The dorm house was still buzzing from the night’s party, neon cups everywhere, empty snack bags crumpled on the floor, and the lingering smell of cheap beer mixed with barbecue chips. And sprawled in the middle of it all—half-sitting, half-slumped against the couch—was Croc, Andre Crocoite himself, the undisputed glutton king of the frat.

He lifted a can of beer with a smug grin, his thick black claws clinking against the aluminum.
“Pff—hah… I can handle more than any of ya lightweights—”

Before he could finish the sentence:
“HIC!”
His whole belly jumped.
Then another:
“HIC!—HIC!”

Croc winced, then laughed through them, his voice deep and sloppy. “Oh c’mon… hic… seriously?”

He’d spent the last few hours shoveling junk food into his maw—burgers, nachos, pizza rolls, whatever was within arm’s reach. Every burp he forced down only made room for another mouthful. And with every gulp of coke and beer mixed together, that gut of his ballooned like a keg.

He finally pushed himself up with a groan, his massive belly sloshing audibly as he waddled toward the bathroom.
“Hic—damn… hic… okay—maybe I overdid it…”

Inside, the bright lights snapped on, and Croc froze.

The mirror showed everything.

His torso was enormous—glossy black arms thick with lazily-earned bulk, surrounding a glowing neon-green belly so swollen it looked ready to burst. His pecs had softened into heavy, round moobs that rested against the curve of his gut. His sides—once toned from his early jock days—had melted into wide rolls that peeked out above his struggling shorts.

But the thing that caught him off guard?

His navel.

Years of frat life, nightly binges, beers upon beers… it had turned his belly button into a cavern. A deep, shadowy pit nestled right in the middle of that huge, wobbling belly—so deep the bathroom light couldn’t even fully reach inside.

He stared at it.
Blink.
Another hiccup hit:
“HIC!”
His belly bounced, wobbling like a water balloon. The deep navel flexed along with the bounce, tugging inward.

Croc snorted. “Damn… that thing’s like—what, a tunnel now?”
He poked it with a thick finger.
It didn’t just dimple—
It swallowed his fingertip.
Then two fingers.
His eyes widened.
“…Bro what the— I could hide snacks in there.”

He grinned, proud despite himself.

His gut gurgled loudly in response, bloated from all the soda, beer, and fried food sloshing inside.
“HIC—URRP.”
A sloppy burp escaped, echoing in the bathroom tile.

He puffed out his chest (as much as he still had a chest under the bulk).
“Still the hottest frat bro on campus… hic… even if I’m basically a walking beanbag chair.”

He rubbed the underside of his belly, lifting it slightly—only for it to fall back with a heavy, plush smack against his thighs.

“Hah… whatever. More cushion for the party life.”
“HIC!”
Another jolt.
Another wobble.
Another swallow from that cavernous belly button.

Croc smirked at his reflection, cocky as ever.
“So what if I’m huge? Still lookin’ good. Still the king. An’ still partying harder than—hic—anyone else.”

He grabbed another can off the counter without even thinking.
Cracked it open.
Took a drink.
“HIC!”

He burst out laughing.

“Yeah… this is fine.”

Commission for Jorge Santana on Twitter (@JorgeSa02177666)