December 2021- Killer Croc and Garrus (Patreon)

Last gift from 2021, Killer Croc becomes even more of a beast while Garrus' calibrations did not take into account some extra weight. Enjoy!

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Killer Croc had to smile, and smile wide- he didn't know what bleeding heart they had put in charge of Arkham Asylum, but they had put a state-of-the-art gym in, for the "physical and mental well-being of all inmates." This new warden seemed to be willing to do anything for the inmates "well-being," but unfortunately for him, what Killer Croc decided was best for his well-being was getting strong and growing- and then, when that wasn't enough, what was best for Killer Croc's well-being was some extra elbow room. Specifically, outside, in the waterways. After hitting the gym so hard, it was easy- Killer Croc was as big a beast as Gotham would ever be terrorized by.

He had always been a big bruiser, but now, his scales were like iron, holding back a mountain of muscle. What clothes he had on- his old sleeveless jacket, and the remains of his shorts- were barely holding on, and holding nothing back. His legs were like huge logs, making ripples wherever he walked. They held up six swollen abs, shrouded in the shadow of his massive chest's overhang, each pec threatening to tear apart the jacket still clinging to the swells of brawn. His gigantic arms, packed with wrecking-ball sized biceps and triceps like shields, that he had used to punch the walls of Arkham to rubble. Bullets fired from the guards bounced off the mighty slab of his back as he lumbered to the river and dived in, making huge waves. He couldn't wait until the Bat got a look at him now.

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He hated to say it, but it looked like Garrus needed to make some new calibrations- on his weight, his clothes, his diet, his metabolism- lots of calibrations. He wasn't sure how it happened, or rather, he didn't want to admit how it happened. With Commander Shepard's fight against the reapers won, and the galaxy too busy rebuilding to find much trouble, Garrus found he didn't really know what to do with himself. No one needed the vengeful sniper Archangel, and no one wanted to ask the great Turian hero, Shepard's best friend, Garrus Vakarian, to do anything after he helped save the galaxy.

So, out of boredom, and a surprising increase of Turian dextro-amino foods, Garrus ate. And ate, and ate. The results were, in a phrase, earth-shaking. Garrus had ballooned into an enormously over-stuffed parody of a Turian, with a gigantic globe of a belly that stretched the strongest of materials, round, chunky thunder thighs that rolled off one another, his once toned arms laden with reams of fat, his chest's carapace forced apart by the sheer mass of blubber that rested like dough on top of his belly, and his face- once so sharp and angular- soft on all angles, multiple chins and swollen cheeks forcing apart the chitin. In some ways, he was still making history- he had a sneaking suspicion that he was the fattest Turian on record. Garrus would have to find a way to deal with it, but at least his aim was still perfect- something Joker found out the hard way after one too many cracks about just how big his ass had gotten.