his mother a grim look, Tristan waddled towards the next room. He thought of the awkward presentation he made. He was absolutely massive.

He felt flushed by the time he made it through the living room, where he regarded his guest at the front door.

For a centuries-old magician, Adam was shockingly young, even—handsome. Not that Tristan saw him that way, it was just a blatant, irrefutable fact, as though Adam was strategically, or mystically attractive.

It was strange, the telling air he gave off. Yet somehow he looked like an ordinary twenty-something-year-old, with striking eyes, and dark hair. He was familiar. Tristan was sure he had seen him before. Sort of in the background in different parts of his adulthood. Someone who he had never truly registered. Had Adam been watching him for a while?

And Tristan could feel what his mother had. He could sense it somehow. It was him. It was fundamentally Adam. Tristan could feel it in his being.