bebop from Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles: Out of the Shadows (has a gigantic, heavily mutated body built like a living tank, combining the anatomy of a human and a wild warthog. His torso is extremely broad and barrel-shaped, packed with dense muscle and thick layers of fat that give him both immense strength and a bulky, intimidating mass. His chest, shoulders, and arms are oversized and swollen with exaggerated musculature, while his neck is short and thick, making his head appear deeply rooted into his upper body. His skin is rough, leathery, and grayish-brown, covered in patches of coarse dark bristles that run across his shoulders, chest, spine, and forearms like animal fur and hairy armpits. His face fully resembles a warthog’s, with a long fleshy snout, wide nostrils, protruding lower tusks curving upward from his jaw, and smaller upper tusks jutting from the sides of his mouth. His jaw is huge and heavy, filled with blunt, uneven teeth, and his small reddish eyes sit beneath thick ridges that make him look constantly angry or wild. His ears are pointed and animal-like, sticking out from the sides of his head, while a bright purple mohawk runs from his forehead down the back of his skull, preserving his punk style from before mutation. His arms are enormous and ape-like, ending in thick hands with heavy fingers capable of crushing objects easily, and his legs are equally massive, with digitigrade, hoof-like feet that support his tremendous weight. Bebop’s personality is reckless, loud, and immature. He enjoys causing destruction, acts impulsively without thinking ahead, and often relies more on brute force than intelligence, mixing violent aggression with goofy humor and overconfident swagger.) has gained some weight. not that he was light before but now his round firm gut is pertrudng so much he cant even button his vest anymore and his pants are a struggle to put on after learning how muhc he enjoys stuffings and munching on food, he enjoys the feel of a bloated stuffed gut. he wakes up in the morning in his rundown apartment after a huge stuffing the other night with his his friend rocksteady was surpised how much he was able to put down. the first thing that he senses is his morning wood, now after beig mutated into this warthog he sports a 12 inch boner complementing his massive frame nicely.

Chapter 1: Morning Bloat and a Stiff Awakening

Bebop groaned.

The sound started somewhere deep in his gut, a low, guttural rumble that rolled up through his chest and vibrated out between his tusks. He didn’t open his eyes. Didn’t need to. The first thing he was aware of was the weight. A dense, round pressure pinning him to the mattress, so heavy he felt like the springs beneath him had given up and died a heroic death. He slid a massive, calloused hand down the landscape of his own body. His vest was open, the frayed edges of the fabric digging into his sides. Under his palm, the swell of his belly was a taut, warm dome, still packed tight with everything he and Rocksteady had shoveled in last night. He patted it fondly. It felt like a prize.

The second thing he was aware of was the throb.

A persistent, insistent ache that had nothing to do with digestion. He shifted his hips and felt the sheets strain. A familiar, heavy stiffness pressed against the cotton. A grin split his wide mouth, the lower tusks lifting. Morning. Right on schedule.

He finally pried his small, reddish eyes open. The room swam into view in the sickly, intermittent glow of the faltering neon sign outside his window. It cast everything in a pulsing, ugly purple light. The floor was a museum of last night’s feast: cardboard containers spewing cold noodles, grease-stained paper bags, a tower of crushed soda cans that leaned precariously near the bed. The air was thick with the smells of chili oil, cheap beer, and the unmistakable, musky scent of oversized mutant.

With another grunt, he heaved himself onto his side. The mattress screamed. His gut sloshed, a warm and slumberous movement. Swinging his tree-trunk legs over the side of the bed, his feet hit the floor with a solid thud. He sat there for a moment, catching his breath, the sheer effort of sitting up already making the sweat bead on his leathery brow. The morning erection tented the sheet impressively. He eyed it with a sort of dim pride.

“Alright, buddy. Patience,” he mumbled, his voice a gravelly rasp.

Standing was a production. He planted his feet wide, braced his hands on his knees, and pushed. Every muscle in his barrel-shaped torso and swollen shoulders bunched and quivered. The dense fat around his middle tightened. For a second, he thought the seams of his pants—already stretched to a translucent sheen over his thighs—might finally give out. But they held. He stood, swaying slightly, a monolith in the flickering half-light. He looked down at himself. The button of his pants was a distant memory, the zower was maybe halfway up, held by a prayer and a single, overworked tooth. The vest wouldn’t close at all; the two sides of fabric were now permanent neighbors who refused to shake hands.

He took a step. A sharp, plastic crunch under his foot. He lifted it. Remains of a remote control. He shrugged and kicked the debris under the bed.

Shuffling into the main room—a space only marginally less chaotic than the bedroom—he aimed his bulk toward the fridge. The linoleum was sticky under his bare feet. He yanked the door open, the light inside blinding for a second. The cool air washed over him. Not much left: a half-curdled carton of something, a crusty jar of pickles, and a single, foil-wrapped brick. His eyes lit up.

He grabbed the brick, tearing the foil with a tusk. Leftover pizza. Cold, congealed, beautiful. He folded the entire thing—a good eight slices worth—into a wad and shoved it into his mouth. Chewing was a slow, methodical process, his heavy jaw working side to side. It was a breakfast of champions. He washed it down with a warm, flat beer he found on the counter, draining the can in one long pull.

The throb between his legs hadn't subsided. It was a distracting, background hum. He adjusted himself through the fabric, but it was a useless gesture. He needed pants. Proper pants.

He lumbered back to the bedroom and dug through a pile of clothing that smelled vaguely of motor oil and old cheese. He found a pair of cargo pants, the biggest he owned. The battle began.

Sitting back on the bed, he wrestled the pants over his feet, the fabric straining at the calves. Then came the real test. He lay back, sucked in what little breath he could manage—his distended belly only retreating a fraction—and yanked. The pants inched up over his knees, over his thick thighs. He rolled, he grunted, he swore colorfully. The purple mohawk on his head swayed with the effort. Finally, after a monumental struggle that left him breathing hard, the waistband rested somewhere in the continental region of his hips. Buttoning was out of the question. The zower wouldn't budge past the halfway point of last night's. He found a length of heavy chain in a junk pile and looped it through the belt loops, pulling it tight and securing it with a rusty carabiner. It dug into his flesh, but it held.

He stood again, feeling… contained. More or less. The chain was cold against his skin. The persistent ache in his groin was now a dull, muffled pressure. Good enough.

The phone on the floor, buried under a pizza box, started buzzing. He rooted for it and held the tiny device to the side of his massive head.

“‘Lo?”

“Bebop! You alive? You sound like you’re gargling rocks.” Rocksteady’s voice boomed through the speaker.

“I’m up, I’m up. What’s the word?”

“Word is Shredder’s ticked. We were supposed to check in an hour ago. Something about a new shipment down at the docks. You gonna be able to move after last night? You put away, like, three whole roasted chickens yourself, man.”

Bebop’s grin returned. He patted his firm, rounded gut again. A bubble of gas traveled up his esophagus and he burped quietly, tasting pepperoni and beer. “I’m a growing boy, Rocksteady. I’m fueled up and ready. Just had a little… morning maintenance to handle.”

Rocksteady’s laugh was a honk. “Yeah, yeah. I know about your ‘maintenance.’ Just get your ugly, overstuffed hide down to the waterfront. Warehouse 7. And try not to bust your pants before we get there. I ain’t carrying you if you pop a seam.”

“Shaddap. I’m professional.” Bebop looked down at the chain biting into his stomach, at the permanent gap of his vest, at the formidable bulge still outlined against the fatigues. He snorted. “Be there in twenty.”

He ended the call and tossed the phone back onto the bed. A flicker of movement in the dim light caught his eye. He turned his head toward the grimy mirror leaning against the wall. A monster stared back—grayish-brown, tusked, bristled, and enormously broad, with a gut that pushed everything out before it. His small, red eyes crinkled.

He liked what he saw.

He grabbed a battered leather jacket from a hook, the shoulders barely stretching over his own. With a final, appreciative glance at the beautiful disaster of his apartment, he headed for the door. It groaned in protest as he yanked it open, his wide frame filling the entire doorway. He stepped out into the hallway, the chain around his waist clinking softly with each heavy, purposeful step. The dockyards awaited. So did trouble.

He couldn't wait.